chapter 39
It was Easter vacation during my second semester of junior college. Sharon and Grace, the girls I’d gone to the snow with the previous winter, invited me to join them for a trip to Avila Beach, the closest beach to Bakersfield. Once again, Sharon’s father drove us there and rented a hotel for us close to the beach.
As soon as we unpacked our suitcases, we ran down to the beach. It was the first time I’d seen the ocean. I couldn’t believe how breathtaking and expansive it was, how exciting it was to see the tide coming in and out—to feel the power of it.
I wanted to jump into the waves right away. I tried to persuade Sharon and Grace to join me.
“I don’t know how to swim that well,” Grace said.
Sharon shook her head. “I just want to relax and take in the sun.”
So I ran into the ocean by myself. I didn’t know how to swim well but I had absolutely no fear, no hesitation. The first time a wave crashed over me, I was forced under and had to fight my way to the surface, sputtering and gasping for breath, but it didn’t deter me. I kept it up until I learned to duck under the water just before the wave crashed over me.
I felt exhilarated being in the ocean. I felt alive in a way I never had before. I vowed that one day I would live near the ocean so I could swim in it every day; let its expansiveness remind me that my life was no longer confined to small, dark apartments; and take in the crisp ocean air, reminding me that I was no longer trapped in Bakersfield’s polluted atmosphere.
It couldn’t have been more romantic. Sitting around a beach campfire on a moonlit spring night, two young strangers catch each other’s eye, then casually start to talk.
His name was John and he looked like your typical, all-American boy. He had short, light blond hair, blue eyes, and a light complexion that had been tanned from spending so much time at the beach. He was six-foot-one and had a nice build, his chest and arms muscled from working out. I loved how he looked—his smile and the way his eyes twinkled. But there was also a sadness just below the surface. A darkness to him. And I loved that too.
John suggested we take a walk along the beach—after all, it was such a beautiful night. We walked in silence for a while. A comfortable silence. Before long, we began to hold hands. There was such a feeling of familiarity—as if we had known each other for a long time. We sat down to rest with our backs to an embankment, facing the sea. Soon we were kissing. They were long, sweet kisses that drew us closer and closer to one another, not the passionate kind of kisses I’d experienced with older men.
John wanted to drive me to a secret place above the cliffs of Avila and I agreed without hesitation. We walked back and I introduced John to Sharon and Grace and told them where we were going.
We drove up, up into the hills overlooking the beach and the town below. We parked at the top of the cliffs, John took my hand, and we walked to the edge of the cliffs, down a small embankment onto a ledge. There it was: a spectacular rock formation, cut into the cliff from years of sea and sand erosion. An archway leading into a kind of cave, illuminated by moonlight.
We walked up a trail to stand in the archway. We could see the ocean below, sparkling in the moonlight. It looked like diamonds glistening on the surface of the water.
We stood silently for some time, holding hands and staring at the glimmering sea, taking in the moment. I would later paint a picture of this scene—two lovers standing in an archway with the moonlit ocean below.
Later, we sat in John’s car and told each other our life stories, talking long into the night. He told me about how his parents’ divorce had been a huge blow to him, how much he missed his father, and the difficult time he’d had adjusting to his stepfather, who was a real tyrant. I told him about my mother being so neglectful and critical and about her drinking problem. When I told him about the sexual abuse and rape, tears filled his eyes. The fact that he was so moved by my pain touched me deeply and I felt closer and closer to him.
As it turned out, John and I had a lot in common. Like me, he had gone through a rebellious time. His mother was very religious, and after his parents’ divorce he had defied her and the church, hanging out at the beach, drinking too much, and having sex with lots of girls. He said he wasn’t proud of his behavior back then and no longer ran around with the same crowd. And he stayed away from the bad girls. He said he wanted to be with a good girl—like me.
I felt conflicted about this. On the one hand, I was glad that he viewed me this way. I had worked hard to shed my “bad girl” image and behavior from Janice Drive. I wanted guys to respect me. But on the other hand, I was getting tired of guys seeing me as a good girl and not recognizing the blossoming sexuality inside me.
It wasn’t until after 2:00 a.m. that John drove me back to the hotel where I was staying with Grace and Sharon. We had a hard time saying good-bye, not wanting to let go of each other, wanting to hang on to the specialness of the night.
I woke the girls up when I came in and they were eager to hear all about John. I was giddy with excitement as I told them how wonderful he was and
