The baby blue, eight foot fiberglass Waterhog clacks against the frame of the white Wrangler. Clean evening air, the kind that gives you goose bumps but still contains tiny pockets of trapped warmth, dries my eyes. I squeeze my eyelids shut, drawing water that leaves my vision hazy against the waning light on the light poorly lit road. I pass a cemetery, the old salt-worn stone shimmers in shades of dark green. The air smells alive yet heavy, pulling in the scents of the ocean, the brittleness of the brush. I like they way it slowly washes over my skin like syrup. I feel almost trapped by its density and I wish to sit lighter; like a wet dog shakes the water from his fur. The rubber wheels bounce below me on the rutted sandy entrance to the beach. Sharp twigs and leaves encroach over the road and brush the outside of the car, obscuring my view of the rolling water. I turn off the engine; exhaling sounds rise from under the hood. Crickets. I undo the straps, step down from the ledge of the car, and hold the board high above my head before I bring it face-to-face and then around under my arm. Sticky and damp, I trudge through the sand to where only the highest waves rush up onto the beach and cover my feet. The cold stings and the hairs on my shins poke up. Step by step, I’m waist deep and raising my shoulders up towards the sky, away from the uninviting darkwater. I hop on and start to paddle. The water seeps onto the surface of the board and I shiver. Waves crash over and under me; I feel naked and the adrenaline pumps through me. Then I’m out there and past the breakers; my white car just a shadow over the dunes. The sky brilliant above me and the depth unknown below me, I’m suddenly aware of the contrast between the comforts of the stars and the disconcerting mysteries of the ocean. It’s all around me; the only way out may be on the next wave.