Flow State
Adam McDonald
Section / Genre: Essay
Being a wet blanket. Having a wet diaper. Getting a wet willy. “Wetness” has no shortage of negative connotations. But for me, the best things in life are all wet.
When the surf is good, I wake up at 4 a.m. to get to Short Sands by six. It sounds crazy, but I don’t care. It’s what I love, and there’s a part of me that craves the pre-dawn darkness, drinking coffee while the sun rises in the rearview. I suit up on the beach, eyeing my spot in the lineup. I’m in the water by 6:30 and will stay there until noon. The water temperature ranges from 48°F in winter to 60°F in late summer. But no matter how warm it gets, it’s always a shock to the senses. Without a surf hood, the water causes nausea-inducing brain freezes. The first duck dive (when you push the board under rolling foam) sends dopamine to my brain. I love the Oregon Coast, swimming in the churn, being thrown about and treated like a rag doll.
A few months ago, I was surfing and clouds rolled over the protected cove. It was just me and another guy out there. Something about rain—while I’m surfing—makes me think of sharks. I become supremely aware of my dangling feet and the board’s seal-shaped outline. But on this day, before I could paddle back to shore, the clouds parted and a giant, full rainbow formed between me and the cliffs less than thirty yards away. I’d never seen anything like it. I could see the pot of gold sitting right there. I shouted, like a kook, at the other surfer, “Look at the rainbow! Hey, man, look at the giant-ass rainbow!”
I also love having sex—obviously, there’s nothing better than having sex. I love diving naked into clean sheets and feeling as much skin as possible against my own. I love kissing and touching. Kissing feels good because our mouths are wet. Going down on each other feels good because our mouths are wet, too. And sex feels good because the wetness our bodies produce is an invitation to another’s wetness, and it welcomes more wetness as it proceeds.
Tennis, for me, is also about getting wet. When I play, I aim to sweat through not only my shirt but my undershorts. I want people to wonder if I just came from a waterpark. By the end, I want to hear my shoes squish.
One day, back when my wife and I were living in Texas, we got to witness how rain was made. It was upper 80s, Friday, our tennis day. We walked the two miles to the courts and suddenly, in Texas fashion, rain clouds that had not been forecasted formed overhead. We hoped they’d pass over us, missing our town and the courts, but they didn’t. After playing just ten minutes, hard rain began to fall. And then, just as suddenly, the clouds thinned out and the afternoon sun exploded back into view. The sky turned orange and bright yellow, even while it continued to rain. The courts were unplayable, however. With no car, my wife and I were stuck, so we sat under one of the courtside lees, getting wet because the cover over our heads was little more than a porous tarp intended to dampen the sun. Looking up at the light and rain, we could see the drops forming in the sky and falling in long cords. I moved in for a kiss, and we watched the storm together until it passed.
This story originally appeared in the Portland Tennis Courterly’s Wet Issue. To purchase a copy, visit our online store.