Free My Year with Eleanor by Noelle Hancock

asked. “How can you be so daring about everything?”
    Bill shrugged. “I’m not so brave.”
    â€œYou’re just trying to make me feel better.”
    â€œI’ve never hit on a woman sober.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m thirty-three years old and don’t have the stones to ask a woman out unless I’m drunk,” he said. “So you see? We’re all afraid of something.”
    â€œExcept me.” I chuckled. “I’m afraid of everything.”
    Bill’s face darkened. “What’s happened to you, Hancock?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWhen you were our intern, you’d come into the office every morning and entertain us with a new story about some wild thing you’d done the night before. Like the time you were on your way home and some girl on the subway started talking smack to you? But you talked smack right back and held your ground. Even when she pulled out a knife!”
    â€œWell, that was totally stupid.”
    â€œWhere is that Noelle?” he asked impatiently. “Because I want her back. This self-deprecating shtick you’ve been working for the last few years is getting really old.”
    I was surprisingly stung by his words. I’d changed. You’d think that because I already suspected this to be true, his confirmation wouldn’t be that painful to hear. But there’s still hope within suspicion, a chance that your problem exists only in your imagination. To have it confirmed and articulated by someone else meant it was real.
    For a long time, I stared out at the ocean. It made me think of Matt. Since he was a child Matt had spent every summer at his parents’ beach house in the Hamptons, frolicking through these rough Atlantic waters. The first time Matt coaxed me into the water was also the last time. I was used to the Gulf of Mexico, where the waves don’t go over two feet unless there’s a hurricane. But Atlantic waves attack in a group assault, knocking down unsuspecting victims for a thorough beating. The effect is similar to being mugged. And when you finally stagger to your feet, you’ll often find yourself without a bathing suit bottom. Over and over, I was knocked down, rolled, and came up sputtering.
    â€œYou have to dive under the wave,” Matt instructed. “Like the surfers do.”
    â€œI was under the wave, Matt. I was under about eight of them simultaneously, in fact.”
    As I was saying this, another wave plowed into me, dragging me across a bed of crushed seashells. When I stood up, I had two bloody knees. I promptly threw my hands in the air in a leave-taking gesture.
    â€œAnd that’s it for me!” I told the waves. “Thanks so much! You guys have been great.”
    â€œAwww, don’t leave,” Matt begged.
    Making my way toward shore, I called out, “I’m going to lie in the sun with the normal people who prefer to kill themselves slowly.”
    â€œHe’s right, you know,” Dr. Bob said later when I told him the story. “The problem is in your approach, bracing yourself and trying to hold your ground where the waves are strongest. When you dive under the wave, it rolls over you, and you come up on the other side. Eventually you’re out there happily bobbing up and down, moving with the waves instead of against them. The same thing is true for scary situations.” Dr. Bob inched forward in his chair, like he was about to tell me something vital. “Rather than tensing up and trying to stand your ground when the scary situations come at you, you should dive into them. Roll with them rather than struggle against them. It’s rough at first, but once you put yourself out there, it’s much easier to ride the ups and downs. And it’s far more enjoyable than spending your life sitting on the beach and watching.”
    I thought about Dr. Bob’s wave metaphor as our boat pulled toward the dock.