It has almost been a week since I’ve seen Leo. I’ve kept my promise and have not called. Neither has he. My heart slightly touches upon the feeling of emptiness with that thought before I yank it back. Needing to take my mind off my feelings, of feeling so alone, I decide to ride my bike to Riis Beach. A local beach that promotes openness to queer bodies of color, even though we have had to fight for that right as well. I scan the closet and scan my drawers for suitable swimwear but can only locate my white speedos I normally use for swimming laps in a pool. They’ll do, I say, as I look at the clock. It’s already 11am. I run to the corner market to gather a light lunch, some beer, and gatorade. I grab a book, my headphones, and throw most of everything into my sadd le bag. And with that, I’m off. An unexpected beach day at the tail end of summer.
As I ride my bike through the heart of Brooklyn, my mind returns to Leo. “Who hurt you?” My love life has not been what I planned. No long term partner, no make-shift wedding at home with wild flowers and a pot-luck reception of nerdy bohemian friends from all walks of life. No sigh of relief that I am safe in love’s arms and that nothing can ever hurt me again. Instead, it’s just been a lot of hurt and disappointment. With all hope slipping through my fingers just when I think love has been found.
An hour has passed and the hot overdeveloped scenery and smell of Brooklyn has changed to that of the wide and open Atlantic. I ride my bike slowly up over the steep and narrow Marine Parkway Bridge. My heart and lungs are burning as I just make it to the top of the bridge and take in the awesome sight. I look down upon the boats on the Rockaway Inlet and My heart is happy with the sight. Perhaps today I’ll meet someone. Perhaps today will be my day.
I descend from the airy height and ride my bike along the crowded boardwalk towards the gay section of the beach. Already, my eyes are taking in the various possibilities. Creating one lover story after the next until it’s time to disembark and lock up my bike for safe keeping. I unlatch my saddle back and make my way into the grown of half naked bodies. Not too far from the water, I find an empty spot to place my solitary towel. I subtly dig a hole for my wallet, burying it in the cool dark below the sand’s hot surface. I casually sit back and start to act out my idea of a day at the beach. I grab one of my 2 beers, which have warmed with the long ride, crack it open, and take in the scenery. Most people are with their friends or lovers. Laughing, reading, or singing along to music playing from Bluetooth speakers. There’s frisbees being thrown around by guys who are longing to be seen and admired and women who have bared their chests. An old tune catches my ear and my head sways side to side as my lips mouth the lyrics and my mind goes back in time. Back to an old love story. I must have been 16 or 17 when I lost Vincent. One of many losses, but perhaps the most important.
No. I stop my body turn my eyes from the dark memories within. Refusing to be sad, I tuck my beer away and make my way through the crowd to the water. Waves crash against my body to greet me. First my knees, then my waist and chest. I dip beneath a wave and begin to swim. Entering calmer water, I watch the beach from a distance, my feet no longer able to touch ground. I watch until my breath brings me back to myself. Flipping onto my back, I move my limbs rhythmically until I think of an old swimming instructor who said, “You need to learn how to simply float. Let the water do all the work.” And so I release. My body softly lifts, floats, and surges with each new wave. It’s not pure grace, but close. My nose and mouth are often flooded with microbial salt water as I search for equilibrium. “Your body is safe,” I remind myself. “It has evolved to survive this.”
I let go even more, and as I do, I think of my dad who had died in water. In the middle of night, he jumped into the Pennsylvania River in Washington, D.C. He had not evolved to survive it. The water heard his heart and granted him his wish. Death. But he is not me. Eyes closed, the sun penetrates through my eyelids and I wonder if this is what passing is like. The sensation of being pulled by another force. The bright light. Or perhaps the womb. Resting within amniotic fluid. Trusting in its safety. I begin to laugh at the overwhelming calm and comfort the scene brings me. Death and birth. I open my eyes and continue to swim toward the crowd. The waves have grown stronger as they pushing me back onto dry land. I look out towards the water and see gray clouds begin to move in. Dark. A chill moves up my spine as I think of the hour long bike ride I have to get home. I pass through the tan, gold, and brown people, gather my few belonging and head towards the shower.
On the boardwalk, I hear a man whistle sexually and my head turns in the sound’s direction. “Now that’s how you wear a white bathing suite. I am grateful for the compliment. Grateful for the only man who has bothered to even acknowledge me, yet alone talk to me. And my smile, holds both gratitude and anger as my eyes meet his before they flicker back onto the dark clouds nearby. My eyes meet his again and I nod before turning to to make my leave. As the sun disappears behind the clouds, my heart slips into a dark place and I become overwhelmed by the sensation of the wind. With each gust that pushes against my back, I feel like I am going to be lifted off the earth. It is the exact same sensation I had when giving myself over to the sea. I feel like, if I let go in just the right way, I could fly. I close my eyes and continue to walk, allowing the wind to carry me away. ,
Photo by Robert Lawrence