I went to the ocean with my sister and her boyfriend, Nick, yesterday. (What? Wait. Since when am I the third wheel? Hm.) Let’s just say I am a PRO at the old ocean waves thing. I haven’t been caught offguard by a wave in at least 9 years. I know when to run into the water, I know how to swim past the breaking point and I also have an uncanny ability to turn around right before a wave crashes over my head, so that I can dive smoothly into it and pop up on the other side with sparkling white teeth and a dazzling smile of victory.

Yesterday? Um. Not so much. WAVES: 1 LAURA: 0

In my defense, the waves yesterday were ridiculously high and the currents were rough. There was an abrupt dropoff in the sand as well which meant you couldn’t touch the ground and had to tread water the entire time. This made me tiiiiiiiired. And so, I decided to try to get out of the water to rest. My sister’s boyfriend kept directing me as to when I should hurry and bolt out of the water. The problem was that if you were too nonchalant about it, by the time you got back to shore and planted your feet in the sand, a wave would crash directly over your head and the undertow would pull you in a million directions, leaving you lifeless on the ocean floor.

(Foreshadowing, anyone?)

Let me just pause for the cause and say that I should’ve known not to listen to my sister’s boyfriend, Nick. You should never take advice from someone who is a hardcore musician. EVER. It’s because all he knows is music and all he cares about is music. He does not, say, care about the height of the waves, or the treacherous undercurrents or say, your life. All he cares about is his music.

Setting: Inside the car on the way to the beach.

Sounds: My astounding collection of tunes. Namely, “Just What I Needed” by The Cars.

Deb and I are chilling, enjoying the drive, the wind, our lives.

Nick: OH MY GOD I just LOVE how the DRUMS play OFFBEAT for a few measures…where is it?!? WHERE IS IT!? OH MY GOD. It’s RIGHT THERE. DO YOU HEAR THAT? DO YOU?

Silence.

Deb gives me a look that says, “Do you see? Do you see why I need to drink heavily?”

*Laura changes the song. Jason Mraz’s voice fills up the car.*

Nick: Does Jason Mraz always sing about sex?

Me: Ummmm. I don’t think so…well. Not anymore than anyone else.

*I barely finish this sentence because Nick is frantically overlapping my answer with more spastic comments*

Nick: His guitar playing is SO unique! RIGHT? I CAN TOTALLY tell that it’s him, EVERY TIME. It’s like…God..it’s SO UNIQUE. And man, he is really in tune. I reallyyyy like that he’s in tune. Don’t you guys hear that? DO YOU HEAR THAT? THAT HE’S IN TUNE? It drives me CRAZY when things aren’t in tune! GOD! Wow. Yeah.

Have I painted an adequate portrait here? I think I’m correct in saying that I should’ve ignored everything that Nick said for the rest of the afternoon. But no, I did not. Instead, the thought of getting pummeled by a few waves made me a little nervous in my old age and I needed guidance. And because I placed my trust in him, I said, “NICK! TELL ME WHEN TO GO! TELL ME WHEN IT’S SAFE TO GET OUT OF THE WATER!” This was me, showing my faith in him. This was me, accepting Nick into the family after three years of dating my sister. This was my attempt at familial bonding.

Well. He told me to go. And I listened. And my trust? SHATTERED TO PIECES. My faith? HE CRUSHED IT IN HIS BARE HANDS. My bonding strategy? HE THREW IT TO THE SHARKS.

When Nick said GO! LAURA GO! (Or possibly, it was, “GO AND SING IN TUNE!”, I cannot remember.) I sure did go! I swam quickly to shore, dug my feet in, attempted to pull my body out of the water and BAM!!!! The ocean yelled OH NO YOU DIDN’T ! And I was all OH YES I DID! And since my magical Long Island wave-radar machine temporarily lost power, I unexpectedly got bitch-slapped by the great Atlantic. I cannot REMEMBER the last time that happened to me and I was SO ANGRY. (SO angry in fact that I’m going to use many capital letters to demonstrate the inexplicable ire!)

The wave slammed into my kidneys and salt water rushed up my nose. Tiny stones scratched up my back as the ocean dragged me along in the sand with the crabs. (”Oh, cute crabs,” I remember thinking, “The last image I will see before imminent death.”) I ended up sitting on my ass on the shore, broken and dazed like a drunk who just smashed his hand through a window. Sand matted my hair and filled up every inch of my bathing suit. I was attempting to simultaneously clutch my bikini bottom and top, sure that one or the other was dreadfully out of place.

To complete the pathetic picture, my sister and Nick were laughing uproariously, as was a Mexican man who had witnessed the entire debacle and was now cheering for me.

And so I did what anyone would’ve done in that situation: I took a bow.

And then I plodded back to my beach blanket in retreat. But before I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around myself, I turned to the ocean and shook a single fist in the air.

“You,” I whispered to the water, like a crazed serial killer, “You shall not always be so lucky.” And then I want to say I stroked my beard and cackled maniacally, but it would be a lie.

Instead, I collapsed down onto the ground and hummed a song, in tune.

Peace.