Surfer Poet

What brought us together? We couldn’t have been more different when we first met.

Even being female was not really something we had in common as we were at the opposite ends of that scale, as far apart as if we belonged to different species.

She danced into the windowless classroom in the maze of Adams Humanities in a swirl of colourful clothing, already conversing with several other students as easily as breathing, even to the boys, maybe especially to them actually, reflecting back on it. 

From snatches of conversation, I understood that she surfed which was obvious by the cascade of her sun-streaked blonde hair and how easily she moved in her tanned body. I expected some poetry about the ocean, but don’t recall even a seashell making an appearance over the weeks ahead.

For my part, I had crept in early to secure a seat at the back of the row nearest the door in case I needed to bail. I was so nondescript that if I committed a crime with twenty witnesses, not one of them would be able to identify me in a lineup. I preferred it that way. 

I suppose we were both poets, even back then, but as the teacher enforced anonymity for reasons best known only to himself, I didn’t know in the beginning that she was the London poet. So, we had the British Isles in common because she was studying in London while I immersed myself in everything Welsh, so much so that I wept on the train all the way from Carmarthen to Heathrow.

I loved her poetry, the juxtaposition of imagery that introduced me to a city she obviously loved and a homesickness that I recognised. Hiraeth, longing for Wales, was the main theme of the poems I wrote as an exile in sunny California. My published professor asked me more than once during consultations in his big-windowed office, well, couldn’t I write about something else? 

So, I first got to know her by reading her poetry. The only good thing about all of us being anonymous (besides having permission to hide from everyone) was that it made my critique fearless. I pointed out how absolutely brilliant her turns of phrases were, but also mentioned any spots that lacked lustre. 

Cliché, though, was not a word I wrote much on her work if at all, which I can’t say is true of others in the class. Many of them, however, had signed up thinking it would be an easy option to satisfy their course requirements. 

Glover Davis, on that first day, warned us that it was not, and he was right. Though our professor claimed some distant Welsh ancestry, he must have hated trying to pronounce the Welsh words in almost every poem I wrote as he read them aloud before the critique commenced. 

Stumbling over Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, be that as it may, did not prevent him from awarding me an A for the semester. Generous, I felt, as I missed the final exam: a poetry reading. Stage fright had caused me to consume an excess of dairy products to comfort myself, so I ended up with tonsillitis

overnight instead. Soon after, listening to my mingled relief and disappointment, a good friend diagnosed my dairy allergy.

So, I missed the big reveal of who the London poet was, though on the plus side I didn’t have to read one of my poems to a sea of nearly unknown faces. 

And that might have been the end of it. She and I had not spoken much at all. I only remember pointing out to her that one of her many colourful pens had rolled off her desk and landed under her chair. Her smile was a rich reward for being helpful, the eye contact amazing because I felt she actually saw me rather than glancing over me like most people did.

So, the spring semester began. Other Creative Writing classes opened their pages to me, British Literature with John Dickinson, probably some linguistics. I sometimes wondered about the London poet and wished I had photocopied her poems at Kinko’s before handing them in, covered with my praise and suggested edits, to Glover.

But then a hand-written colourful invitation appeared on the heavily festooned poster boards around the AH building. Poetry Circle. Meeting outside Scripps Cottage. Thursday afternoon.

I felt like a traveller in the Sahara with a lame camel finding a map to the nearest oasis. As demanding as it had been—iambic pentameter was nearly my downfall—I missed the poetry class.

But did I dare attend a Poetry Circle? Was I enough of a poet to be accepted? Would the others be real poets, having achieved the much-desired goal of getting a poem published?

I repeated a mantra I often used, though well aware that it might fail. Four words. I could always leave.

And, for once, I actually remembered to make a note of the details in my diary, having missed out on many opportunities because I’d forgotten when they were happening. Sometimes I sabotaged myself by forgetting to consult the tiny pocket notebook, but it was worth a try.

On the appointed Thursday, I walked down along the campus toward Scripps Cottage despite the fact that the mouse in my brain wanted to scurry away and dive into the library until the designated hour passed.

But I told myself: I could always leave.

I had photocopied a Welsh poem, though, and failing to show up would be a waste of the pittance spent. I quickly found the solution to that problem. I could share the copies with my pen friends from my year in Wales as they each had their own version of hiraeth. 

Maybe that was a better idea. I slowed down as Scripps Cottage came into view.

Only one person was waiting on the sunny side of a white picnic table.

Head bent so her sun-streaked blonde hair fell forward over an open notebook surrounded by an impressive assortment of coloured pens, she didn’t see me standing spell-struck as she penned possibly the start of a new poem.

A boy passed me, walked over to the table and greeted her. As he slung his body on to a seat nearby, their easy rapport made me feel I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I should leave now before anybody noticed.

In that instant, she glanced over her shoulder.

I felt not only seen but welcomed like an expected guest, maybe even an old friend, not the almost complete stranger that I was. Her smile embraced me, her voice drew me out of my daze.

I swallowed hard, remembered to breathe and progressed forward, distracting myself by thinking about running away by wondering if she might share a poem about surfing or possibly mermaids.

At that very first Poetry Circle, she revealed herself as the London poet. I nervously read aloud one of my Welsh poems. And, despite all my misgivings, I kept coming back.

Nowadays, we have become a tribe, just us and our cats, as we chat and read stories and poetry to each other every weekend. I often feel that if only I could take the right turning when walking around my neighbourhood in the Yorkshire Dales, I could visit her house in the Redwoods, eight thousand miles away.