Clearly, I am a bad person as evidenced by my reluctance to return home from a place in which my every need was attended to, all within a climate of balmy nights and pleasant days. But maybe not such a bad person, because I did show up, board the plane and plunge back into domestic splendor. Clever me scheduled my vacation to be followed by a four-day holiday weekend and not only that, but Thanksgiving dinner was a neighborhood potluck, so upon arrival in Manila, all I had to do was traipse down the street for wine, stuffing and an stunning array of desserts.
Jet lag kicked in about the third brownie.
A surfer friend insisted surfing stood alone as a cure for re-entry into normal life. He also gave me a hard time about being fond of small waves. I confess to feeling slightly stung. On the upside, the teensy swell meant we could surf out front and very few things satisfy like suiting up at home and walking to the ocean. Caught waves. Froze! Forgot to grab gloves as I rarely wear them, but winter has hit and the water is cold and the air is colder!
So that was Friday after Thanksgiving. We attended Greenhouse Boardshop’s movie premiere (Taylor Steele’s new Innersections movie), which, combined with my bruised ego, inspired me to paddle out today (Monday) into solid head-and-a-half sets that offered the possibility of getting shacked.*
Which did not happen.
But, I took off late and made it. That was cool.
I took off on everything I could, regardless of size. Sure, I was the opposite of styley, but hey, small steps.
Occasionally whitewater knocked me off a closeout and once a set caught me inside to a ridiculous degree. On the upside, I didn’t fall off a single wave, dorky as I may have looked maintaining my balance.
Also, another surfer sang “The Glendale Train,” the whole song, while we waited for a set. That was pretty all right.
And I remembered my gloves.
Tomorrow’s forecast is small – 4 at 11. It’s already dropped. I’ll be out there, catching wave after wave after wave. With any luck at all.
(*Note: Friday night also devolved into a seven-hour whiskey-imbibing spree, which nevertheless proved to be a fine cure for jetlag, if not beneficial to my brain as a whole.)