Three Surfin' Safari Summers

LUNATICO. Lunatic. Maddened by “La Luna.” The Moon. In my novel “Vedette” the Spanish Civil War is cast in terms of a celestial binary pitting the forces of the Sun (fascism) against those of the Moon (anarchism). The climax unspools beneath a lunar eclipse of the sun that closes the heroine’s spiritual circle and vindicates her world view. It’s not very modern to use the moon in literature. As early as the turn of the 19th century, the Futurist Marinetti said art must-needs, “Murder the Moonshine” and be done with the tired romantic lament. But we all have our influences and mine are in large part Spanish; and Spain birthed Federico Garcia Lorca who specialized in making the old, new. And Spain literally murdered him for his modernity. If you go to Lorca’s school, you’ve room for the moon in your toolbox. I will take the Stones over the Beatles, “Moonlight Mile” over “Here Comes the Sun.” I consider surfing an interaction with the moon as she toys with the rhythms and rises of the wat

This year’s edition of Surfin’ Safari Summer (SSS) includes a signature safari hat, a new board, a new leash, and some cool, new sunglasses someone left on the wall outside of our apartment building. We stopped by Rider Shack in Mar Vista to change the fins out on my Blackbird board to a bigger blue board; both given to me by my old, young friend Ian McColl. I learn something whenever I go to Rider Shack. This time I learned the leash needs to be about two feet longer than the board, and that my new stick is seven-feet, six inches long, and that you shouldn’t coil the leash around your board when you put it on the car rack. Just take it off, otherwise the leash will wrap around your leg when you’re on the water. Living it all over again, I could have a place like Rider Shack and be happy enough. I still want to be relevant, important. It’s my definitions of those things that have changed over time. On Thursday night I surfed Malibu with my brother-in-law Clinton and, at one point, we s

Safari to Marina del Rey. Alone. Drinking. Drifting. Musing. Surfing. Sunning Saturday.

The Clippers were in the playoffs on TV early Saturday evening, so we made a sunset safari out to home court at Marina del Rey. Once upon a time I was a Clipper fan, but my self-regard was too firm. No matter what star they sign, what coach, no matter what arena they play in, they will let their fans down. In the playoffs they are a disaster. Teams lose in the playoffs and win the hearts of their fans with noble play along the way. A Clipper playoff loss leaves one feeling cheap, used, and violated. When the choice is between surfing and L.A.’s “other” basketball team, the former wins. On Saturday mornings Anna’s family pays for a caregiver to come in and spell me for five hours. I spend it surfing. The outfit is called “Home Instead,” which must refer to the place their workers would rather be, because they are forever standing me up, as they did this week. Both physically, and as to surfing, I am feeling quite strong and confident and want to enjoy these developments, so I took Anna

  Anna was watching the east coast 6:00 p.m., broadcast of The Rachel Maddow Show (TRMS) as I headed out for a sunset surf at home court Marina del Rey. A heat wave has been forecast and a couple of safaris were envisioned as a countermeasure and because it’s gosh-darn Surfin’ Safari Summer-time. But Anna did not want to go to the beach. Perhaps being rounded up like a ewe every time she wanders a few meters from the blanket is not so appealing to her. Her illness has left her son a steaming heap of rubble without a compass, without joy, but he has been around it for one-third his life now - the woman wearing two different shoes yammering at a mirror across from his room - and assured me he had a handle on things. I made them the Bulgolgi pork tenderloin from "Hello Fresh" and split the scene. Sunset was 8:07. Los Angeles is very much “open,” but it is far from “back.” This is a city people come to from other places and the pandemic emptied things out. Mature people with craz

The ocean does sadness very well. Limpid tiny waves swishing the shore are melancholic; whirlpool turbulences conjure those things that upend our lives… On Saturday I did a Surfin’ Safari to Marina del Rey for sadness. About six days ago, around the time of Surfin’ Safari Summer Three, Day 3, Anna refused to take her meds. Lips taught she said, “No. I don’t want to.” And she did not want to bathe, either, or drink water or change her clothes. This went on for five days, Wesley and I hoping it a phase, while she only got worse. Her pants were wet and she would not remove them. She began to smell like a barn. Finally, she became mean, something she was not capable of in what was her life. She had no malice in her, the reason I agreed to marry. On Friday night, her condition had deteriorated considerably and she was taking modest swings at Wesley and I, spitting curses, casting a venomous eye, slashing our hearts to shreds. It was the moment I knew The Good Gift, The White Witch she had a

It has been 14 hellacious days since Surfin’ Safari Summer Three, Day Five and Thursday finally brought a chance to slip-slide away for a few hours. Anna’s sister Shirley is now parachuting in on a weekly basis to spend the day, which portends a possible two-safaris-over-three-days affair, if the Saturday caregiver can cover with some more consistency. And that would be great. Anna is home now after much sturm and drang. She’d had a breakdown and was hospitalized. The medical team told us there were no infections in the body and that we could expect her erratic behavior to continue. That wasn’t doable and I let this be known, so that machinations to place Anna in a facility were set in motion. Visions of a life unhindered by perpetual care needs and doctor visits and the endless surprises of living in a world where reason has no place, warred with a powerful nostalgia for the too few years we’d shared. I visited on two different days and she was out cold, heavily sedated and restrained

    We are in a new phase of family support that opens up surfing possibilities on Thursdays. My sister-in-law is supposed to show up in the morning and spell me for the day, but instead materialized around 4:30 p.m. Help is help. When I assumed all domestic duties upon Anna’s diagnosis I soon learned that, if you really want a clean floor, you’re going to get down on your hands and knees to achieve it. When it comes to Alzheimer’s caregiving, and spouses, no matter who is stepping in to assist, somehow, in the end, and always, the spouse is it. We can’t get paid people in here for a few hours to do this and, believe me, it’s no mystery.  After eight hours of following an agitated patient around the house, I was gassed. Nevertheless, Shirley has a big personality and a lot of stuff and the place gets crowded so I limped out to the Marina at 5 p.m. Serenity Now! Anna is no longer on the Safaris, at least not physically. But she is so attached to surfing for me that I cannot engage it wi

On Saturday, Home Instead, the caregiving staffers, sent their latest victim to wrassle with Anna for five hours while the Anna-Yellerer went surfing. The Lady of the House continues to require sedation once or twice a day when the demon that haunts returns with a vengeance. Leaving her with a stranger at this point is an open question, so I asked the caregiver if she wanted to join us for a Surfin' Summer Safari. The caregiver, Maria Segura, (Safe Mary!) looked at me as if there were two heads on my shoulders. And there are: Surfing Safari Summer head and Alzheimer’s Caregiver head, and should not the twain meet? Surfin’ Safari Summer (One-through-Three), let us not forget, is a journalistic enterprise. In Summer One, when Anna’s range was wider and her mind more present, we talked about destinations and what kind of post would result. Ergo, a post with a caregiver from Tijuana coming along for the Safari really tickled my editorial funny bone whilst getting Anna back on Safari wo

ORGANIZING A PAST. Bathing and helping my wife in the bathroom is nothing that ever comes easy, but it’s a breeze in comparison to the task of organizing her dresser. This is what they call a “Fiddle Box” in Alzheimer’s parlance. Even a full-time caregiver is limited to what can be done with a person who has lost the ability to focus. The Fiddle Box is a place a patient can be left alone to spend hours screwing things up without doing much harm. For Anna, this is an altar at which she stands endlessly moving bits of her life around willy-nilly; expensive jewels, gloves of Spanish leather, scarves from India. My wallet is missing of a sudden, so this is one of those times when order must be restored and to do so is to pass through our life together. There are a thousand garments in different storage places around the apartment. I am trying to liquidate but can’t bring myself to throw away anything she designed. Anna was a prolific fashion designer. She not only had her signature Anna Hu

When life gives you lemons squeeze them into your hair so that, even if there are no waves and you are eaten by a shark, you will have gotten some natural, sun-kissed highlights from the foray. Slipped away Thursday afternoon when sis-in-law stepped into the caregiving slot. My mom says happiness is (are?) the moments we steal from life. Yesterday was a bank heist. In spite of some rough weeks, that is Safari number nine. Surfin' Summer Three is for real.

  Surfing and Health. Safe Mary (Maria Segura) the caregiver showed for a second consecutive week on Saturday. She is worth more than gold. Up to now, I have always thought Anna could not have a better situation than to be cared for by the one who loves her etc., but Safe Mary is so much more skilled and Anna so much more comfortable with her. Anyway, it was a chance to launch the tenth Safari of the summer out to Marina del Rey. Summer three was envisioned as a chance to explore and write about surf locations not yet shared, but ‘twas not to be. These Safaris appear to have two protagonists - Stephen and Anna - but the big player is really Alzheimer’s disease. The mapping of our travels has become more circumscribed by the disease itself. As Alzheimer's advances, our area of travel shrinks. Looking at posts from two summers ago, it is unnerving to see how much of Anna was still present and what we could do together as a couple. We went to taco stands and travelled far south as Swa