SURFIN' SAFARI SUMMER ONE WRAP - September 7, 2019

 

That’s a wrap. Twenty-one safaris, nine different beaches, and 56 tacos (fish and "al pastor"). We drove about 1,000 miles all told, spent around $500, mostly in gasoline. Of course, that does not include the money it takes to live in a place with beaches visited by people from all over the world. And that is the money we chose to spend on our travels this year. Money already spent on crazy rent, the money that keeps us living close to some of the natural treasures shared with you, so well-preserved by California’s burdensome environmental regulations.

Short videos posted of different beaches we hit garnered 1,260 views with Swami’s in Encinitas being the most popular. We had fans.

Those who know us understood that Surfin’ Safari Summer was not a commercial for our Facebook fabulous, fun-filled lives; rather the portrait of a small, troubled family insisting on its own existence, on life, running from the devil, from the phantom of Alzheimer’s haunting our home; a family choosing not to live in the moment so much as to make a moment of its own.

Indeed, some of the safaris were the only good thing that happened the day they were launched. And it was our idea to live as kids, to view my job simply as a way of keeping us surfing; to take the same difficult circumstances and spin them differently, that saved us (for a summer, anyway).

It was not even a “staycation,” as I worked throughout. Still it will stand as a highlight in the narrative that is our life together. I have learned there are limits to proactivity, but it definitely has a place in the survival toolbox.

There is no plan to repeat next year. We know not what lies ahead and take things one day at a time.

But we will surf more, because we are in the habit, having spread our wings around the region, though I’m going to take at least a week off. I’m thinner, stronger, blonder, bronzer, but also a bit beat up. I surfed over 50 hours and did not get hurt, which is pretty good. My left shoulder is a little sore, so this Surfin Safari Summer body gets a respite before heading back out, healed, refreshed in Autumn.

ABOUT SURFIN’ SAFARI SUMMER: I took up surfing at the age of 46, thanks to the good offices of my brother-in-law Clint. I had tried before and found it too exasperating. But in full maturity, after a lifetime of athletics, having written novels and fathered a child, I was confident I’d be able to muster the perseverance and focus it would take.

For 10 years, I dedicated myself to the craft. From Todos Santos, Mexico in the south to Santa Cruz, California northward, I paddled and puffed and really had very little luck. At good spots, beginners can catch waves, which can also be mounted, now and again, without fully comprehending how; a trick too difficult to repeat consistently, but giving just enough of that sensation to keep one hooked and striving.

The biggest wave I ever caught was by accident; a 10-foot rogue at Trestles I was paddling to get away from. It caught and lifted me high. I slid down, hurtling along the shoreline, realizing that knowledgeable surfing means coolly harnessing the power of such a beast without fear of damage to life or limb.

And that ain't easy.

I had not “gotten” it after 10 years of trying, when I was diagnosed with cancer in my chest. The good doctors took it out along with some ribs. To begin my recovery I was told to eat a lot and sleep and was only too happy to oblige. Strangely enough, cancer afforded me a rest I really needed, but laying around, gaining weight, muscles atrophying, a gaping hole under my breast, it was easy to believe I would never surf again. During the woozy, six-week period I would listen to Chet Baker’s “Silence” repeatedly. And I would see waves and be on those waves, inside them drawing mystic energy, and think much about surfing and water, and that addictive, elusive sensation. And I had epiphanies in these reveries that 10 years of desperate striving were now revealing, and ruefully lamented how I’d never be able to apply them.

But my childhood buddy Darren Wiseman was right. I got better, and 17 months after surgery, hit the water. That led to an “I’m back” year during which I surfed much, and with pure joy, as things began to click. The next summer, last summer, we went out 15 times. I had nailed it and was, finally, catching a ton of waves at the age of 58. Unemployed, we could not always get to the beach for lack of gasoline, which was torture. When we did, the drive home was frustrating as we passed taco stands, with flames and chili scents billowing out over lines of people awaiting treats, because we couldn't afford them.

I set modest goals for the next summer, Surfin' Safari Summer: to have the car working and enough gas to propel it beachward, and to possess some cash for tacos. In the wake (pun intended) of all this festival fun, I am not sure whether I set myself a modest goal or a monumental one.

You be the judges and thanks for coming along.