My Time as a Human

There’s nothing like the stinging massage of hailstones snapping like little whips against every part of your body as the lake before you boils and the rocks around you pop with exploding ice. By chopping trees into tidy little two inch by four inch boards and using them to build walls around ourselves, we’ve created the illusion that nature is some tiny, distant, insignificant story we hear about by watching it through our digital flat screen windows. It seems very much under control. That illusion was literally shattered a while back when hail broke through all of our west facing windows and sent us scrambling for shelter. Standing up at 12,000 feet among the trees, as untamed as when they were born, complex and beautiful, leaning and sprawling and twisting and reaching and in no way trying to protect me, I was unshielded from reality. I was a tiny human tossed and spit on, warmed and slapped by massive forces continually in motion and of which I was but an insignificant part. There are no waivers in nature. There are no courts. If I chose to be in the wrong place at the wrong moment, lighting would strike me because that’s what lightning does. Life: You voluntarily assume all risk of property loss, serious injury or death by attending.

Having to make my own decisions about living and survival is both daunting and liberating. Standing out in a hailstorm to feel the strength of the forces of which I am a part is always an exhilarating, tangible way to experience that. Ori Sofer and I trekked up into the mountains for a few days to find that experience or, to be fair, that’s what I planned to do, and I brought Ori along for the ride. I think I just told him it was beautiful up there.

There’s no question that we have an inherent human survival-based drive to be close to flowing water and greenery. Ever since I was a kid being dragged into the Colorado Rockies for the first time I felt that connection deep in my chest every time I took a breath. Later I learned about my affection for the stripped-down ecosystem at higher altitudes. There’s something about the relative simplicity of the perfectly clear lake water, snow, and tiny dwindling trees. There are only a handful of mammals including, my favorite, the Marmot. The flowers are tiny and bright and the huge stretches of exposed rock are often covered with colorful lichen. The granite up there feels just right under bare feet in a way that asphalt and pavement never have despite my love of cities. Maybe it’s the wind-smoothed surface as I playfully work over it with my toes or meet its curves with the arch of my foot. Sometimes cool from a chilly night, other times hot from the sun’s touch, always feeling right.

Ori was having some trouble with the altitude and so instead of making the steep climb to the nearby pass, we had time to play around the lakefront. I had brought along my new favorite survival knife, the Falkniven F1, and was excited about trying out my fire making skills. These is a spectrum from, “pour gas on it and use a lighter” to, “you are naked in the woods and have only a rock and a tree”. I’ve been working my way from one end to the other, and currently use a fire steel (like a modern piece of flint) and wood. I still haven’t mastered the art of tinder making and the trick was made even more challenging in that it had been raining and all of the available wood was wet.

The little knife did a great job of batoning and tearing through a few logs and once split the wet logs revealed their drier insides. I carved wood strips out of the center and made a fine powder out of the rest and mixed it with some rotting wood I’d collected the day before while hiking. It took considerable work, but as you can see by the smoke over my head, fire happened! The rain that immediately rode in on my triumph wasn’t enough to dampen my spirits, just all of the wood I’d been using.

Despite my success in getting the tinder lit, I was disappointed in how long it took me. I’ve since learned some new tricks, such as using tree sap, that should significantly improve the process and I can’t wait to try it. So much so, in fact, that I’m already considering a second run to the mountains before the summer ends.

More to come…

In my brief time with Weishi’s Da Gu, we talked quite a bit about censorship in China, something that fascinated me. I had already spent a little time watching some of what passed for television news. Each day there was a long string of stories about officials shaking hands or greeting each other on the phone in some likewise congenial matter. The content of the stories didn’t get much beyond the fact that they were on good terms. Then, suddenly, no more than a few frames flashed by of empty fields as a voice mentioned massive famine in northern China. If you blinked, you’d miss it and be right back to the safe world where well dressed men politely shook hands.

At the China Daily where Da Gu was an editor, every collection of news stories for the day would have to pass by a party official who would strike through most of them with red ink. It was just part of the process that you had to accept as a journalist in China. It certainly explained the news.

When television is about as entertaining as a sleeping beagle, it’s no wonder that so few people stayed indoors to watch it. Instead, people piled out of their houses at night and filled the streets. Neighbors laughed together and swapped stories over games of Chinese chess until late into the night. It was actually quite wonderful, and something I never experienced in all my time growing up in America. It wasn’t until years later, when I moved into a much poorer, older neighborhood, that I experienced the same sort of evening camaraderie.

There was also no sense of crime. Not that there wasn’t any crime, but no one had any idea how much there might be or where it occurred. There had been a murder in one of the many huge buildings of apartments we were visiting, somewhere around ten years earlier. The rumor, which was the only information available, was that it was about drugs. Without any legitimate news sources, rumors and the stories of travelers were the only information available about the rest of the country. Some talked, for example, about drugs problems that were growing into an epidemic in Shanghai, but no one knew anything with any certainty.

I have to wonder whether not knowing about these things gave people a sense of security that we lack in the U.S. Here, every act of violence is held up and flashed before our eyes. Stories of violent crimes are used as tactics to frighten Americans into owning guns and dogs or giving up their civil liberties. It certainly doesn’t encourage anyone to meet or talk to strangers. It certainly doesn’t create an environment where neighbors become friends and spend time together outside on the streets. With the China streets filled with people, I’m certain that this in turn makes it safer for everyone to be out.

The real solution is clearly not to tidy up our world into a baby’s playpen, but rather to educate people to the point where every scary story doesn’t create an instant fear response. Marvin Minsky talks a bit towards the end of this talk and there are many better talks by brain people about how reverting to a purely emotional fear state strips we humans of our higher level resources. Steven Levitt talks (if I’ve found the right talk here) more about the general inability of human beings to evaluate the scale of a threat, and how quickly humans will base their estimations of risk or danger on the proximity of single events.

But I’m still hopeful that education can help, and you can’t properly educate people without free access to information. So despite some of the potential downsides to what might be available, I will continue to believe that in the long term, full and open access to information will bring the population up to a level where they can better understand the viability of threats, the world around them, and each other.

I was extremely fortunate to have been in China just weeks before my girlfriend Weishi’s Da Gu (first aunt) died. For some reason the thing I remember most about her house was the old wooden box full of smooth stones near her back door. Each morning she took off her shoes and walked barefoot up and down over the stones. Whether a way of stimulating certain nerves in the soles of her feet or just serving as a meditative practice, it was supposed to help somewhat with the extreme pain of the stomach cancer that was slowly killing her.

Da Gu was an extremely tough woman. She never once let her physical ailments get in the way while spending time with us, and she insisted on making us tea and having ranting, passionate discussions with me. After growing up in China as a child, she had traveled to England to study english literature. She returned to work as a reporter and, ultimately, editor for the China Daily, China’s english language newspaper. Her use of the english language was so far superior to my own that I felt almost as ignorant saying hello as when I tried to discuss American history and politics with her.

Da Gu’s ex-husband was a literature professor, and apparently just as tough, opinionated, and stubborn as she was. They had been divorced for more than fifteen years, and to the day still took the time to argue with each other. She explained that two people so strong willed could simply never make it work. What she said next etched itself forever into my brain. “But if I was ever going to get married again, it would only be to him.” Weishi assured me that he had said the same thing to her.

Several weeks after I left China, the cancer finally won out. Someone likely scattered the smooth stones that took in so much pain, leaving them, too, to rest. I wonder how her ex-husband felt now that she was gone. To me those almost, but not quite, solvable problems that linger forever are the most tragic. Is there a point when they should have given in and cut off communication forever? Or was it the dynamic struggle that made what was left of their relationship so irresistible? Maybe, once again, the only answer is to continue to ask.

Surfer’s log: day 4.

I got one!

Trying out a new beach a little further south we discovered a nice spot where plenty of locals, families and beginners found their spots in the sun. At high tide there isn’t much of a beach left and the ocean runs right up against a line of wooden poles, fences, and cement barriers struggling to hold back the relentless waves. Many of these barriers sit powerless above caverns carved deep into the stone where the the ocean, like a child, has scooping them out like sand.

There are no lines of brightly painted food stands full of colored ice and t-shirts. There are no humans lying like corpses in neat rows as they let the sun burn off their outer layers. There are no brown women in florescent g-strings and roller blades swimming like salmon upstream through the crowds of corn dog munching patrons. In contrast with the manic consumer-centric world of the San Diego beaches, this place felt like the ancient California where surfing began.

The people were friendly and low key. This was their home and it was easy to imagine that this little town consisted entirely of people who had decided that living by the ocean was more important than pretty much anything else in life. Every morning they strolled down the street with smiles on their faces and surfboards under their arms, coming to and from a handful of beach access points. Some of them even said hello. As a particularly outrageous touch, we actually saw a garbage truck roll by trailing tiny purple flowers in its wake.

After the previous day’s beating we were newly enthusiastic about hanging around near shore and riding white water. As it turned out, this not only built up my confidence but also gave me a chance to keep improving my ability to maneuver the big board. Instead of flailing and struggling to stand I was really controlling the ride and consistently catching everything I tried. Of course the better I got, the more I craved stronger waves and longer rides, and this had me walking the board out further and further each time. As I got more determined, I didn’t notice how far out I was going until, toward the very end of the day, I found that I’d accidentally walked and slid my way out past the breaks again.

At that point I certainly wasn’t going to miss the chance to make another attempt. I sat up on the board and waited for a nice swell. As the first one came through I paddled furiously only to have it lift me up and leave me behind, arms digging helplessly into the water. I whimpered and started for the next one. This one caught me, and I felt it lift me up until the nose started dipping in a terrifyingly familiar way. I heaved myself backwards to no avail. The wave curled up over my head and sucked me into the blender yet again.

This time was different, though, and instead of resisting or letting myself panic I simply relaxed and let the water turn me until it was done. I popped to the surface feeling far less the worse for wear and certainly ready to give it another try. I was told later that this beach was less brutal than the last, but I’d also learned to relax and take a solid breath before going under. Instead of fleeing in terror I pushed back out.

This time around I timed things a little better and I managed to paddle enough to feel the force of the wave grab me. I arched my back upwards to keep balanced so that instead of nosing in, the board formed a watery shelf as I was lifted up into the air. I jumped into position and immediately felt myself fall forward as I slid down the wave face for a stomach gripping moment until I realized that this was exactly what was supposed to happen. I was cruising towards land, knees bent and arms out, the power of the wave suddenly mine to control. I was standing on top of the board and the board was on top of the world. I took the ride as long as it could last, only dropping into the water as the wave went completely flat into the sand. I ran up the beach and began leaping and screaming incoherently at Margaret, my heart pounding and my arms flailing like I was trying to call up an ancient ocean god to bear witness. I had caught my first real wave. I could hardly breathe. There was no turning back.