Last Saturday, a fun, sunny session with Nick at the Jetty. Not as perfect as the Moonstone day, but clean and zippy – and cold. He didn’t last as long –
god, my writing. Look at all those adjectives. I just rolled out of bed, once again realizing I need to get up at 5 a.m. and stay up until 11 p.m., working nonstop in between in order to get everything done. The night before last, PG&E (I think it was PG&E) worked on a utility pole outside our house. All night. Around 11 p.m., I realized the beeping sound wasn’t in my head, that it was in fact attached to a truck across the street. The night continued to involve said beeping, plus the sounds of power tools and hollered instructions between the two guys at the top – one on the pole, one in the cherry-picker part of the truck. Also, giant lamps, brighter than day. That was the scene outside our windows until 5 a.m. So much for sleep. So much for sanity.
Last night, Nick called down, “Mom? Dad?” because he felt his blood sugar dropping. A check revealed the low number of 35 – danger zone is under 70. He hasn’t had many lows under 50; my heartbeat picked up in panic, although my voice and face stayed calm. The emergency shot of glucagon in case he’s dropping too fast for the glucose tablets? I wondered. But his ability to speak clearly indicated we weren’t in the emergency zone. The sugar tablets kicked in, bringing the next reading to 116, a reassuring number. But then he needed to have some “regular” food, so we spent a half-hour on the futon, eating toast and watching Stephen Colbert clips on Comedy Central.
Nick’s still on the futon. I wanted him close in case.
I’m trying to get a quick write in before taking Sandy on a long overdue walk. The cold north wind discourages me from even a 20-minute jaunt out from the house and back, but this morning, the leaves stand still, yesterday’s warmth lingering in the air. The possibility of surf definitely awaits, but I owe Sandy first.
So, quickly, the session with Nick: We trucked over to the Jetty, watched longboarders catching waist-high waves in the sunshine, suited up, paddled out. Nick caught several waves; I did not fare so well, unused to our longboard I’d brought out. With an extra 18 inches of board to deal with, I ended up pearling repeatedly. But Nick had fun, which is all I was hoping for. The cold permeated his suit and drove him out of the water in what I thought was short order, but when I asked if he’d caught any waves that made the session worth it, he said, yes, “several.”
I surfed a few mornings ago, a day when the dawn revealed the first glassy view in weeks. The waves came in about head high on the sets, still a bit sloppy from all the north wind, but fun enough – except the water was so damn cold, I couldn’t cope. Three waves and my hands felt as if they were encased in blocks of ice. They hurt so much, my next attempt at catching a wave resulted in slipping and falling due to the numbness of my fingers. I gave up, came in, glad I paddled out, relieved to be done.