Wanna Surf? (fiction)

There’s been a cancelation at Wavestore’s® Rincon. Wanna surf?

The notification slides across my screen: Waist to chest high, offshore, perfect tide. 6AM tomorrow.  

A full-bleed video pops up of the real Rincon. It’s archival footage of a perfect three-to-four-foot day. Pelicans glide along the face below the feathering lip and surfers dot the horizon. Perfect rights roll in, unridden – that’s where I imagine myself. The video fades out and two buttons appear: Surf. Decline. 

I’ve been on the waitlist for three months. I check the time, 10PM. I can get six hours of sleep. Just like dawn patrol in the old days. Fuck it, I press Surf. 

My screen chirps with another notification: You sent Wavestore a $150 deposit.

I take a dry shower. Hot sanitizing air blasting my dry ashen skin. It feels like I’m being power-washed like the side of a dirty building. The lights in the small tile room flicker and go out. Lately, this has been happening all the time. In the darkness, I wonder if I'll get to feel water on my skin in a few hours. The lights come back on. I get in bed. Falling asleep is nearly impossible. I’ve never surfed a wave pool before. My last session in the actual ocean was so many years ago I stopped counting. Can I even catch waves anymore? 

To fall asleep, I imagine myself in a white room with no corners; no beginnings or endings. I’m curled up in a fluffy bed. I imagine the whole room descending like a giant elevator into darkness.

Publication: Emocean Magazine, Issue 2.

*This issue is out of print so the rest of the story is unavailable but I hope you like this clip.

Artwork by Savannah Rusher.