T.O.A: The Tifa (II)

Southern California (circa early twenty first century).

The tide rippled towards a remote shore as the early rising sun started to light up the San Diego horizon. It was midsummer and the air was warm. It was calm and quiet except for the chatters of the seagulls and other seabirds in flight or while perching on the rocks. The sinuous shadows of the surf spawned a peaceful foreground against the crimson backdrop and the whole scene could easily have been mistaken for a computer animation until a live disturbance ensued. A dark figure appeared among the waves in a shape of a winged silhouette. It lunged forward repeatedly. Its arms splashed against the water like a mysterious creature. It was gasping. The puffs sounded rapid and urgent as if it was being hunted and chased by a bigger and more ferocious predator.

The figure slowly emerged from the water. Its full form and outline now stamped against the crimson sky. It was a man. He was in his thirties and about six three, and was donning dark legskins. His head was clean shaven, his torso bare, toned and sculpted like that of a Greek statue. He continued to wade his way towards the beach still gasping and panting. The spongy sand sucked his bare calloused feet and he stumbled. He quickly regained his balance, stood back up and tipped his head towards the sky. He caught his breath, turned and faced the horizon and made some hand gestures as if performing a sun ritual. Once on the beach, he went straight into a drill of squats, push-ups and planks followed by a series of burpees -- all on the spongy surface. He struggled but determined to continue. “I’m gonna make it. I can and I will. Nothing will stop me,” he muttered as he tried to control his breathing through his routine. After his first few sets, he took a breather, walking around up and down the beach inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. The acrid salty air wafted up his nostrils and it made him cuss. He looked down at his water-and-sweat-dabbed physique and noticed how he glowed from the direct beams of the sunrise. He felt good. Then the stinging teasing words of his instructor echoed loudly in his mind. “Taylor, you will never be young again no matter how hard you try. You’re an old fart. Immortality is only for the gods.” The constant age stigma among his buddies again gnawed at his aspiring confidence. He nodded his head slowly in response as if he was issuing a “just you wait” goading and a dead reassurance on a burning and serious commitment. By doing that, he felt as if he just got something off his chest. He felt comforted as his huffs and puffs slowly returned to normal in near sync with the gentle claps of the lapping waves.

Suddenly, as if by impulse, he burst into a sprint then jogged off and disappeared into the distance.