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Show Rules of the Sea Water, water everywhere, an island after all. She and her brother invented a game called "Rock" that they played at the edge of the ocean for entire afternoons. Holding their bodies stiff, they allowed the surf to push them the length of the beach or toss them along with the bits of shell and other sea debris. Stranded high along the surf line after a particularly big wave, salty skin drying fast and taut in the sun and surrounded by dried kelp and scalloped shell halves, she felt joined to the ocean even as it abandoned her. A part not apart. The sea inside her, around her, rocking her body. By the end of the afternoon, her bathing suit would hang heavy, the crotch filled like a marble pouch with sand that she would take home only to dump on the bedroom floor when she changed. Part of the sea slept beside her those nights and could be felt underneath her feet in the morning. At the age of three and four and five, she was fearless in the water. By the end of their first tour of duty in Hawaii, she was swimming in surf that made most adults remain on shore. Often topless, her skin dark and brown from weekend after weekend at the beach, she would run into water well over her head and ride the backs of waves like ponies into the sand. There are pictures of her at this age, so young, eyes squinting tight against the Hawaiian sun, standing at the edge of the surf, holding her pail and shovel like a sword and shield. She looks as if she belongs to the water, bare skin covered in white sand, hair flying in the offshore breeze. Her parents could not pull her from the sea. Late in the day, the sun already setting, she would still be lying in the surf, rooting her hands deep into the wet sand to keep the waves from carrying her ashore. Water and sand 114 |