Waves in Memories
My wife woke up with me at 5:00 a.m. She helped me gather up clothes for the baby, some diapers and toys. I got my truck ready for surfing in the darkness outside our back porch. I had the engine running and the heater on. It was the middle of December. There were only nine shopping days remaining before Christmas.
My poor wife, Jennifer, was beseeched by family problems on all sides. Each week of the month brought new hardships. Jenn's niece had come down with pneumonia during recovery from surgery. Jenn had spent the weekend previous caring for her. This week, a sister in Arizona suffered a domestic breakup. There were three kids involved. My wife had been charged with the drive out to the desert to attend the trouble. Just to round out the bill, both Guenevere and I were horribly sick. The soundtrack of our household was a symphony of snivels, sneezes, coughs, and chokes.
My days had been no picnic of late, either. The cold that made my head feel like a balloon full of cotton had persisted for weeks. Every time I my condition improved slightly, it returned to haunt me again. In addition, my hours at work were booked. The office traditionally closed for the week between Christmas and New Years, a break I relished. However, the backlog of tasks that needed completing before I could leave for the holidays was daunting. The idea of a sick day didn't even seem possible. Of course, my "well enough to work, well enough to surf" mentality probably wasn't helping. I'm no doctor, but daily exposure to sub-60 degree water probably isn't one of the recommended cures for a winter cold.
Jennifer had arranged for Brett's wife to look after Gwen for the day. I had to work and Jennifer would be driving. While neither of us was too excited about leaving our sick kid for a day, there wasn't much choice.
At 5:30 a.m., I quietly snuck in to Guenevere's room and gently picked her up from her crib. She grunted and cried in a single exhale. I picked her up and put her over my shoulder. Her cheek rested on my collar.
"Its ok, kiddo." I whispered. “Daddy’s got ya."
Jenn followed me to my truck, and tucked a blanket into the car seat with Gwen. She said goodbye to baby, and paused on her way back into house. "I'll call you from the road." She said.
"Good luck." I told her.
I put the truck into gear and eased out onto the lamp lit roads. Gwen looked at me with worried wide and tired eyes.
"Da du?" she asked.
"Yea, tiger." I assured her. "It's ok. We're going to Brett's house. You get to see Jessica and Jake."
She looked around uncomfortably for a few moments, then rested her head on her shoulder and closed her eyes. I turned on some light music on the radio.
Forty-five minutes later, Brett and I parked our cars in the small lots between two sets of houses at Sunset Beach. I had heard that Bolsa Chica had been taking the swell pretty well, but neither of us had a state beach pass. Our plan was to park at the north end of the beach, walk about a half-mile south and paddle out.
Surfing conditions were as good as southern California gets. The swell was 4 to 5 feet. Set waves were easily overhead. Winds were strong Santa Ana winds from the east, blowing offshore against the breaking waves. A rare morning low tide was on us at 6:00 a.m. The low tide was a relief. High tides had dogged morning surf for most of late November and early December, with the highest tides of the year, up to seven feet above median low.
As I dressed in my superhero outfit, I hardly felt the part. My head throbbed. My sinuses were congested. I craved drinking water. I had taken aspirin and a decongestant with a bottle of water during the drive to Brett's house, but none of it seemed to be working. As I left my truck and walked south, I felt weary, and suddenly wished that I had eaten more than a half bowl of macaroni for dinner the night before.
A surfer's sinuses can run the course of absurd extremes. Salt water has the immediate effect of opening the nasal passages wide, like the saline solution used in nasal spray. However, the after effects can be unpredictable, often to the point of hilarity. The day before I had been in a meeting with my boss. Halfway into our discussion, my nasal clog had suddenly opened producing a gush of fluid. I struggled to maintain composure, sniffing violently to control the flow and patting my nose with the back of my hand. As sick as I was, my boss didn't comment. But, I would have done anything for a tissue.
Brett and I stopped in front of a concession stand and waded into the cool water. I dunked my head under, felt the bite of the cold, and then exhaled through my nose. The water shocked me to alertness. I felt better. I paddled.
The paddle at Bolsa Chica is normally a bit longer than Huntington. In head high surf, it took me the time of two wave sets to make it through to the line up. Once there, I sat up. I was exhausted. I felt miserable.
I looked around.
The morning was beautiful.
The winter air was crisp and cool. The wind was strong from the shore, breathing on my back and pushing spray from the top of the waves. Waves rolled in, bulges of cold water as far as the eye could see. Even with the howl of the wind and the roar of the breaking waves, there was quiet. I saw no pelicans, no dolphins, and only a handful of surfers spread out along my right and left.
Brett took a wave, and a second, as I waited and drifted. The currents moved us to the north.
"Look at the mountains shift behind the telephone poles" Brett told me between sets. "That'll tell you how strong the current is."
I looked. The effect was eerie. Hills to the east shifted like a cartoon background in slow motion.
I decided to do some surfing. I paddled over towards a peak where I had seen waves breaking. Misjudging the distance from the shore, I found myself inside when a set came barreling through. I paddled madly at the face of a looming wave that was breaking in a swirling tube to my left. I reached the crest just as the mouth of the tube reached me. I threw my board up the face and dove through the tip of the wave, avoiding its grasp by the slimmest margin.
I caught the last wave of the set. It wasn't great. But, it was a ride.
I caught one good right one got one big stomach-lifting drop on a close out right before Brett and I found ourselves caught in a wide section of rip current. We paddled parallel to shore and towards the sand for the span of several sets before catching waves into the shore.
Brett suggested that we walk up the beach and try again. I agreed.
At a section of beach several hundred yards to the north, several distinguishable peaks had formed. One the medium sized waves, a series of lefts and rights could be had. When the big waves came, they broke in a long, peeling wave to the right. There was but one other surfer at the spot when Brett and I paddled out. We surfed there for ten or fifteen minutes, catching a few mid sized waves, before I paddled into the big right monster.
I don't know how many waves like that a memory can hold. Do surfers forget them as the years go on? Are they replaced by more current images? Do they simply fade as time goes on? Or, do the details fade, leaving residual feelings of wonder and awe? Are some waves remembered forever?
On shore, I later told Brett just how much the morning had meant. My wife was overstressed. My family was overstressed. The holiday madness was on us. My work was insanely busy. My daughter was sick. I was sick as a dog. But, the surf was perfect, and I needed it like a drug.
The wave picked me up effortlessly. I stood to my feet slowly, gracefully. I watched a clean trail opening for me in the swirling water, like pedals of a flower opening for the sun, or an invisible path opened by magic through a mythical forest. There was no forced action, no tricks, no jerking motions, and no thoughts. I simply followed. As plumes of spray flowered at the crest, I was a child chasing a butterfly - down to the bottom, up to the top, partway down and up again.
As I reached the end, I screamed out. The path ended. I closed my eyes and rested. The foam accepted my body, a cold soft liquid bed for a sore patient. Under the water, there was no light. There was no air. There was no sound. There was no direction. There was no sky. There was no ground. I drifted in a fantasy in space, enveloped in the memory of fleeting moments past.
My poor wife, Jennifer, was beseeched by family problems on all sides. Each week of the month brought new hardships. Jenn's niece had come down with pneumonia during recovery from surgery. Jenn had spent the weekend previous caring for her. This week, a sister in Arizona suffered a domestic breakup. There were three kids involved. My wife had been charged with the drive out to the desert to attend the trouble. Just to round out the bill, both Guenevere and I were horribly sick. The soundtrack of our household was a symphony of snivels, sneezes, coughs, and chokes.
My days had been no picnic of late, either. The cold that made my head feel like a balloon full of cotton had persisted for weeks. Every time I my condition improved slightly, it returned to haunt me again. In addition, my hours at work were booked. The office traditionally closed for the week between Christmas and New Years, a break I relished. However, the backlog of tasks that needed completing before I could leave for the holidays was daunting. The idea of a sick day didn't even seem possible. Of course, my "well enough to work, well enough to surf" mentality probably wasn't helping. I'm no doctor, but daily exposure to sub-60 degree water probably isn't one of the recommended cures for a winter cold.
Jennifer had arranged for Brett's wife to look after Gwen for the day. I had to work and Jennifer would be driving. While neither of us was too excited about leaving our sick kid for a day, there wasn't much choice.
At 5:30 a.m., I quietly snuck in to Guenevere's room and gently picked her up from her crib. She grunted and cried in a single exhale. I picked her up and put her over my shoulder. Her cheek rested on my collar.
"Its ok, kiddo." I whispered. “Daddy’s got ya."
Jenn followed me to my truck, and tucked a blanket into the car seat with Gwen. She said goodbye to baby, and paused on her way back into house. "I'll call you from the road." She said.
"Good luck." I told her.
I put the truck into gear and eased out onto the lamp lit roads. Gwen looked at me with worried wide and tired eyes.
"Da du?" she asked.
"Yea, tiger." I assured her. "It's ok. We're going to Brett's house. You get to see Jessica and Jake."
She looked around uncomfortably for a few moments, then rested her head on her shoulder and closed her eyes. I turned on some light music on the radio.
Forty-five minutes later, Brett and I parked our cars in the small lots between two sets of houses at Sunset Beach. I had heard that Bolsa Chica had been taking the swell pretty well, but neither of us had a state beach pass. Our plan was to park at the north end of the beach, walk about a half-mile south and paddle out.
Surfing conditions were as good as southern California gets. The swell was 4 to 5 feet. Set waves were easily overhead. Winds were strong Santa Ana winds from the east, blowing offshore against the breaking waves. A rare morning low tide was on us at 6:00 a.m. The low tide was a relief. High tides had dogged morning surf for most of late November and early December, with the highest tides of the year, up to seven feet above median low.
As I dressed in my superhero outfit, I hardly felt the part. My head throbbed. My sinuses were congested. I craved drinking water. I had taken aspirin and a decongestant with a bottle of water during the drive to Brett's house, but none of it seemed to be working. As I left my truck and walked south, I felt weary, and suddenly wished that I had eaten more than a half bowl of macaroni for dinner the night before.
A surfer's sinuses can run the course of absurd extremes. Salt water has the immediate effect of opening the nasal passages wide, like the saline solution used in nasal spray. However, the after effects can be unpredictable, often to the point of hilarity. The day before I had been in a meeting with my boss. Halfway into our discussion, my nasal clog had suddenly opened producing a gush of fluid. I struggled to maintain composure, sniffing violently to control the flow and patting my nose with the back of my hand. As sick as I was, my boss didn't comment. But, I would have done anything for a tissue.
Brett and I stopped in front of a concession stand and waded into the cool water. I dunked my head under, felt the bite of the cold, and then exhaled through my nose. The water shocked me to alertness. I felt better. I paddled.
The paddle at Bolsa Chica is normally a bit longer than Huntington. In head high surf, it took me the time of two wave sets to make it through to the line up. Once there, I sat up. I was exhausted. I felt miserable.
I looked around.
The morning was beautiful.
The winter air was crisp and cool. The wind was strong from the shore, breathing on my back and pushing spray from the top of the waves. Waves rolled in, bulges of cold water as far as the eye could see. Even with the howl of the wind and the roar of the breaking waves, there was quiet. I saw no pelicans, no dolphins, and only a handful of surfers spread out along my right and left.
Brett took a wave, and a second, as I waited and drifted. The currents moved us to the north.
"Look at the mountains shift behind the telephone poles" Brett told me between sets. "That'll tell you how strong the current is."
I looked. The effect was eerie. Hills to the east shifted like a cartoon background in slow motion.
I decided to do some surfing. I paddled over towards a peak where I had seen waves breaking. Misjudging the distance from the shore, I found myself inside when a set came barreling through. I paddled madly at the face of a looming wave that was breaking in a swirling tube to my left. I reached the crest just as the mouth of the tube reached me. I threw my board up the face and dove through the tip of the wave, avoiding its grasp by the slimmest margin.
I caught the last wave of the set. It wasn't great. But, it was a ride.
I caught one good right one got one big stomach-lifting drop on a close out right before Brett and I found ourselves caught in a wide section of rip current. We paddled parallel to shore and towards the sand for the span of several sets before catching waves into the shore.
Brett suggested that we walk up the beach and try again. I agreed.
At a section of beach several hundred yards to the north, several distinguishable peaks had formed. One the medium sized waves, a series of lefts and rights could be had. When the big waves came, they broke in a long, peeling wave to the right. There was but one other surfer at the spot when Brett and I paddled out. We surfed there for ten or fifteen minutes, catching a few mid sized waves, before I paddled into the big right monster.
I don't know how many waves like that a memory can hold. Do surfers forget them as the years go on? Are they replaced by more current images? Do they simply fade as time goes on? Or, do the details fade, leaving residual feelings of wonder and awe? Are some waves remembered forever?
On shore, I later told Brett just how much the morning had meant. My wife was overstressed. My family was overstressed. The holiday madness was on us. My work was insanely busy. My daughter was sick. I was sick as a dog. But, the surf was perfect, and I needed it like a drug.
The wave picked me up effortlessly. I stood to my feet slowly, gracefully. I watched a clean trail opening for me in the swirling water, like pedals of a flower opening for the sun, or an invisible path opened by magic through a mythical forest. There was no forced action, no tricks, no jerking motions, and no thoughts. I simply followed. As plumes of spray flowered at the crest, I was a child chasing a butterfly - down to the bottom, up to the top, partway down and up again.
As I reached the end, I screamed out. The path ended. I closed my eyes and rested. The foam accepted my body, a cold soft liquid bed for a sore patient. Under the water, there was no light. There was no air. There was no sound. There was no direction. There was no sky. There was no ground. I drifted in a fantasy in space, enveloped in the memory of fleeting moments past.
posted by travinator @ 6:12 PM
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