I had just left my afternoon class at the Maui Writers Retreat. I'd sent my students off with a load of homework (they work like sled dogs) and headed to the beach for a late day swim. I had about an hour before I was meeting Ann Hood for dinner to talk about the speech we were giving the next day.
I waded in, submerged to my shoulders. I figured there wasn't enough time for a shampoo and blow-dry before my date with Ann and so paddled around, bobbing in the surf, all the while careful to keep my head out of the water, my hair dry, so I'd look good at dinner.
Around me, the carnival that is Wakiki Beach played on. On shore, couples posed for photos, five neon-hued parrots perched on their arms and shoulders. The dude who ran the umbrella and chaise concession flirted with customers. Tourists climbed on an outrigger canoe and headed off into the distance. Surfers paddled by on their boards. Children, encircled with hot-pink inner-tubes, floated by, trailing laughter.
I observed life around me.
And then a wave crashed in, taking me up and throwing me head over bandbox, as if I weighted no more than a sand flea. After the first sputtering shock, I swung my hair back from my eyes, as wet and stringy as seaweed, and laughed out loud. I'd been swept not only by the wave, but by the liberating, exhilerating sense of freedom that grabs us when we surrender to what life thows us. When we no longer are trying to be careful. Safe. Looking good. For the next half-hour, I cavorted like a six-year old. Diving into the surf like a seal until my head was water-logged and my fingers wrinkled.
Later that night, I thought of my students and how they were careful to stay close to shore. How they resisted tearing apart a chapter they've worked on for months. Or even years. How they moaned at having to toss the first twenty pages or five chapters in order to begin where the book really begins. In this they are not alone. Most writers know this agony. How careful we try to be with our prose. How reluctant we are to rip up what we crafted when what we need to do is pry our fingers loose from the page and rip that mother up. Scatter the pieces to the wind. Dive in. Let go of caution. Get our hair wet.
I have an image of myself on that beach. Sopping wet. Stringy hair in my face. Laughing out loud. I'll try and remember it as I work on the new novel. The exhilaration of releasing - whether to water or to writing - reminds us of what it feels like to truly come alive.