Surfing Concrete

I did not know that bringing the RipStik on board Habibi would make me so happy. Like the wetsuit, it’s a reminder of surfing, of fun. You can’t carry groceries on a waveboard. Its only purpose is happiness, flow. 

A small skateboard with only two oscillating wheels, riding it replicates surfing. The same muscles engage, and it’s all about balance and perpetual motion. Years ago I saw my young Florida neighbor, Jet, curving down the street on one, and asked him about it. “Target,” he said after displaying the board like Vanna White, then scooted away with his friend.

There was a skate park in Flagler Beach, and I biked over in the mornings before it got too hot, or the shredders arrived. Long, luscious figure-eights on smooth concrete, around and around, back and forth.

Up early during a full moon, I once drove over. Dawn was at least an hour away, but it was bright and calm and quiet. Even better, it was empty. Except for the police cruiser that pulled in behind me. Heckamo.

“Park’s closed,” he said. I’d forgotten the hours, or didn’t care. He noticed the wasp-waisted board in my hand.

“No boys now,” I said as an apology. I really wanted to skate without an audience. Or going to jail. There were rarely surfable waves here, and I was jonesin’. Riding the waveboard kept my surfing muscles in shape.

“True,” he smiled, “but it’s dark.” It was five o’clock in the morning.

“Full moon,” I explained, shifting my feet. “I can see well enough.”

He looked at me, a 55-year-old female in upscale athleisure-wear, standing next to a clean, late-model SUV with Oregon plates: not your typical skate rat. “Carry on then,” he waved and drove away.

So I did, relieved. Long, luscious figure-eights, around and around, back and forth. Star jasmine scented the air by the east fence, and the moon illuminated my curves.