Club Icarus

Wahine

19 Wahine Black rubbered as a seal she floats waist deep in winter water. Ten or twelve men sit with her in the lineup and weigh the horizon for waves. A January onshore breeze brushes back the Atlantic lashes. A set rises and she slides to her belly on the longboard, paddles into the tumor of rolling glass, her back arched as she digs and digs her arms into the swelling then drops down the face, spray from the lip spitting up into her eyes as she pops liquid to her booted feet and turns down the line, cross-steps out to the nose, crouches in the pocket, fingers dipping into the curtain to slow her speed, to pull her deeper into the barrel that churns, that chases, that swaddles, that swallows, that throats rain songs around her. Seconds sublime but then she peeks through the keyhole and the witch-haired wall of whitewater closes the door 20 on top of her head. The lip explodes. She is sucked over the falls. The muscle of the moon crashes on her shoulders, her back, her whole body rolled and roiling in a soft tomb of roaring black and brine. Dragged down she can’t break back to the surface. Panic tars her arteries. Arms and legs flail. Beg to fail. Then she slows. Stops. Lets go of fighting and just twirls in the icy pitch until she slips the knit of the wave, pushes at last into air, and swims to her board swirling in the breakers. Her arms noodled, her face bearded by foam. She paddles back into the lineup. She nods at the men still grinning at her fall. More water than they are, ice stalactites from her nose. ...