Aristotle’s Tornado
The morning sky was bright and crisp with patches of clouds, hinting that fall would arrive soon. Aristotle’s eyes peeled open, shoving aside tiny particles of crust and sludge.
The top of Aristotle’s tent was smeared with dew from a moist night. Aristotle didn’t feel like leaving his cozy sleeping bag, but he forced himself up anyway, and soon found his feet casually slipping into a pair of flip flops sitting at his tent’s entrance. Aristotle took a few steps in the dirt, pulled down his shorts, and peed righteously, spelling his name into the earth with a mighty stream of piss. He usually couldn’t make it past the letter S, but on this morning he managed to wiz his way up to O before the well ran dry. Eleven Coors Lights had been the final count the night before.
The sun was rising lazily, as Aristotle grabbed his surfboard and wetsuit and strolled down Trail 6 at San Onofre State Park to catch some early waves. His buddies had promised they would all surf together at dawn, but Aristotle could hear them snoring violently in their tents — their middle aged bodies bracing for the merciless hangover that would ruin what remained of their short weekend.
The trail was peaceful, lined with soft looking bushes and birds chirping gently. Aristotle limped his bare feet over the boulders covering the white sand, zipped up his wetsuit, rubbed some wax on his board, entered the ocean, and began paddling atop the glassy water. The surf was incredibly small. Aristotle sat on his board and gazed into the horizon while appreciating the beautiful nothingness that surrounded him.
A thick chop began to form across the top of the ocean’s surface. A warm, dry wind splashed across Aristotle’s face, forcing its way up into his nostrils. Aristotle’s eyes felt gritty and harsh, as if they were a couple of dry marbles covered with rawhide.
Far off, across the empty horizon, a presence was birthing itself into existence. Aristotle had never actually experienced a real tornado, but he had seen them on TV while watching those storm chaser shows, where nitwits in old Cheech and Chong style vans risk life and limb coming within mere feet of deadly tornadoes, just for shits and giggles. But a tornado in the middle of the Pacific Ocean?
Aristotle slapped his belly onto his longboard, and started paddling toward shore faster than a hungry hound dog chasing a squirrel across an empty field on a hot summer day. But there was no time. Aristotle looked back over his shoulder, only to see that the tornado had miraculously scooted about 5 miles across the desolate ocean in a matter of seconds. It was so close now that it was going to gobble him up, whether he liked it or not. Aristotle grabbed hold of his longboard and gave it a great big bear hug, smooshing his left cheek into the cold and unforgiving fiberglass surface.
Aristotle clung tight to his board and closed his eyes. The wind was throwing piercing shards of water into his face so hard that he felt as if a million tiny razor blades were slicing his skin. The roar of the wind was so forceful that Aristotle feared he would go deaf at any moment.
Before long, Aristotle was completely within the funnel. The cold gray water swirled around him faster and faster, until a fierce wind started to blow in a counterclockwise direction.
Something tapped Aristotle, and when he looked back, five wet fingers flew by his face, almost close enough to break his nose. Aristotle was still lying on his board, hugging it closely, afraid to let go. When a second hand hit him on the back, Aristotle looked up, to see a young woman with flowing blonde hair, flying by him on a surfboard. Farther across the funnel, Aristotle spotted a second surfer, a man about 20 years old with a Fu Manchu mustache, surfing the funnel around and around and around.
Aristotle sat up on his board, and managed to balance himself, despite the twirling and swirling of the water and the whipping of the wind in his face. He rubbed his eyes with both hands, then took a hard look across the funnel. He saw an entire army of them. Surfers of all colors, shapes, and sizes. Thousands of them, surfing and flying and slapping high-fives around and around the funnel.
Then the chanting started. In unison, the surfers shared a baritone, hollow chant that filled the funnel with good vibes and a warm breeze. The warm breeze grew stronger and the hollow chants grew louder, until Aristotle found himself with both feet planted firmly atop his surfboard.
A wet hand reached out for Aristotle, and he grabbed it with vigor. The arm whipped him forward, into the full force of the funnel. Aristotle was flying now, surfing faster than he had ever surfed before. He was surrounded by surfers above him, below him, and to his right and left. More and more surfers magically appeared in the tornado. There were girls and boys and men and women. People with dark hair, gray hair, and folks with no hair at all. They were all surfing and laughing and flying round and round the inside of the tornado.
Aristotle surfed until his legs were tired, then he sat down on his board, continuing to whirl and swirl. Directly in front of him, there was a brief slit of light, with just a ray of unassuming sunshine peeking through. The tiny slice of light grew wider and wider, until Aristotle could see the ocean’s horizon glimmering like a new pair of ruby slippers on the other side of the tornado.
Aristotle lied down on his board and made his way toward the break in the tornado. The light was getting brighter now, and Aristotle knew this would be his only chance to escape back to where he belonged. He sat and thought and pondered for the longest time, until he was tired of thinking.
Aristotle then made his way back toward the center of the tornado, paddled harder and harder, hopped up onto his board, and caught a new wave inside the vortex of the tornado. He held hands with his new friends and they laughed and whirled and swirled and surfed their whole lives away.
J.S. Lender’s new book “They Are Here Now (Short Tales)” is now available in paperback on Amazon.
