When the tide is ebbing, the sandy flats of Vancouver’s Spanish Banks go out as far as your eyes can sweep. It looks as if the huge tankers in the middle of the bay will soon be riding up on the sand banks. The channel buoys stand sentinel over fishing holes for herons and vast soft shoals of dripcastle kingdoms. The tidal pools, I learned, are also a portal of sorts.
Perched at the edge of the beach with a blanket laid along a log, I watched the tide recede, buckets and shovels at my feet with two small girls and a day’s worth of snacks, sunscreen, hats and towels. We were pleasantly industrious – swimming, digging, treasure seeking, and chasing the water’s edge as it ran away from us across the flats.
I wore a sarong, a big floppy hat, sunglasses. The girls were ever close by, and there was too much mom-stuff over my shoulder, but I had watched the young dudes (Yes, dudes is the only applicable word; they were fit and fearless, sporting nothing but baggy shorts and bravado.) all afternoon and finally my curiosity overcame the barrier of self-consciousness. I had to ask: can I try that?
As the water shimmered into ribbons and stretched across the sand I had watched the dudes show up with their boards singly, in groups, following the tide. They threw the boards, oval wooden flying saucers about a third the size of a surf board which skimmed across the water, and then they ran like hell and jumped aboard. They soared along. It looked so fun. They made it seem effortless, a simple matter of a flying leap onto a watery joy ride. After witnessing a few spectacular back-searing wipeouts I realized some degree of finesse was required.
I approached the one who seemed the most skilled. He was short and wiry, confident and sculpted with a shaved head. He looked part yoda, part surf boy. He eyed me warily as I approached him, no doubt wondering what bone this mother in the oversized sun hat had to pick with him.
He was very generous and if he laughed he did it discreetly behind my back while allowing me to risk my fool neck and his skimboard on my maiden voyage across the sand. I threw the board. Ran. Hesitated. Jumped on the board. Went nowhere. The skimboard planted itself firmly just under the surface of the water’s edge. Yoda dude showed me again, offered me his board again and this time, I leapt without cringing first. I swear my tailbone covered her eyes and I just ran, jumped, and did not fall. I wobbled across the edge of the water, then after a few more attempts, I skimmed. Yoda nodded and smiled his approval. I felt shyly delighted.
My skimboard does not make it out from its storage place under the stairs very often. But I like having it there. It reminds me that there is still the possibility of heedless flight, of grinning into the wind like I did when I was eighteen and felt unbreakable. The trick is never to hesitate.
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