Early one July afternoon I find myself in a car heading to a common Southern California summer destination: the beach. My friend, Luke, and I sit in prepared relaxation, complemented by the necessary brightly-colored beach wear, UV protective sunglasses and a sleek, silver boogie board.

     Halfway to the beach my gas indicator moves dangerously close to "E." Brazenly, I merge across four lanes of anxious drivers and off the freeway. At a nearby AM/PM, Luke runs in to grab a soda. I deftly slide my plastic through the credit card slot and unscrew the gas cap.

     As I reach for the nozzle, a tall, well-dressed man in his late-30s beats me to the punch.

     He grabs the nozzle out of its place and maneuvers it into my gas tank.

     Flashing a sugar-coated smile, he looks down at me and says, "I can take care of this for you, honey. I wouldn't want you to break a nail."

     My nerves move to attention as fire flashes across my eyes. I contemplate slapping the sugar-coated smile right off his assured face, reciting quotes from Gertrude Stein, or simply screaming, "I'm not, nor will I ever be, your honey!" Opting not to attack with full defensive force, I reclaim my nozzle, uttering coldly, "I am capable of pumping my own gas, thank you."

     "Just trying to be helpful little lady," he loudly declares as he retreats. I feel his eyes glaring holes into my back.

      As the intruder purposefully moves away, Luke returns, unaware of my churning feminist rage. We get back in the car and return to the lemming march for the beach. Aggressively, I weave through traffic in true California style.

     Finally arriving at our destination, we claim our own warm sand patch with boldly-striped towels. Letting the week's stress melt away, I sink blissfully into my sandy niche. Luke hovers over his towel for a moment, then grabs his boogie board and heads out to hit the waves.

     I watch as he and numerous other saltwater-slathered bodies bob in the surf.

      Noting the lack of female representation, I mentally go on the defensive, questioning the gross imbalance. Why aren't there more women out there? Women could do it just as well. Are those of us lying inactively along the shore failing to represent the true power, courage and strength of the female gender? These thoughts swiftly acquiesce to feelings of shame and inadequacy.

     Brushing those useless feelings aside, I am overcome by the fierce desire to prove myself on behalf of women everywhere. Leaving the security and comfort of my towel, I run down the beach and into the ocean. Causing the waters about me to part, I forcefully make my way to join Luke at the breakline. I am fearless, invincible.

     Luke hands me his board, and confidently I take it. The further I can ride the waves, the better. The first wave comes and like a champ I glide across its white-peaked crest, riding out its smooth descent to the water below.

     Charged, I grab my board and dive through a succession of smaller waves to regain my original spot. This pattern continues for several more waves. I notice the growing size of the waves with excited expectation.

     As I return from one of my wave-riding victories, I hear Luke shout, "Duck!" I look up just in time to glimpse a mountain of churning water as it crashes upon my head. The boogie board shoots out of my grasp and into the air as my body is blasted onto the rocky ocean floor.

     The words stream through my mind, "Don't panic! Don't Panic! Don't Panic!" I completely lose my orientation as I am sent spinning in circles, fiercely searching for any direction that might be up.

     Relief washes over me as I break out of the watery web and into the open air. Seven feet away, Luke asks me with concern, "Are you OK?" I respond in the affirmative, and reassured, he heads closer to shore to retrieve his board. I begin to take in my first full breath when another massive wave crashes over me.

     Feelings of panic begin to stir - breathless, I feel rock hit bone, and find myself captive once again in the ocean's deadly spin cycle.

     Exhausted, I desperately fight toward the surface. Seconds later, strong arms grab my waist and lift me above the water. Greedily, I gasp in breaths of salty air. A stern voice yells, "Hold on!" as another wave crashes down.

     The strong arms grip tightly, bracing against the churning waters that seep through my mouth and into my lungs. Once again, I am lifted above water. I find myself half swimming, half carried to shore.

     I look over at my "Baywatch" rescuer, and instantly feel reduced from female warrior to damsel in distress. I am struck by the ridiculous, almost comical scene.

     Here I am, a capable, 20-year-old woman, being carried out of the ocean by a lifeguard. I almost laugh out loud. I see Luke walking toward us, the lifeguard sees him as well.

     Good-naturedly, yet pointedly, he addresses Luke, "Next time, grab the girl not the board."

     I begin to bristle at the "grab the girl" reference, and then I pause. I had needed to be "grabbed." I certainly had not been in control of the situation. The lifeguard heads back to his post and Luke and I return to our spot on the sand. I feel the seaweed and sand, gritty between my teeth, as I proceed to cough up lungfulls of ocean.

     Luke asks 10 minutes later, "You ready to go back out?" Without hesitation, I decline. I have learned my personal limitations, and no longer feel inclined to prove myself. Never again will I allow myself to feel like a sissy girl for remaining on the beach, comfortable and happy, and respecting the mighty power of Mother Ocean.

     With bikini-clad empowerment, I head down the beach to join a game of volleyball.