Dive Boy (Born Slippy) by Enzo is Burning crackles from a fanny pack bluetooth speaker that swings to-and-fro from a sweaty rollerblader’s hips, causing the music’s volume and pitch to oscillate while he gently cruises along a coastal path.
He chases the setting sun: its rays illuminating the clouds, casting shadows across the cumulus clouds’ heaped pillows; the remaining light passes through and scatters across the ocean, accentuating its blues and greens against the light orange and gold hue cast across colossal coastal hotel resorts. Dolphins leap above the surface with perfect syncopation, their rubbery skin glistening, mimicking the rollerblader’s movements and complexion with every arced jump. The rollerblader’s legs alternate as they sway out, then in, gliding between and around pedestrians. A homeless man greets the rollerblader gruffly, but warmly, like baked sand outside the tide’s reach. The rollerblader, in return, smiles back with a genuine, white smile. The two share an intimate, complex handshake before the rollerblader spins himself away like a ballet dancer. Mid twirl, he grabs a cool beverage and tosses a rolled five-dollar bill at an attendant, who yells gratefully before he glides forward. His lean arms and legs glow as they absorb the sun’s rays; his tanned skin nicely complementing the gentle color palette of nearby resorts.
The rollerblader passes countless hotels: their conspicuous, gold-tinted frames enclose beachside lounges and bars on every floor. A breeze rustles fronds from palm trees distributed across the path. Taking a detour, he turns onto a pier, zig-zagging through fishermens’ poles, hooks, and lines. He briefly observes a fisherman casting; while the hook is airborne, the vocals stretch, reaching just far enough to match the song’s tempo and complete the eight bar phrase without losing fidelity. The rollerblader’s music is hard to follow: it’s tremulous, oscillating in volume every time he moves. Feeling dizzy from spinning, he places his hands behind his head to maintain composure, then reaches down to grab both legs, feeling the sweat running down his inner thighs as he waits for paradise to right itself.
The rollerblader’s arms shift side to side as he navigates around crowds; acknowledging their catcalls graciously, his speaker loudly vibrates each time the singer, Karl Hyde, vocalizes the word “boy” on the chorus. His shorts ride high, providing space for his long legs to reach, leaning forward as he glides along, temporarily orbiting, then breaking that orbit to gravitate towards a more interesting scene. While passing through a group of tourists, he crouches down and lets his fingers drag along the boardwalk’s rubbery surface. People try to record him, but he’s too fast: disappearing between all the pedestrians, food carts, and cyclists littering the path.
The rollerblader enters the boardwalk’s final pier: his feet pushing off the ground, his arms swaying in syncopated motions, his breathing deep and slow as he holds the air in his lungs—burning the oxygen to savor every last morsel. The song enters its final phase: an intoxicating, rhythmic loop bridging one experience with another. He strains against the wind while approaching the pier’s end, covering his eyes to protect from the salt water sprayed by the crashing waves. He dives off the pier. For a weightless moment, he is accompanied only by the washed-out synthesizers that sail above the beat. After falling long enough for time to stand still, he lands in the ocean, stopping the music after he submerges, leaving only the din of pedestrians, waves, and seagulls in his wake.