Several Unrelated Blurbs

“Introspective Ramble #1”

     

     That's just what the Internet needs--more people talking about themselves. Even as I plop into my fold-up camp chair to journal a blog entry, I'm hesitant. Let's face it. At the end of the day, nobody's that interesting. Even the fun, adventurous things in life have to be dressed up a bit for public consumption. So I have to remind myself that I'm really not doing this for anyone else. I'm writing because it exercises my creativity, and creativity is a universal currency. Of course, you are reading it and that's wonderful. I hope that somehow it makes your day, or hour or minute a little better; but for me it’s that same old thing that artists have to continually reconcile with—we make art because we are people who are compelled to make art. I think I can say that and still maintain that there are objective criteria with which to measure the quality of art, but that is a big, messy discussion and I don't want to go there right now. What I do know for a fact is that when I am intentional about exercising the discipline of creativity in a variety of venues, I see an increase in my creative productivity in all facets of my life. It’s an investment. I wish I could explain why this works. Diversifying my creative investments yields dividends. Somehow, woodcarving, sculpting clay, taking photos or writing prose helps me to write better songs, solve problems at work and think up new ideas. Creativity is a transferable and renewable resource. Ok. I’ve worked through it again. This has value. I can move on.

“Introspective Ramble #2”

    It's nice to be in my thirties. Well, I guess it's not so terrific when I'm watching the Olympics and that Costas guy refers to any athlete over 25 with the same patronizing tone people use to discuss nursing home residents and the mentally disabled. It's also not great to be at a point where I really have to take notions like "saving for the future" seriously. What I like best about my thirties is that I'm not nearly as cool as I used to be. That comes with a lot of advantages. Mostly, I just have a lot more fun because I don't care so much if others get a good laugh at my expense. For example, I was playing tennis this morning--something I took up last year--and at one point accidentally whacked a backhand about 50 feet straight up in the air. So high, in fact, and so straight up that I lost sight of the ball until it nearly hit me in the head a few seconds later. At that point, a covey of adolescent quail loitering outside the fence began laughing at me in their snarky little tones. Ten years ago that would have really bothered me. I would have probably smashed my tennis racket. As it is now, I merely had to pick a few feathers out of the racket-strings. 

   

“Smile and Wave”

     I'm happy to report that I have advanced past the sports of "surfboard paddling" and "surfboard sitting" to real actual, honest-to-goodness surfing. I have caught—and ridden standing up—on enough waves now to feel that I can honestly call what I’m doing “surfing.” I like that. I would rather say “I was out surfing this morning” than mumble “I got my surfboard out this morning,” cough and change the subject. Happily, the vast majority of folks I have met out in the bay have been friendly and even helpful—offering tips and encouragement. The first time I ever got up on a wave, one especially intense surfer encouraged me to get the heck out of his way by tipping me over with a rather violent shove, but that was the only negative run-in I’ve had so far. Various aggressive confrontations are common around some of the most coveted surfing hot-spots, but oddly, my incident occurred on a wave considered by locals to be the “bunny hill” of area surf destinations. A number of witnesses offered me comfort in the form of sympathetic head nods and reassuring repartee. “What just happened?!” “That was uncalled for!” “Seriously?!” “Dude.” Their gestures of support were endearing but unnecessary, as I was barely even crying.

"An Encounter"     

     Last Monday morning I suited up and hit the water before work. There is something eerie about paddling out into the ocean on a two-inch-thick foam and polyurethane board. It was quiet and although there were other surfers already at the spot I was heading to, I was alone for the time being. I stopped for a moment to rest my arms. As I glided to a stop in the gentle swells, I suddenly heard an exhalation of air immediately behind me. I turned my head to see a young seal not four feet from the end of my surfboard, head out of the water, staring at me with those big dark eyes. I stared back. A moment later, the agile creature ducked under the surface, then popped up just to my right—again, only about four feet away. It followed me for a bit when I started moving again, but then decided that we probably wouldn’t be friends after all and disappeared. Too bad. I had already picked out a name and everything.

And So It Begins...

I'm stoked.

Tomorrow morning I will carry my longboard to the beach once again. I will look so confident out there; moving in rhythm, wet-suit-clad--one with nature and my surfboard.

Then I'll enter the water.

After only one time out in the ocean last week I already feel much more confident performing an essential skill that every surfer will spend most of their hours in the water doing--sitting on the surfboard. I think I was more impressed my first time out by how easily everyone else sat on their boards than I was at how easily they caught and rode waves. They all looked as tranquil balanced on their boards as if they were lounging on the couch at home, while I choreographed an odd, half-submerged Middle-Eastern gypsy dance routine trying not to tip over.

There was an impressive mix of folks out playing in the gentle Capitola surf last Friday. Guys and girls from age 10 to 60 were all out there paddling, bobbing, splashing, falling, riding, laughing and bragging. They all had one thing in common: being better at surfing than me. Fortunately, everyone was kind and helpful--especially the two little boys who stood up on a ledge overlooking the beach and shouted advice--"There's a WAVE COMING!!" "GET READY" (pantomimed paddling) "OK!! START PADDLING!!" (more frantic paddle-gestures). They were so genuinely fervent in their coaching that I began to be more motivated by my fear of letting them down than by my desire to surf. Then there was the trio of teenaged girls who, upon finding out that it was my "first time" took me under their collective wing and offered to "give me a push when the wave got there."

I learned some new words too. Apparently, "pearling" is the term reserved for when a wave carries you on your board but you shift your weight incorrectly causing the front of the board to dip under the water and--best case scenario--this slows you down considerably and ruins your ride, or--in more drastic cases--causes a chain reaction in which the back of the surf board tries to pass the front of the surf board and encounters your head along the way. I have not experienced the latter, but I have an imagination.

There are other words that a person uses in the context of surfing. Some of the most colorful are generally employed when your arms and shoulders are so tired from paddling that you can't seem to lift them above your waist, and then you realize that you still have to peel off your wetsuit--a formidable task in the best of circumstances. Those words are often heard in angry mutters and outbursts, punctuated with odd grunting and wheezing sounds.

Well, I was going to wrap this up all neatly...but hey--it's late and I'm tired and I need to rest up for tomorrow. Thanks for reading.

I'll try to get some pics tomorrow.

Epic Sunsets

This isn't a funny post, but stay tuned for more humor in days to come.Yesterday evening was one of those special, stop-you-in-your-tracks sorts of evenings. I was on the way to the Safeway here in Felton and when I came out from behind the trees, I literally pulled the car to the side of the road and sat there mesmerized. At the same time, all over the north state people were gazing at glorious variations of the same amazing sunset. The following are photos taken by myself and three friends from our perspectives in Chico/Paradise, Marysville, Brentwood, and my own in Felton. Thank you Gail, Virginia, and Sarah!

Brentwood, CA

Felton, CA

Brentwood, CA

Marysville, CA

Chico, CA

Fair Trade

     I would gladly trade skins with my wife. She is blessed with an olive complexion...fortunately not the pitted variety. Besides being  low-maintenance, her skin also looks great with a variety of color palettes, including pimiento, almond, garlic and blue cheese.
    I, on the other hand, suffer from an affliction known as "fair skin." My genetic code and northerly point of origin left me with a outer coating reminiscent of the Twilight movie franchise--and I'm not talking about that guy with the flea collar and ice-cube-tray abs. I'm talking about the one who looks like an ice cube. I don't glitter, but my skin is supernaturally efficient at absorbing harmful rays and repelling the active ingredients in sunscreen. I've seen weird little frogs and fish with the same condition. As if that wasn't enough, my skin is also varied in its UV sensitivity. How else could my wife swear on her mother's life that she coated my exterior evenly with sunscreen and yet I still end up looking like I'm wearing pink camouflage? Maybe the military should trademark the pattern in case they ever decide to launch a ground assault in Candy-Land.
     The only redeeming part of a sunburn is the inevitable post-burn-skin-peel. An even burn can produce dead skin sheets almost large enough to re-purpose and reuse, but most people don't share my interest in environmentally responsible plastic-wrap alternatives.
     For some reason, it's more socially acceptable to be fifty pounds overweight, shirtless and tan than it is to be normal size, shirtless and pale. My condition is also fair game for complete strangers to mock publicly. "Dude--you're so white--put a shirt on!" Ummmm...thanks. I wasn't aware of my own skin color.
   
    Oh well, it doesn't matter much--cause I'm going to cover it up with my rubber suit anyway!

Rubber Suits

     

"If you ask for a 5/3 they'll look at you funny. You want either a 4/3 or a 3/2." My friend, a long-time resident of Santa Cruz County, coaches me on wetsuit-shopping. "You should really look into getting the 'Mutant' model," he concludes. I'm not sure if his advice is surfing-related, or a commentary on my body but I'm grateful for the help. I'll be heading to O'Neill's first thing Saturday morning to try on rubber suits.  This is serious stuff. The last thing I want is to look funny. 

     Having spent several educational weeks as a SCC resident already, I arrive twenty minutes early for the big parking-lot sale and am happy to secure a place near the front of a growing line of shoppers equally eager to purchase discounted wetsuits. Still, I'm nervous. Everybody else probably knows exactly what they want and where it's hanging and what size they are. I glance at the racks of rubber suits and back at the mob. It's like high school. I feel that old awkward sensation of self-consciousness. My excitement is giving way to a childish fear--I imagine two hundred other customers streaming onto the lot with the poise and efficiency of a Mossad strike force, while I pinball about stupidly, glancing off of purposeful shoulders--maybe even being trampled--and effectively missing the ONLY CHANCE I WILL EVER HAVE TO BUY A RUBBER SUIT! 

     So I stand there trying to appear casual and collected, and I formulate a game plan. I've spotted an O'Neill's employee that I met the other day at the outlet store. He's the one who told me about the sale. He might remember me.

After an uncomfortable 15 minutes that I spend quietly freaking out, the store opens and the game is on. I make a beeline for the dude I recognized. "Hey" I say, with a practiced head nod that declares "I'm cool, you're cool and it's way cool to be this cool;" "Hey," he replies with an eyebrow raise that asks, "What just happened?"  

     Crud. I've only rehearsed this as far as the "Hey." "Uhhh...I was in the outlet store the other day, and you told me about this sale and I'm trying to find a wetsuit. What was your name again?"  "Cory," he replies, eyebrow still stuck in "Huh?" mode. We both stand there awkwardly. "Yeah..." he continues finally, "I'm working register this morning. You'll  have to ask one of those guys over there." He gestures vaguely at "those guys." My plan is falling apart. Miraculously, I manage to snag one of "those guys" who, to my surprise, seem to be pin-balling a bit themselves. I form all the ridiculous rubber suit information I have into one sentence and let it fly: "I'm looking for a mutant!" I recite rapidly, "either 4/3 or 3/2 and I think I'm an LS." The last bit is humbling, but I'm desperate. I had researched size charts online beforehand and surmised that my official rubber suit size is a dubious "Large-Short." I comfort myself remembering that there were, in fact, one or two other sizes that sounded even worse and that my height is on the tallest end of the Large-Short continuum. I think numbers are more friendly for sizing. They are generic enough to soften the blow. Descriptive words feel like a measurement AND a value judgement. "Hi, I'm Trent, and I'm a large-short." "Hi, Trent." *snicker*

     For a moment I honestly wonder if anything I just said made any sense. Substitute-Cory stares at me, absorbing the force of my urgency. He probably wonders why I'm so intense. How can he be so nonchalant? Doesn't he realize how important my rubber suit is? Slowly, he drifts along a rack of suits, casually thumbing through tags. Just around the corner, a small but feverish mob has gathered around one section of the rack like little swine-lings on a sow. I can't help but assume that MY rubber suit is at the mercy of that clumsy horde even now. "Hmmm..." I say calmly. "HURRY!!" I'm screaming in my head. Finally fake-Cory saunters closer to the frenzy at the end of the row. "Oh," he says brightly "I remember--they're over HERE!" I hold my breath while he jockeys for position and snatches a rubber suit from the rack. "Nope--wrong size." He disappears into the mayhem again. My heart sinks halfway. A moment later my not-Cory emerges again, hoisting over his head a 4/3-Mutant-rubber-suit sized perfectly for a tallish-large-short-guy. I accept the squishy garment with the fervor and gratitude of a school-girl receiving her rescued kitten from a heroic fireman's arms. A few blurred moments at the cash register and it is over. I have my very own rubber suit--the cool kind that my cool surfer friend wears. I'm a complete noob, but at least I have the right suit. I can hold my head up. Not too high, but tallish-large-short-mutant-guy-high.

     

(Putting on the mutant rubber suit is an adventure in itself, so I'll probably make an entry out of that.) 

(See what I did there?) 

(Wait for it.....)

Thanks for hanging out! Leave a comment!