That said, when the Bank Transfer Day idea gained momentum, I decided to make the switch. I don’t have enough money that leaving Chase delivers much of a blow, but maybe on a local level, I could do a little good. So I went over to Coast Central’s Arcata branch and stood in line with another dozen Transfer participants. The place buzzed with a shared sense of doing something positive. We were taking action! So, that part was great.

What I knew was going to be a pain and has been, is changing over my direct deposit, student loan, car insurance, SallieMae transfer and other automatic payments. I couldn’t close the Chase account right away because I needed time to make all those changes. Well, it’s a good thing I left it open, because since moving to CCCU, I can’t get my debit card to work and haven’t been able to access the online banking. Essentially, I’ve had $50 sitting in a savings account at Coast Central while continuing to use my Chase account for all practical purposes. One more piece of unused plastic taking up space in my wallet.

But I finally worked out the direct deposit with my employer and even received confirmation that things were in place from Coast Central. Nearly three months later, I was poised to utilize my credit union checking account.

However, I was still unable to access the online banking, so I drove over to the Eureka branch to sort out the problem. Unfortunately, the very polite teller couldn’t help me resolve things in a timely fashion — like, now — so I had to fill out a form to change the PIN, which would be submitted to some other department, after which I’d hear back, probably at least a couple days.

So that sucks. Because like most working parent types, I do 99 percent of my banking online.

What’s worse is, I drove into town this morning to use the ATM (after having to reactivate my debit card so it would work), my balance is still at $0 instead of reflecting the direct deposit I expected. (It’s payday!) This is a real problem since my husband and son are leaving for UCSF Medical Center for a diabetes check up in an hour and need money for gas and food. Luckily we have some rent money set aside to “borrow” from, but jeez, the amount of stress added and time lost — and I still have to resolve the problems!

I don’t exactly regret leaving Chase — oh, wait, I haven’t actually left them yet. In fact, I couldn’t change my Sallie Mae transfer until mid-February, so if I don’t get the money from my direct deposit in the CCCU, then I can’t make a deposit at Chase to cover this one last payment, which means I’ll be overdrawn at Chase and incur that horrible $34 charge.

Wow, my head hurts. I did send CCCU an email this morning and am about to call customer service (which didn’t open till 8:30 p.m.).

Hoping for a speedy resolve.

UPDATE: A quick call to customer service resulted in the following: a bank employee has to manually “push a button” to  make the direct deposits actually go into the accounts. Which doesn’t happen till 8:30 a.m. or so, when a person gets there. I’ll have to change my habit of waking up on payday and being able to get all the bills paid before work, but okay, only a minor inconvenience. (I’m still nervous Bobby’ll go to use the debit card on this trip and it won’t work, and still waiting for the online fix, but at least one problem is seemingly solved.)

Thank you for providing such excellent service today. I especially appreciated that although the waves were only chest-high, they arrived with a juiciness making for fast fun. I also noticed how often they showed up! (If only I could get that sort of consistency in trendy Old Town bars.) The number of people waiting for waves worried me at first, but you made sure we had enough to share. I loved gazing out to the horizon, the sea so glassy that the flat surface melded into the oncoming swells, so that I had to really look to see what was coming. Really, I had a wonderful time. (I won’t be recommending you to anyone though — you understand, of course.)

In return, I picked up a plastic bag and empty Arizona Tea can some thoughtless people had left behind. I’m hoping I can do more. After all you’ve given me, a little cleaning up is the least I can do.

Love,

Jennifer

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.

—————

The secrets exhausted her. She wondered what it might be like to shed them. To divest herself of the burden of hiding, downplaying, avoiding and otherwise substituting illusion for truth. The secret-keeping started with money. She would spend, he would scold. So she stopped sharing her excitement over a new dress. Or said she’d found it at a thrift store, such a deal.

He didn’t want to travel and she did, so she credited the trips as work-related or told him a friend was paying for her to come visit. She had a lot of friends, so it wasn’t a stretch. Her friend Janey, for example, in New York. Janey wanted her to visit. That was true. She offered to help cover the cost, so that was true, too. But the flight had gone on a credit card, hers not Janey’s, which was the opposite of what she’d explained to her husband. The lying frightened her, but the idea of a life of boredom scared her even more.

The trouble was, just like the stories warned, that once she’d committed to untruths, she had no standard to uphold. Which is why, in the name of adventure, she’d gone on a motorcycle ride with one of Janey’s friends, way upstate, to a family farm, where no family remained. He showed her the grounds, including the barn, where a few groomsmen took care of a few horses, all of whom exited a few moments after their arrival. The heat had likely been obvious, she thought, but she didn’t care, she was so far from home, so far from discovery and at that point a literal roll in the hay amused her more than worried her.

It wasn’t till the flight home that guilt landed. And stayed. She carried it with her and grew used to the weight. They would fight sometimes. He’d accuse her of lying. I don’t know what you do or where our money goes, he said. I tell you where I go, stop being so obsessive, she countered. And all I do is pay bills and buy groceries. If you ever paid attention to the mail, to the checking account, you’d know. She banked on him not ever doing those things, but the accusations worked. He may have been suspicious, he may have been right, but he had no way of proving it. And so she kept lying.

She didn’t want to hurt him. He was right after all. She was worthless, a terrible wife, a bad person. She defended herself because she had to, but still. She didn’t want to hurt him. To speak truth would be to say, she was bored. She was disappointed. That she hated how she fell to her weaknesses instead of rising to her strengths. I want to be a better person, she confided to her best girlfriends, but I’m so busy fighting his perception of me, I can’t let my guard down. If I confess my flaws, he’ll hold them over me forever.

It’s better to keep up a strong front, she decided. I can tuck all my sorrow away. People have real problems, after all. I am not homeless or dying or married to someone who hits me. Therefore, I should stay quiet, wait it out. What she was waiting out, she could not say. Not because she couldn’t say, but because she wasn’t sure. The shopping, the trips, the lingering glances with a hand lightly placed just so on a handsome man’s arm, those were just ways to ease the journey, nevermind the load such deception placed upon her heart.

If it, her heart, gave out before the end, so much the better, she thought. One way or another, she’d find, if not truth, if not the fabled lightness of being, at least some kind of peace.

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.

—

My thighs stuck to the vinyl of the chair. I imagined the rashy effect. Why had I worn a skirt this short without tights? I glanced at the woman sitting to my left. She was probably 10 years older, wearing a longer, straighter skirt with a matching jacket. Her haircut suggested it wasn’t one she’d done herself. I touched the back of my neck. The short hairs stuck out, pleasing to the touch – my friends had laughed and run their hands over the fuzzy band. I hadn’t meant to go so short, but with each correction, well, this is where I ended up. The other woman’s wavy locks flowed over her shoulders. Sexy. Professional, but sexy. I shifted my now-sweaty thighs – it must be eighty degrees in here – and sagged against the backrest. No way was I getting this job.

Oh, to be young and cool, I thought, stealing a look at the woman to my right. She could still pull off a short skirt and even shorter hair. My legs held up scrutiny as long as I wore tights, but bare-legged? Forget it. I wish, especially in this heat. But two kids and sixteen years of waitressing jobs left a history of varicose veins and stretch marks from waist to ankle. I never let my husband make love to me with the lights on anymore. This woman probably had a boyfriend and a girlfriend. They probably cavorted naked on the beach, carefree. I could never cut my hair off like that. Only the most confident women could. And if she was that confident… I didn’t stand a chance of getting this job.

I tried to imagine that level of sophistication. As I filled out the application – why do they ask you to fill out an application when they’ve already asked for your resume? And why do they include high school in your education? Like I need to tell them I tested out my junior year because I was bored with school and enthralled with my pot dealer boyfriend. Are they going to call my high school? Ask about me? My English teacher would tell them, despair coloring his voice, “Oh! Cherie? She had so much potential! So much wasted possibility.” Well, that is if he remembered me. It’s been five years, after all. I’m sure he’s had other wasted possibilities move through his classroom. I did love reading Catcher in the Rye. But I don’t miss anyone.

I need this job. I didn’t really consider, back when the kids were babies, what it would mean to re-enter the job market. The job market. Like I’m at the store, choosing a career off the shelf. I wish it were so easy. I’m an expert at finding supermarket deals – and fast. With two kids in the cart, you don’t have time to mess around. Can I put that on the application? Good at avoiding conflict through efficient time management? I’m so old. At 36, I’m so old. I can’t believe they ask for high school history on this application. How ridiculous. As if who I was as a teenager has any bearing on who I am as a woman not far from shifting into her 40s. High school mattered because that’s where I met Dan, Dan the Man. Dan the Man who would get me pregnant at 19. It’s kind of crazy we’re still married. I’m glad that worked out. The only other thing I remember from high school is English class. Mr. Lewis. Reading Catcher in the Rye. As a kid, my focus was on Holden. As a mom, all I can think about is the children he had to catch.

“Janie?” the reception called out. “That’s me!” I enthused. Too loudly. As I stood, the stupid vinyl chair refused to release my thighs at first, so I ended up standing to a lovely sucking sound. Way to make a good impression. I’m sure they were both red across the back. Gawd. It was like being in sixth grade and having to go in front of the class to explain diagramming sentences. I don’t know why no one else got it. But I tugged my skirt down and smoothed my hair, channeled my idea of classy. The receptionist gestured to the door across the hall. Deep breath. I strode over and opened it.

God, to move with such confidence. I watched Janie, cute name, go in. I should flee. I’m too old. Too prim. I had no idea what to wear so I went to the mall, to the department store, bought this suit ensemble. I feel like I’m sixty. I think about waitressing, how I slung hash browns and T-bone steaks at the hippest diner in town – crazy how that job offered a sense of cool, but this attempt at a “real job” reminded me just how awkward I was. I love my daughters, but dishes and dusting and laundry weren’t doing me any favors when it came to creating a resume. Now they were both in elementary school. Dan’s construction job paid the bills, but not much more. This job meant health insurance. A crazy concept. And one we needed.

The interview flew by. Generic questions asked by this guy, this manager guy, wearing beige with sandy brown hair and light brown eyes and the kind of facial hair that guys who can’t actually grow a beard seem to cultivate. I tried to impress his face upon my memory, but was pretty sure I wouldn’t recognize him in the line at Starbucks. Yes, I’m responsible, I said. Yes, I pay attention to details.

The door opened. Janie, all unblemished legs and sassy hair, skimmed past, flashed me a smile. The manager probably just went gaga over her and was now going through the motions of finishing the interviews. Fuck. I would never get this job. “Amy?” the receptionist called out. That’s me. I stood, brushed the wrinkles off the front of my skirt. I shrugged my shoulders back. I needed this. My family needed this. I walked in the door, bright smile and hand out for a confident shake. It’s all about the webbing between thumb and forefinger. I’d read that in Cosmo of all place, but it was true. You shake hands, not fingers. Yes, I’m responsible, I said. Yes, I pay attention to details.

Shit! I’d left the lights on. My battery was dead. I kept meaning to get jumper cables, but that meant stopping at the auto parts store, which may as well have been China for all the familiarity it inspired. I suppose always depending on the kindness – or opportunism – of men was not a good long-term plan. Or even a short-term one, given the fact I was stuck in this parking lot.

“Do you need help?” I asked her. “Do you have jumper cables?” she responded. “Sure,” I said, unlocking the minivan. “I keep them with me ever since I owned a VW bug – that thing used to die all the time.” I smiled at her, hoping she wasn’t too embarrassed. She looked embarrassed, red flushing across her unwrinkled, unblemished face. Janie laughed. “I had a Volkswagen once,” she said. “Man, that thing used to break down all the time! That’s why I finally switched to Honda when I could.” I smiled, clipped the red clamp onto her battery and the black where it would ground. “Hey, I’m happy to help.” She grinned at me. “Thank you. Those are great earrings, by the way.” I reached up, touched the dangling glass. “Thanks! My husband gave them to me last anniversary. I really like your hair. I wish I could wear it so short.” Janie’s grin grew as she moved to her car. I climbed into my  own driver’s seat, turned the key, started the van up. Across the divide, she did the same. Her engine sputtered, sputtered again, kicked over, then purred. “Yay!” I shouted. She clapped. For a moment, we shared the same energy, the same spark. I stepped out of the van, already saddened by having to disconnect.

I needed to check Nick, so I tiptoed up the stairs, stabbed his finger, let the test strip absorb the blood, exhaled when the number flashed. No need to dash back down for glucose tablets and food. No cause to correct and stay awake for follow-ups. I only realized the tightness around my heart when relief eased it.

But I stay awake anyway. My head hurts. Stress, I thought. It was an imperfect evening. The glass of red wine, maybe. I remembered I’d forgotten to eat dinner – a side effect of running from meeting to meeting in the evening. I’d neglected breakfast, too, racing off to do radio at 5:30 a.m. Wow, that was fun. Not the failure to eat, but the playing music and gabbing at people via the airwaves. (I did eat lunch. A fine slice of pizza at the new Paul’s Live From New York in Eureka.)

So I’m up, wishing someone had bothered to build a fire. A chill pervades the house. I’ve pulled the hood of my hoodie up over my head. My hands can hardly type for shivering. The cold yogurt I ate didn’t help. I think I’ll grab a blanket and put the kettle on for early morning tea. Be right back.

All right, I added a long-sleeved T-shirt between the short-sleeved one I was sleeping in and the aforementioned hoodie. (Side note: Strange to think a time existed when I slept naked. At some point, with the kids, pajamas became the norm. Maybe when they’re off in the world, I’ll return to a more au natural state.) The kettle creaks on top of the flame – I’ll have to catch it before it whistles, so as not to wake the rest of the house. The inside thermometer reads 60 degrees, which would be great if I were on the beach in the sun without any wind blowing, but is so much colder inside the house, in the dark, at 4 a.m.

Somewhere, not far from here, I’m sure, people are likely huddled outside, trying to stave off the elements without a house or a hoodie or any of the other material goods I’m fortunate enough to possess. I am cold, but not unlucky.

I haven’t figured out the new year yet. The big news is my oldest daughter moved to Southern California. That will need to be a whole post in itself. I didn’t make any formal resolutions – the aspects of myself in need of fixing continue to be. The desire to improve remains strong. I understand, intellectually, the courses of action necessary to achieve the desired results. The physical doing of those actions, however, well, therein lies the flaw. Sometimes excuses are true – I have a lot going on – and sometimes they’re just rationalizations. I’m not that bad, I’m mostly successful! I think. Even if I don’t attain perfection, at least I’m not a complete loser.

Not a very good motivational speech.

Feeling self-conscious about the self-indulgent self analysis. Maybe I need to spend more time focusing on others? Hmmm. At risk of sounding defensive (to whom, Jennifer?), I don’t think that’s it. Yes, here on my blog, I spew all about me, but in daily life, I take care of my family’s needs (imperfectly) and strive to do good. Some Puritan work ethic appears to run through the maternal side of my family – I can’t conceive of what it would be like to feel as if I work “enough.” All I can ever see is the room for improvement. I spend a lot of time in that room. I should probably get out more.

2012. I’m not sure about it yet. 2010 was brilliant – an amazing new job, international travel, a whole year of blossoming. 2011, full of sociability and good times and rewarding moments as it was, did not measure up. Is that a terrible thing to say? I worry I will hurt people’s feelings. It wasn’t you, it was me – a certain melancholy took hold and wouldn’t let me out of its grip no matter how much time I spent among people I love. Much (not all!) of 2011 was treading water, just sort of hanging in there, trying to maintain high standards, but unsure what I was measuring against. I want 2012 to be a year of stepping up. Not necessarily doing more, but doing better. Growing. Traveling. Taking what was good about 2011 (many things!) to new heights and leaving the lesser moments behind. And all kinds of vague, non-specific, generic sentiment like that.

What do I want specifically? To end the year with some savings. To go to Mexico. To help Kaylee move into the adult phase of her life. To make sure Nick’s health remains strong. To encourage Chelsea’s success in her ongoing life story. To push Bobby into finding satisfaction through art. To see the Marine Life Protection Act implemented on the North Coast and to have a next project to work on – to keep feeling like the efforts I put toward bettering the world matter. To surf and surf and surf. To read more. To lose the clichéd 15 lbs. because why not? To more regularly connect with the friends and family I don’t see enough whether in person or through writing to them more often and better. No more saying,”Miss you so much! Let’s talk soon!” and not following up. To keep writing. Maybe someday I’ll get good at it.

“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?

Saturday dawned crystal clear, sun rising golden above purple mountains. “Above the fruited plain,” Stacia sung as she swung her truck into the Silver Ridge parking lot. “Amerrrricaaaa… Amerrrricaaaa….” She hoped they didn’t expect her to sing. As much as she enjoyed belting along with the radio or when inspired by a particular view, even the hard-of-hearing might wince at her tuneless efforts.

“Hello!” she called out, leaning against the reception desk. “Hello!”

A rustling sounded down the hall. Stacia glanced around at the empty lobby, all carefully stacked magazines and blue vinyl chairs arranged to have a view of the large screen TV dominating one side of the room. The other side featured windows and a sliding door leading into a bench-lined atrium where birds of paradise bloomed.

“Hello?” She hollered again. The rustling stopped, was replaced by the sound of striding steps moving toward her. A woman emerged, clipboard clenched to her chest. The look of annoyance crossing her face reminded Stacia of her mom.

“Hi!” Stacia said. “I’m here to volunteer.” She smiled her brightest smile at the… nurse? Receptionist? Stacia couldn’t tell.

The woman tilted her head, looking at Stacia over thick blue-framed glasses. “It’s 6:30 in the morning.”

“I know,” Stacia replied. “But… um… don’t old… I mean, senior… people get up early?”

“Yes,” said the woman. “Yes, they do. But we don’t take visitors until 9.”

“I’m not a visitor!” said Stacia. “I’m a volunteer!”

A sign emanated from the woman as she lowered her clipboard and dropped it on the desk. “You should come back later.”

“But I’m here now!” protested Stacia. “And I really want to help!”

Another sigh. The woman opened a drawer, pulled out some papers. “Fine,” she said. “Sit. Fill these out. Leave them on the desk and someone will call you.” She handed the sheets to Stacia, picked up her clipboard and disappeared down the hallway.

Stacia carried the forms to the couch. She sat down. She glanced over the paperwork. Lots of basic who-are-you information, a section on interests, another on experience. Boring! Stacia shoved the sheaf into her purse and traipsed down the hall. Miss Grumpypants was muttering over a computer in a side room and didn’t even notice Stacia slipping by.

The hall led to an open area where recliners and ottomans dominated the floorspace. Off to the right, a glassed-in room allowed Stacia her first look at the early morning risers of Silver Ridge. A yoga class. Perfect.

She stepped out of her shoes, grateful she’d worn her old Dansko clogs. Her tall zip boots had been her first choice, but she’d reconsidered, not wanting to show up looking too stylish in case the old… she meant senior… people envied her youth.

The instructor turned toward her as she stepped into the room. “Namaste!” Stacia called out, striking the pose of hands pressed together as she intimated a slight bow. She took a spot on the floor.

The four other faces twisted to look. “Hello?” said the instructor. “And you are…?”

“Stacia,” she answered. “New volunteer. So happy to be here!”

An expression of doubt flickered across the yoga teacher’s face, but was quickly replaced by resignation. “Wonderful,” she said. “Welcome.”

They moved through sun salutations, warrior pose and downward dog. Stacia snuck a glance around her as the blood flowed into her head. Three women, one man. He’s probably hoping to get lucky, she thought, giggling to herself. The yoga teacher looked at her. Stacia stifled her laughter, tensed her abdominal muscles.

“Very good, very good,” the instructor praised as the group stood in unison. “Last time I held that pose that long, I was in a shower and it was my honeymoon,” the woman to Stacia’s right quipped. The man and one other woman laughed. The instructor and the other woman pursed their lips. Stacia smiled at the saucy senior, gave her a thumbs up. This is the lady she should hang out with, Stacia thought.

After the class ended, she helped pass out towels and cups of water. “Hi, I’m Stacia,” she said, introducing herself to each resident. The woman who’d cracked a joke crooked her arm through Stacia’s. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, patting Stacia with her free hand. “We need some new blood in these parts.”

Stacia stretched her face into its biggest smile. The woman had been funny, sure, and Stacia wanted to be her volunteer friend, but the sensation of loose skin over bony arm pressing into her own firm, pliant body triggered a desire to pull away. She forced herself to hold steady. “Oh, good!” Stacia enthused. “I’m so happy to be here. What’s your name?” Her face remained bright.

The old… she meant senior… woman pulled her closer. “Lucy,” she said. “I’m Lucy. And look, honey, you have to help me. Promise you’ll help me?”

Incalculable wrinkles surrounded the sky-blue eyes gazing into Stacia’s own. “Of course,” she said, now patting Lucy’s arm, loose flesh and all. “Of course.”

…in 2000 starting in June, I surfed 68 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.

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.