I was born and raised in San Francisco, a city almost surrounded by water. My brothers and I grew up on busy streets amid sputtering mufflers and broken glass, but we could smell the salty Pacific just a few concrete hills and valleys away. And, like most kids I know, we wanted nothing more than to get wet. Buses brought us to the ocean and the bay, where we plunged in despite the cold. The first minute was the worst; then your skin lost sensation, and you could stay in for an hour.
We’d learned to swim at a young age: in lakes and ponds on camping trips, in the glaring rectangular oases of the city’s public pools, and on the wide expanse of Ocean Beach at the end of the N-Judah streetcar line. There we threw our bodies against the water and let it toss us around, and eventually I discovered how waves peaked and crashed, which ones were so big I’d better duck under them, and which ones were curling just for me. I jumped into those curls, and they hurled me back to shore and spit me out. The thrill always won out over the trepidation. I became enamored of waves, intimate with their push and pull, grateful for the free ride.
