This Week In Not Surfing

1. We carry our ceremonies around with us. They are the roles to which we've acquiesced. I would say acquiesced over time because all the therapists think the roles we play, these poignant personal traditions, are the product of something very early, and have developed along with us, step by step. We didn't submit. We've accepted; embraced. And the moment we break free is the apotheosis of the ritual. I'll never be free of myself.

2. I read somewhere the quote, "don't poke fun at people if they mispronounce something. It means they've read it." This is a bastardization I'm sure. But at some point you could do so much better than constantly checking the thesaurus. Describe it some other way.

3. Surfing at Little Rincon on a smaller day, the toe-headed freshman paddled out hooting at my ride. Inexplicably this produces a wash of self-consciousness causing me to lose control of my pumping rhythm, failing to drop down the face at the wrong moment, slicing over his new, pearly white potato chip rocker rocket. He screamed, knowing instantly what I'd done. He laid into me loudly as I paddled back out past him, and I  knew in my shame that he couldn't pull rank. Later I'd buy him a ding repair kit by way of apology. When presenting it to him at his dorm room door he yanked out his board, showing me the deep gash. I forget whether it was in the nose or tail but remember thinking that no ding repair kit would sufficiently repair that. He was still incensed. I, still humiliated but in full knowledge of our physical disparity, mumbled that he should have gotten out of the way. I recall this episode with both fondness and embarrassment.

4. Monday night and all set to paddle out in the morning, I receive an email that will fill my tomorrow with an unexpected job. I could do the reasonable thing and ignore it, letting others pull my weight and ensuring I remain sane. But I don't. A little later, before bed, my wife tells me my "color looks off," and asks if I am feeling ok. I feel fine. Pretty good actually. But suddenly all I want to do is move back to California.

5. Looking up the "no poking fun" quote on Google I see it is a meme. One of those quotes people put over black and white pictures, or primary color back grounds, or images of baby animals. How embarrassing.

6. So two morning surfs missed in a week. Tuesday's last minute cover and then Friday my wife had to be working by seven fifteen ante meridiem. And certainly no afternoon glass for me in any deck of cards these days.

7. I direct message Neil on social media asking if he wants a big plastic box full of climbing wall hand holds Matthew found at Build It Green. His response is a question back: "Would you believe me if I told you I haven't surfed in 2 years?" Yes Neil, I believe you. Seems entirely reasonable, in fact.

8. I started working as the sole busboy in a Croatian restaurant in a strip mall in suburban Seattle at the tender age of thirteen. My previous two payed gigs (I wouldn't've known to call them gigs at the time) were a stint as a church summer camp counselor for kindergarten kids and a newspaper route I inherited from my older brother (also inheriting his bruised walkman.) My first restaurant job was also my first brush with homosexuality, two of the waiters being flamboyantly so, like two caricatures of late 80's gayness (or gayness as far as I'd seen on T.V.) One, dark and pony-tailed, tall and arch, the other squat, pale, bespectacled and boisterous. The former begrudged me my tips but tipping well in the end, the latter teasing me endlessly and skimping on my share to boot. In current parlance I could call the latter's a harassment I suppose. I'm not sure. Could or couldn't, the introduction seemed to have the effect of curing whatever bigotry I might have developed otherwise, that particular other not being widely accepted for years to come in the circles I'd travel.

9. An interesting amount of my time would be spent in church related jobs throughout high school. I'd continue as a summer camp counselor for a couple years. Later, I'd work three days a week after school as the local Presbyterian church's Filippino janitor's assistant. He taught me how to vacuum large swaths of carpet efficiently. I'd also find Sunday employment shuttling people from the old folks home to mid-morning services in our family's faux wood paneled Chrysler Voyager. The geriatrics called me Sonny. Two Wednesdays a month I'd hitch a ride or catch the bus downtown to a youth homeless shelter to make massive bowls of spaghetti and iceberg salad. All these things are part of my identity I think. Again, I could be wrong.

10. In fact for many years I've considered myself queer. Not gay. Just queer. I've imagined this to be one of my secret powers. The others still being secret, mostly because I'm not sure they are helpful powers at all.

11. I need to surf more.  This is the only identity I know for sure.