In the beginning (Mel)

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It all started on a foggy morning in Long Island, one day after I had listened long enough to the chatter at a friend's barbecue and declared, "I want to  surf, too!" A 9' 6" board was shoved into my hands, which I could barely get my around arm as I lugged it down to the beach. The waters were white-capped and raucous and a thick mist had settled on the ocean as heavy as the pit in my stomach. After a quick lesson on the sand in paddling and "popping up," my companions spirited away to sea while I velcroed, unvelcroed, velcroed the leash around my ankle, waded into the swirling, wish-it-were-warmer water, and plunged into chaos. The images of myself as a sylph slipping through powerful waves vanished as I clung frog-like to the board with my knees and elbows, an oversized rash guard wrapped immodestly around my chest. Salty spray slapped my face in unexpected bursts as I tried to propel myself forward without falling off. Hanging on for life, I was tossed like a toothpick among swells that just couldn't make up their minds which direction to go. Thanks, GUYS, for showing me how to surf.

I emerged frigid, thoroughly bruised, and utterly exhilarated.  

And so it began...

east coast long island surf water

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