surf session #2

Six days have passed since I last shrugged neoprene over my shoulders and launched into the ocean. Unlike today, the swell measured a perfectly reasonable 6 at 12, breaking overhead, then peeling right and left with steady precision. From the channel, I counted 20 others paddling – everyone was paddling. If not for a wave, then to keep from being pulled up the beach or out to sea. The current provides an easy path from sand to line-up, but remains relentless once you’re there.

A set came to me quickly – I turned, paddled, wishing for more confidence, hoping commitment would make up for the lack. The wave caught me, but in my haste to make the drop, I stood too quickly. My board teetered at the top of the lip, then slipped back as the wave went on without me. My failure resonated through me as I paddled back, avoiding eye contact. Another try found me on a left, nothing special to watch, just confirmation that I could do this after all. I continued catching lefts while rights eluded me, offshore wind picking up strength as the session wore on. I couldn’t fight it, couldn’t get my board down the wave’s face before being gusted off, like a shoo’ed fly, until the end, when I waited till the wave was nearly tipping over me, then flung myself into it, preferring wiping out to missing out. But neither happened. Instead, I found myself flying along, board underfoot, shoulder lifting, a lovely bow on this present of a day.

writing exercise #17: secrets and the cost of keeping them

Assignment: Write on the theme of “secret.” Instead of my usual dialogue-laden result, a character study emerged as I typed. I’m not happy with it. It’s all tell, no show. But I’m committed to sharing these and who knows? Perhaps this sad character will find herself surrounded by action some day.

Books read in 2011, reviewed

Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned by Wells Tower: Excellent short stories. Annoying good. And by that I mean, I am annoyed that I didn’t write them.

Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand by Helen Simonson (Book Club): Fun! Light, but clever and charming in that Brit lit way.

The Wave by Susan Casey: I went into this book without knowing much about Casey other than she’d written The Devil’s Teeth – and I’m glad, because I read the book without the scandal baggage that descended upon me after I’d finished the book and mentioned liking it to people. That said, I liked the book! I learned a lot about waves! Science plus storytelling! Yay! But the glorification of tow-in surfers and the nonstop worship of Laird Hamilton did get to be a little much.

Bleak House by Charles Dickens: The first half of the book, I alternated between feeling like I was slogging and feeling like I needed to rise to the occasion. The second half of the book, the characters had become my friends, as had the language. Highly entertaining satire with heart. Dickens!

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender: OK, so this author wrote one of my very favorite short stories of all time, I loved the book going in and hated it by the time I finished. I don’t know what to think.

Wicked Lovely, Ink Exchange, Fragile Eternity, Radiant Shadows and Darkest Mercy by Melissa Marr: Enthralling young adult lit!

Skinny Dip by Carl Hiaasen: Defendable escapism.

Night of the Gun by David Carr: Who needs another addiction memoir? That’s what Carr asks – and he makes sure his isn’t just “another” by taking a journalistic approach (he’s currently at the New York Times) and being a hell of a writer.

The Death and Life of American Journalism: The Media Revolution that Will Begin the World Again by Robert W. McChesney and John Nichols: A little dense, like your reader, but a good study in what’s so messed up about modern media.

Checker and the Derailleurs by Lionel Shriver (for the millionth time): Oh, god, I love this book.

Too Much Happiness by Alice Munro: Smart, precise short stories.

I Just Want My Pants Back by David J. Rosen: Cheesy entertainment. I read it all the way through and felt sort of bad about it. The book equivalent of eating a donut.

History of Love by Nicole Krauss: This book! This book! Lives intertwine, stories unfold, hearts break and mend again, all with an elegance that made me fall in love with love. And this book.

Griftopia: Bubble Machines, Vampire Squids and the Long Con That Is Breaking America by Matt Taibbi: Taibbi kicks ass. If you don’t read him, you’re missing out.

The Death and Resurrection Show by Ariel Gore (again): An unusual story, nicely told, enjoyable at the surface level and full of meaning beyond. Perfect when you want something easy to get lost in, but well worth the time.

All Other Nights by Dara Horn: This book is dumb. I’m annoyed that people have success writing such dumb books.

So Much for That by Lionel Shriver: This book is smart. Shriver is one of my very favorite authors because she writes so well it’s as if I’m living with her characters while reading. Slightly less misanthropic than most of her previous books. She also eviscerates the American medical/insurance system.

Anywhere But Here by Mona Simpson: Sweet, funny, sad, well-done story of a dysfunctional mother and her daughter.

1Q84 by Haruki Murakami: Brilliant – literature as high art, yet accessible enough to enjoy for the story alone. Worth all the hype.

writing exercise #16

Creating conflict! Write about two people going after the same job, from each person’s pov.

insomnia #19 (which is a lot like insomnia #18… and insomnia #17… and… )

On the upside, Nick’s blood sugar is 118 – a perfect 3 a.m. number. So that’s good. On the downside, I can’t get back to sleep. The dog was twitching in her sleep, nails scraping on the floor. I finally rolled out from under the covers, unable to bear the sound, crouched down next to her. For a moment I worried she was having a seizure. She’s old. Maybe she was dying right in front of me. The beginnings of panic bloomed. “Sandy!” I whispered, rubbing her side. “Wake up!” After a moment, she lifted her head, gave me a groggy look, then rolled to her side for a belly rub. Her legs stopped spasming. She’d been chasing rabbits in her sleep after all, not running into the afterlife.

writing exercise #15 (resolutions!)

“I resolve to not cut my hair all year.”

“I resolve to get at least three tattoos.”

“I resolve to refrain from waxing my eyebrows for at least three months.”

Those were stupid, Stacia decided. Superficial. Lame.

“I resolve to volunteer at the soup kitchen.”

That was better.

“I resolve to foster a special needs animal from the shelter.”

She was on a roll.

“I resolve to spend time at an old folks’ home.”

Ack. The wincing that one triggered convinced her that Saturdays at Silver Ridge was the way to go. After all, if it didn’t hurt, why do it?

surf session #1

From this old post:

…in 2000 starting in June, I surfed 68 times.

In 2003*, my best year in the water, I surfed 155 times.

Then, a steady decline:

2004=134
2005=102
2006=79
2007=70

Adding the years since then:

2008: 59
2009: 67
2010: 64
2011: 73

(*2001 and 2002 surf calendars are missing!)

My default goal is always to surf 183 days out of the year — one more than half. If I can break 100 this year, I’ll know I spent my time more wisely than in years previous. Few things make me happier than surfing. Some aspects of my life — family and work — matter more, but at the end of the year, I hope I can say I spent less time Facebooking and folding laundry and more time immersed in the brisk, salty, beautiful experience of surfing Humboldt County.

If New Year’s Day is any example of things to come, 2012 is filled with promise. The morning dawned clear, black giving way to indigo fading to pale green to yellow to a sky so ridiculously blue you’d think we lived somewhere without near-constant fog and 40 inches of rain. The wind refrained from disturbing the ocean, the bay, the rivers for much of the day, the glassy result all the better to mirror the herons and egrets dotting the waters, the Vs of geese flying overhead. It was the kind of day where nature pours her heart out to you and, unless you’re without one, the happiness in your own heart magnifies in return. If you forgot to look away from your computer screen, you missed out.

The buoys read from 5 at 11 to 6 at 13, numbers than can represent head-high fun or macking sets, depending on location, tide and the usual set of conditions. One usual condition was the crowd at Camel Rock. I looked at it via the cam, thought about it, looked again, thought more, decided I’d rather face more challenging waves with fewer people.

A typical scene at Camel. Pretty. Crowded.

I made the right call. (A look at the buoy numbers later showed the swell dropped while I was out, so I really made the right call!) Sunny, glassy, not too crowded, nice crew, overhead user-friendly waves. I stayed in the water till my feet turned numb. Best wave arrived as a left, one that a very talented superlocal graciously handed off to me. Holiday celebrations have left me feeling thick and clumsy, but nonetheless, I landed on my feet and spent several seconds blissed out as the wave folded behind me, rose in front of me, the world a momentarily perfect place.

surf sessions #72, #73 (and that’s it for 2011)

Far, far short of my goal (163), but so it goes. I still found myself in the ocean 73 times this year, which is much better than not at all.

So pretty.

#72: One of those places you go when it’s huge everywhere else. One of those days where I point out every five minutes, “It’s so beautiful!” One of those sessions where the waves crank out as if someone dropped a quarter into a wave-generating machine. They weren’t very big — they were the opposite of big, coming in waist-high, but zippy and peeling, and best of all, the only people in the water were me, my son, four good friends and a couple locals. One of those days where I point out every five minutes, “This is so fun!”

And after, Mexican food. Yes, a fine, fine day.

#73: The year could’ve ended on a better note. I’ve worked on coming to terms with the overcrowding at Camel with some success — mostly due to owning a big, cruisy board and a new willingness to sit more competitively. But sometimes, the constant dodging of other surfers while riding waves — “threading the needle,” as a friend calls it — detracts from the usual bliss of being in this moment on this wave. Typically, being on a wave brings me right into that moment; all else falls away as the world narrows to me, my board, the ocean. Skirting other people’s heads and boards adds a heightened sense of awareness in a way, but not in a way I’m looking for. I didn’t stay out long — and for all my crowd-crankiness, I ended up in the right place at the right time. Another sunny day about to end in a spectacular sunset, water glittering, a mid-sized wave peaking up between sets, too early for the folks hanging right on the rock, it delivered itself to me — thank you, ocean! — and then, there I was, carried along the peeling face for forever (about 20 seconds in surf-time). So, a pretty sweet wrap-up to the year after all.

How to Enjoy Christmas

Look, like many people I know, I spent years hating Christmas. For all the usual reasons. Being broke and feeling pressured to buy stuff. Juggling visits between all the different households. Caving to social pressure to partake in holiday traditions I find meaningless. Biting my tongue to keep from explaining why I find them meaningless. Struggling to add “prepare for Christmas” to a life already full of multiple jobs and children. Watching plastic crap flood American households. Smiling over gifts I didn’t ask for and don’t want. Giving gifts for the sake of show rather than delight. The consumerism! The waste! The strained familial relationships! The Christmas season typically triggered dread, stress and resentment.

And then I kinda figured it out.

writing exercise #14

The prompt of this exercise was smell. For me, the particular smell of lemongrass cleaner. Here’s where it went:

———————————-

Sherry knocked back the last of her vodka soda, exhaled, pulled the tea towel from the stove rack and tossed it on the spreading puddle. She then reached under the sink, pushed aside the pile of grocery bags and dug around among the various cleaning supplies until she found the spray bottle of lemongrass cleaner. The plastic bottle announced, in bright orange letters, “ORGANIC! NONTOXIC!” Sherry eyed the mess, set the cleaner on the counter, tilted the bottle of vodka over her glass and watched the clear liquid rise over the ice. This time, she skipped the soda.

“All right, then,” she announced to no one except the dog, her dear old black lab huddling in the corner. “It’s OK, honey,” Sherry crooned. “It’s not your fault.” Mackie lifted her head, eyes cloudy, face sweet. Sherry sipped her vodka. Set it down. Dropped to her knees. With her left hand, she wiped up the puddle. With her right, she sprayed the spot down with the lemongrass cleaner. Standing again, she strode to the laundry room, threw the towel into the empty washer, grabbed a rag from the rag pile.

Back in the kitchen, Sherry sipped her vodka. Sipped it some more. Refilled it, figuring why let it run out when she’d be making another drink anyway. She tossed the rag on the floor, used her foot to move it over the spot, spreading and absorbing the cleaner. The scent of lemongrass reached her.

Lemongrass, she remembered from her herbal classes, is native to India and tropical Asia. In addition to its culinary properties – wonderful in soup – herbalists believe it has antifungal properties. Not that Sherry worried about fungus. But she didn’t want the floor to smell like dog piss. She didn’t want her house to smell like dog piss. Finding a worthy man to have over proved challenge enough. Bringing one through the door only to have him wrinkle his nose at the smell of dog piss was not something she wanted to deal with. “Sorry, honey,” she told Mackie.

It wasn’t fair, Sherry mused. Mackie had been more faithful, more comforting and the provider of more joy than any guy who’d entered her life. So her bladder failed her from time to time. She was 14, for chrissakes. As the vodka seeped into her bloodstream, Sherry felt the warmth of sentimentality consume her. She lowered herself to the floor again, this time next to Mackie.

“Sweet baby,” she whispered, stretching her arms around Mackie, who wagged her tail and licked Sherry’s cheek. Sherry reached behind Mackie’s ears, scratched and hugged Mackie close. Her eyes watered. “Damn it,” she muttered. She didn’t want to lose Mackie, didn’t want to have to decide to have her put down. “Put down” – what an ignoble fate. She closed her eyes and lay back on the dog bed, Mackie stretched out beside her. “Dog hair,” she thought, imagining how utterly cloaked in shed black strands she’d be when she stood up.

She pushed the thought aside. Or rather, tried to. She was wearing her favorite white button-up shirt after all, the one she tried to wash as little as possible to extend its life. The one Clark had bought for her because she kept stealing his, thrilled to have a boyfriend whose clothes she could “borrow.” Ultimately, the novelty of fitting into his shirts, his sweaters, his jeans wore off – his shortness in stature made his clothes ideal, but his personality insufferable. No more short men, she swore. But she still loved the shirt. Not as much as Mackie, but enough to think twice about letting it get covered in short black dog hairs.

Sherry stood up. Reached down to scritch Mackie’s belly. Mackie turned her head just enough to look at her. How much she could see, Sherry was unsure. But those dark eyes had seen so much over the years. The good boyfriends and the bad. No one else knew Sherry so well, yet remained so purely refrained from judgment. Her eyes filled again. She sobbed once, twice, then regained her grip upon her emotions. A long breath and she was back in the kitchen, adding ice to her glass, pouring another couple fingers’ worth of vodka.

Maybe I should date a vet, she thought. She looked at the dwindled supply of vodka. Maybe I should date a vet who likes to drink. The thought of dating sent a wave of fatigue through her body. She leaned on the counter, felt herself slide down to the floor, her glass slipping from her fingers, not breaking, but bouncing against the tile, rolling over sideways, ice clinking out against the red squares. Mackie started at the noise, trotted into the kitchen, nosed into Sherry’s side. “It’s OK, baby,” she said. “It’s OK.”