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Chapter Six
Nala
Almost six months after I had been raped, my mom sat me down and said she knew something was wrong. Before I could open my mouth to explain, to try and tell her what I couldn’t even understand myself, she put her hand on my knee.
“It’s okay to have a secret from me, Nalani. But it’s not okay to have a secret from yourself.”
Somehow, that made everything worse and better at the same time, and tears that I had been so determined never to shed again, built and fell down my cheeks. Wrapping me in her arms, Mom held me, and when I was done, she took off the citrine wire-wrap ring she had worn for as long as I’d known her, and put it on my finger.
“I love you, my sweet girl, but I can’t save you from your head. Only you can do that.”
And then, in true Reece Jansen fashion, she called a friend of a friend of someone she once knew, and got me into what was considered, at the time,untraditional group counseling. We didn’t meet at a church, or in a rec center; I probably wouldn’t have lasted a week sitting on metal chairs starting at nothing while the expectation to spill my guts lingered. Instead, we met at the beach.
There were five of us—all girls—and Mac, our facilitator who looked like any other beach bum in SD, whose age could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty. Before anyone said anything, she looked us all in the eye and asked who needed a board, and who needed lessons.
Uncertain, several girls raised their hands. Mac nodded. “Today, we’re learning how to use the water. You have forty minutes.”
That was the beginning of my life in group. It wasn’t always like that, but it was close. While Mac gave lessons to girls who had lived in San Diego their whole lives but had never done anything more than lay on the sand and look at the water, the rest of us surfed. Some days, we all body surfed, others, we met at a flat-water location and paddled out, anchoring in a circle while we did weekly check-ins.
Mac was a no-bullshit kind of lady—she’d been everywhere, seen everything, and shared with us that the world could heal us just by existing, but we had to let it. That never made sense during those weeks we spent together, but then I graduated from high school and left to travel. I used all the money I had, and made more along the way—and I got it.
I wasn’t a new person, but I was a more whole one. The scars I carried had been opened and then smoothed over, until their existence was no longer what defined me.
I still had bad days, but that was human. And every day, to combat those days, I used the water. Like now, on my board in the middle of the ocean, waiting for my wave. It’s barely light out, and this is my second hour. This morning, alone in the apartment Jordan and I share, I woke even earlier than normal; the restless urge hit me hard enough I knew it wasn’t a paddling morning.
My standup paddleboard is my go-to when I want to stretch, heal, or have a quiet moment, even a social one when Jordan goes with me. But when I need the water—when I have restless energy and jitters that can’t be put anywhere else—I surf.
Something about fighting for the right wave, and then using all of the knowledge and strength I have to control myself as I hurtle on top of the water, racing the wave to its end…it makes me feel alive, and it reminds me there are bigger things, larger forces, at work.
Surfing is a lot like living: I can control my own actions, my own course, but I also have to realize that other shit is going to happen, and I might have to adjust. Sometimes, that adjustment will kick my ass and throw me from my board. Other times, it will make for one hell of a ride.
I surf for another hour, and then I strap my board to the top of my Jeep and speed to the nearest coffee shop for breakfast on my way to the other side of town to run my group session.
When I came back from traveling almost two years ago, and enrolled at USD, I felt good, but I also felt like something was missing. Being back in San Diego meant I had a lot of people around me that I had missed when I was gone, but it also meant dealing with a lot of memories I had been living without daily reminders of for the past twelve months.
I contacted Mac to see if she was still running group, and since she was, I asked to join her…not necessarily as a member, since I’d worked the program, but just to be there. It didn’t take too many sessions before she put me in charge of my own group, acting as my co-facilitator.
This is the third set of girls I’ve worked with all on my own since Mac stepped back and handed over the reins. We’re only a couple of weeks in, and some of the girls are still uncomfortable with the idea of being here at all.
Since that’s how I was when I first started, I feel the most determined to make this a good experience for them.
I arrive at the marina twenty minutes before our session starts, glad I rented an extra set of boards. Three of the five girls have their own, so the rental fee is minimal, especially since the guy who rents them to me was in my class at Mission Bay Senior High School.
Four of the girls show up a few minutes early, and though it’s still a little awkward, they greet each other and offer me a smile while we wait for our last member. When the clock on my phone shows three past nine, I tell the other girls to grab a board and start out on the water.
“Just like we did last time,” I remind them. A few are still unsteady, and despite the sturdy board beneath them, they stay on their knees for the slow paddle out. I check my phone again—9:05 now—and get ready to write down the absence when I spot the dark head shuffling my way.
Liza Scofield is not weak, but she rarely looks up. In three weeks, I’ve already worried over her several times more than the others girls, because while they seem unsure, even hurt and a little scared, Liza seems beaten down.
She’s petite—long limbs, but no meat on her bones, sharp elbows and knees, a gaunt profile. Her hair is nearly black, but it looks to be more from a bottle than nature. She’s wearing leggings, a flannel, and a beanie, crossing her arms in front of her when she stops in front of me.
She doesn’t apologize for being late, or even greet me.
“Good morning, Liza.”
“Hey.” No eye contact. I smile even though she isn’t looking at me.
“Everything all right? Did you have a hard time finding a ride?”
