Olas

“Surfer dude!” said a woman as I walked back from a session, board on head.

I smiled. Mazatlán has waves. Olas, in Spanish. Which sounds like Hola. Which means hello. Hello, waves! It’s been a while.

“Te quiero,” I texted recently. I love you. Radio silence ensued, yet I’m glad I sent the message. I was afraid I was going to die, for one thing; terrified the hired help would crash my boat and we would sink without a trace. So truth poured out, no time to waste.

“The mere habit of learning to love is the thing,” wrote Jane Austen in Northanger Abbey. Practice, practice — that’s all I can do. Be as clear and honest as I can. And if he or she is not available? (my life story) Try again with someone else. Because — drumroll — I want to love and be loved. Only recently have I admitted this to myself. And only recently have I asked someone out, someone I liked romantically.

I was raised to wait. Wait to be chosen. But now I am the captain. I do the choosing. Who do I want to spend time with? Who do I like? Not the guy a few boats down, so I cancelled that date. Relief! No need to be polite! The years are rapidly ticking by.

But “even this late it happens,” wrote poet Mark Strand, “the coming of love, the coming of light.” So I keep putting myself in the path of happiness, into the ocean of love. Of course there is someone for me. Of course.

“Love always matters,” wrote Marisa de los Santos in Love Walked In. I don’t have to stop loving those who are unavailable to me. But I don’t have to see them either. Enough’s enough. I can grab my board and head for the sea. Every day is different. Every wave is different. That’s love. That’s life. Hola, olas.