My Time as a Human

As yet another massive storm pounds our coast, New Orleans refugees have piled into our house and kept me turned on to the progression of the water’s attack. One of them is, in fact, an urban planner who has all kinds of great levy stories and the kind of engineering tales that I live for. Apparently all of the drawbridges along one stretch were lowered to prevent their being torn out by the storm winds. As a result, the rising water is getting caught up on the bridges and causing even more problems. It might even be worth letting the wind have a crack at them except that now… wait for it… the drawbridge controls are under water.

I have to admit that when there are two groups of people watching something like that happen, and one is weeping about the property destruction, I’m with the other that is throwing a hand into the air, laughing, and saying, “of course! Why didn’t we think of that!” Oh science.

The other problem I’m having is that every time I see the ocean waters, I can’t stop thinking about surfing or diving into it.

Just a week ago in North Carolina I was doing my best to catch rides on an ocean that was so sleepy I could have napped there all afternoon. Then tropical storm Fay swung by Florida and stirred things up. We got rip tides and some pretty fierce wind that at times turned the beach into a sandblaster and, best of all, brought waves! Of course, they were choppy, mean, random waves. Just getting out past the break was an effort that left me exhausted, my poor arms unable to move. The trick was that once I got out there it wasn’t the calm pool for floating and relaxing I’d had in California. Just to stay in one place I had to keep paddling with my feet and struggling to stay balanced on the board. The whole thing was exhausting, before I ever even tried for a wave.

The swells were coming in a constant stream of short chaotic spikes and as soon as I’d try for a huge, rising swell it would reach me and drop off like it had given up. There wasn’t any sweet spot and if there was one, the current was sweeping me so fast down the beach that I would never have been able to hold it. Then suddenly, after all of the struggle, I caught a ride. It was short and quickly threw me over, but for a moment I was back on top of the world, tearing towards the beach. I was already shouting as I burst up through the surface and, with a rush of fresh energy, I was ready to do it all over again. On one day over the span of a few hours I probably got, at most, three rides and yet somehow it was enough to keep me coming back for more.

Back home in Austin I’ve been told that the surfing in the gulf is pretty much the same, with the addition of stinging jellyfish and waste oil. But even here it inspires the same level of nuttiness, including a guy who wants to have his Texas and surf it too. He’s been working on raising funding for a massive surf park with wave generators. Am I going to become one of these guys? Or just another chump with a trailer by the beach on the west coast? Only the song royalties for Mr. Rat can tell.

Embryonic Learning

During the North Carolina trip, when the storm fueled ocean was at its most extreme, I decided to go out for a swim. Struggling to walk out into the writhing ocean I had an interesting realization, as one often does when returning to the embryonic fluid from whence his species came. I loved letting the ocean throw me around. I was tossed into the air, pulled under the waves, and yanked along by fierce low currents. I tried to stay reasonably close to shore, though, and there would always come a moment when I would touch bottom or suddenly realize that it was no where close. If I had to, I’d fight my way a little closer so that I could feel my foot hitting the sand.

In learning about Harry Harlow’s surrogate mother experiment the image that, for some reason, stuck with me was that of the little monkey who’d established a connection to the soft cone mother figure. Having done so he was then excited about exploring his surroundings, and wandered freely. Every now and then, though, he would return to cuddle the cone for a moment. He would routinely spend a few minutes there before heading back out to explore.

Both of these work as great metaphors for the way I live life. I love exploring the world and sometimes letting it throw me around like storm waves. But between bouts of this exploring I need to return to touch the soft sand of Austin with my toes or reconnect with my family and friends. At one time I found this dichotomy odd. I thought it didn’t make any sense that I craved novelty and radical experience so much and yet have lived in the same city for years. Now it’s all clear. I’m just a monkey after all.

[ed. dude, what about the toe story?]

The Toe

Oh, the toe? I did promise the story. During one of my wild leaps up onto my board to catch a rare, rideable wave my right second piggie whacked into the surfboard. While I was grinning, riding and thrashing along, the back of my mind registered a quick note to self: pain. It wasn’t until I crawled exhausted onto the beach much later that I stopped to check it out and noticed that it had turned black. The thing about broken toes is, well, there isn’t much you can do about it but wait it out. It certainly isn’t worth not surfing and I was already wearing sandals everywhere I went. I re-injured it trying to put a shoe on the other day, but at least it’s a familiar toe color again.

Writing has been slow in coming the last few weeks due to travel and my inability to see. After the Last American Road Trip surf experience I recalled my promise of the last eight years to keep researching lasik until I was comfortable with the technique. Sitting out beyond the break was the turning point. I could just make out the swells as they formed and it was hard to not only read the incoming waves, but to truly embrace the ocean that was so much an essential part of the beauty of the experience. I came back on a mission.

I’ve always had a list of reasons for the procedure, the primary being the ability to survive in remote regions of foreign countries where I don’t speak the language and might suddenly be blind. Teddy Roosevelt rode into battle with the rough riders and twelve pairs of extra glasses for essentially the same reason. This also lead to my choosing a form of lasik called epilasik that involves regrowing a new cornea. This should help some with long term integrity, essential to someone as prone to nutty environments and weird stunts. (As it turns out, I already regrew a part of my cornea years ago when a flying wood chip got under my glasses.) The downside to epilasik is that the healing time is longer and so I’m only now able to start computing again using high contrast super zoom.

In an effort to get out of the house after a long weekend of recovery, I threw on some dark shades and headed out to slam poetry night last night. The theory went that while I couldn’t see, I could still hear. As my life would have it, it was decathlon night and so despite not having a poem to read I was easily goaded into joining the melee. There were plenty of events like competitive eating, sock puppets and a dance off that I could get in on. The next thing I knew I was miming poetry for a group piece, leaping off of monitors, thrashing and crawling along the floor with an air guitar, and gyrating wildly though an improvised, synchronized dance routine. None of this fit into my recovery plan and I recall all of it through the dark, soft haze of my vision at the time.

Despite being driven to such madness the weekend wasn’t so terrible. It was filled with visits and long talks with good friends. I practiced guitar more thoroughly than I have in a long time. I listened to a lot of This American Life and ate a lot of tubular food: vegan wraps brought from Wheatsville by my generous housemates. Most importantly, I experienced something breathtaking: I looked at myself for the first time in my life without manmade lenses. There was nothing artificial between me and myself. It was incredible. I just stood in my own gaze for a long time. I have the most beautiful blue eyes.

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.

Surfer’s log: day 3.

Today we learned one of the most important lessons in surfing, taught so effectively that it will forever be seared into the soft tissues of our little brains. The ocean is a strict master, with little sympathy, and today’s lesson was about humility.

After yesterday’s success and our constant hungering for bigger and bigger whitewater, Margaret boldly began proclaiming this the day we would push through. “We can do it. I really think we’re ready,” she said with confidence and a serious nod not unlike that of Evel Knievel before jumping a canyon. I myself was getting pretty good at standing and turning and thought that maybe she was right. I mean, it’s just a lot of water, right?

The waves we had been riding were in water about waist to chest deep. Just to get out to ride these, we had to duck under or try to leap over waves that came in well over our heads. The force of these impacts were already enough to rip the boards out of our hands or knock us over. In order to ride “real” waves, the swells before they break, we would have to paddle out to where these waves were really getting serious and the water beneath would be well over our heads. We needed some new tricks.

We sat on the beach watching other surfers paddle out. We noticed that they were either riding over the top with their heads lifted high or somehow managing to duck under the waves. We practiced first in the shallower water. I tried ducking my head down to the top of the board and as the wave hit it felt like I was punching my skull through a sheet of drywall. Riding over the top went a bit smoother until my timing was off and the curl grabbed the top of the board and rolled me backwards.

In the end we just decided to power through. I walked and hopped as far out as I could and then started paddling and punching my way through the waves one after the other. Each one threw me back or rolled me over and each time I spit water, climbed back on and made a little more progress. My arms started to burn as I paddled for dear life, trying to get as far forward as I could before getting pushed back again until suddenly, everything was quiet. I was still pushing water as hard and fast as I could but the tremendous crashing noise was behind me. My arms slowed and I looked up to see only smooth, flat horizon. From beside me I heard Margaret shout, “we made it! We’re here!”

I pushed myself up and sat on my board. The ocean before us was rippled and beautiful. Swells built towards us like little hills on the water. They lifted us gently up and just as gently rolled under us and set us back down. Behind us they grew to became huge angry jaws who’s white teeth slammed down onto the beach as they relentlessly tore at it one after the other. Here all was peace and love. We sat and looked out over the tranquility, resting and feeling the chest swelling elation of having triumphed.

But there was one thing left to do. I turned my board towards the beach. As a larger swell came towards me, I paddled as hard as I could and felt myself lifted into the air… and set back down. I’d missed it. In the process I’d moved a little further in so I was better positioned for the next swell. Again I paddled as hard as I could and felt myself being lifted into the air. This time I could feel the massive force of the wave starting to take hold and suddenly the front of my board was protruding before me, unsupported, terrifyingly balanced several feet above the water and still rising. I struggled to get control and felt the nose diving forward down the treacherous slope. I threw my weight back as hard as I could but it was too late. The nosed plunged in and I felt my body thrown over my head as I was sucked into an angry washing machine on high. The force was incredible. I had no control of my arms or legs and I was whipped around and around, my chest screaming for air. My lungs were on fire and I couldn’t hold my breath any longer but the water wasn’t done with me yet. Above the roaring in my head I could just make out my brain thinking, “woah dude, maybe this is it.”

I felt a little bit of control returning to my limbs but without air I felt like I was beginning to pass out. I could push a little, but I had no idea which way was up, which way to the air… to air… air… My lips just pierced the surface and I sucked in all the oxygen I could before the next wave hit. I bobbed to the top and struggled to reel in my board, now bouncing at the other end of the elastic leash. I climbed on and, still coughing, started paddling back out. It was a combination of a desperate desire for the peace beyond the waves and for another chance to prove I wasn’t going to be beaten so easily.

Then I saw it. A huge wave, already cresting and towering well over my head. The thought of being hit by it was too much. I had to ride it in to safety. While I saw this as my second chance to prove myself, Margaret, who watched this one happen, perceived it more as a desperate attempt to flee the wave. I turned and used what strength I had left to force my aching arms to paddle again, pushing and pushing with everything I had. The wave lifted me, grabbed me in its fist, and slammed me back into the washing machine. I turned blue and spun and spun again. Again I felt certain I was going to die.

When I cleared the surface I weakly fought my way back to the beach and crawled up onto the shore. Margaret was already there waiting. We sat huddled beside each other, defeated, and looked out at the ocean for a long, long time.