..and then there were 97
"Ninety six sounds like a good number." I said to Brett, smearing the sleep out of my eye while picking up my wetsuit from the back of the truck. the rubber was damp and cold.
"It's sixty nine backwards." I continued. "It rolls of the tongue pretty well. 'I surfed every day for ninety six days' sounds pretty good."
Brett nodded, stretching wetsuit rubber up over his torso.
My wife and I had concert tickets for a Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl. From Orange County, the Hollywood Bowl is not easy to get to, particularly on a weeknight. We would be driving in heavy traffic to Downey, catching a park and ride bus just to sit in another hour of traffic before arriving at the entry gate. By my estimates, I wasn't going be home until well into the morning hours, which made a 5:00 am alarm clock a thing of dread.
"So, if I don't make it tomorrow, we'll just settle it there." I said.
At ninety six days, I was beginning to wonder just how long the streak had to go on.
My wife asked questions like "When is surfing going to be over?"
I knew the answer to that question answer was never. The streak had changed me and my relation to this activity. Surfing every day was a possible reality that, even if the streak were broken, would continue for a long time to come. Steve, one of the locals that I used to see in the beginning of the summer had told me "It's a lifestyle. Once you start, and gain the habit, it never stops. You're either surfing every morning or thinking about how you should have gone surfing that morning."
I was anxious to see how the streak would end. Would it be this late night concert, where I simply slept in? Would I miss my alarm on a weekday, and wake up with only enough time to go straight to work? Would the sunrise, growing later every day, catch up to me in October? Would I miss the three wave quota? Would I skip the days following a rainstorm, as recommended by just about any health official or environmental group? Part of me just wanted the consecutive days streak to be over, so that I could fade into daily surfing or not surfing without counting towards anything.
"Do you have a goal, or is it just one day at a time?" A friend had asked.
"My goal was 28, to beat my brother. Now, it's just one day at a time." I had told him. yet I felt compelled to continue as if I was competing against something or chasing some larger accomplishment. There was a continuous pressure that, having gone this far, I should extend it for one more day.
As it turned out, the Hollywood Bowl amphitheatre had an 11:00 pm curfew, no doubt due to its location in the rather exclusive Hollywood Hills. The music, encores and all, stopped cold and quiet at 10:45 in the evening. A bus trip and quick drive aside, my wife and I were home and in bed by half past midnight.
When the alarm went off at five in the morning, I hit the snooze button twice before rising and driving off into the darkness.
Brett was already in the water as I crossed the beach. He didn't see me until I paddled up to him.
The water was dark gray and green. The tide was low, and the waves were small. Bunches of kelp had drifted in to the beach area and were dancing visibly near the sand floor like sporadic kelp tumbleweeds in a breezy liquid desert below out dangling feet.
"Now you've got to go for one hundred." Brett said. "Ninety seven just doesn't have a very good ring to it."
He paddled after a long lazy left.
It was a long day at work. The whole of the office couldn't have brewed enough coffee to keep me productive. I came immidiatly home at the bell, to lay in bed listening to a baseball game on the radio.
The Angles beat Texas in extra innings, a win that moved them into first place - one game ahead of Oakland.
More Later
-Travis
copyright 2004 Travis R. English
"It's sixty nine backwards." I continued. "It rolls of the tongue pretty well. 'I surfed every day for ninety six days' sounds pretty good."
Brett nodded, stretching wetsuit rubber up over his torso.
My wife and I had concert tickets for a Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl. From Orange County, the Hollywood Bowl is not easy to get to, particularly on a weeknight. We would be driving in heavy traffic to Downey, catching a park and ride bus just to sit in another hour of traffic before arriving at the entry gate. By my estimates, I wasn't going be home until well into the morning hours, which made a 5:00 am alarm clock a thing of dread.
"So, if I don't make it tomorrow, we'll just settle it there." I said.
At ninety six days, I was beginning to wonder just how long the streak had to go on.
My wife asked questions like "When is surfing going to be over?"
I knew the answer to that question answer was never. The streak had changed me and my relation to this activity. Surfing every day was a possible reality that, even if the streak were broken, would continue for a long time to come. Steve, one of the locals that I used to see in the beginning of the summer had told me "It's a lifestyle. Once you start, and gain the habit, it never stops. You're either surfing every morning or thinking about how you should have gone surfing that morning."
I was anxious to see how the streak would end. Would it be this late night concert, where I simply slept in? Would I miss my alarm on a weekday, and wake up with only enough time to go straight to work? Would the sunrise, growing later every day, catch up to me in October? Would I miss the three wave quota? Would I skip the days following a rainstorm, as recommended by just about any health official or environmental group? Part of me just wanted the consecutive days streak to be over, so that I could fade into daily surfing or not surfing without counting towards anything.
"Do you have a goal, or is it just one day at a time?" A friend had asked.
"My goal was 28, to beat my brother. Now, it's just one day at a time." I had told him. yet I felt compelled to continue as if I was competing against something or chasing some larger accomplishment. There was a continuous pressure that, having gone this far, I should extend it for one more day.
As it turned out, the Hollywood Bowl amphitheatre had an 11:00 pm curfew, no doubt due to its location in the rather exclusive Hollywood Hills. The music, encores and all, stopped cold and quiet at 10:45 in the evening. A bus trip and quick drive aside, my wife and I were home and in bed by half past midnight.
When the alarm went off at five in the morning, I hit the snooze button twice before rising and driving off into the darkness.
Brett was already in the water as I crossed the beach. He didn't see me until I paddled up to him.
The water was dark gray and green. The tide was low, and the waves were small. Bunches of kelp had drifted in to the beach area and were dancing visibly near the sand floor like sporadic kelp tumbleweeds in a breezy liquid desert below out dangling feet.
"Now you've got to go for one hundred." Brett said. "Ninety seven just doesn't have a very good ring to it."
He paddled after a long lazy left.
It was a long day at work. The whole of the office couldn't have brewed enough coffee to keep me productive. I came immidiatly home at the bell, to lay in bed listening to a baseball game on the radio.
The Angles beat Texas in extra innings, a win that moved them into first place - one game ahead of Oakland.
More Later
-Travis
copyright 2004 Travis R. English
posted by travinator @ 7:00 PM
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