I took a risk and wrote this ambitious article on spec. Luckily my hard work paid off – San Diego Magazine decided to publish it. Check out the print edition if you can. The photographer did an amazing job.
It was my birthday last Wednesday. Luckily there was swell in the water, so I decided to celebrate by going surfing. With plenty of time on my hands, paddling out at Black’s Beach - San Diego’s best and least accesible spot - seemed like a no-brainer.
Yet as I drove near Torrey Pines, I couldn’t think of a more fitting place to ring in my birthday. The wave quality is no where near as good as Black’s, but it was ground zero for all of my surfing milestones - my first wave, cutback, floater and spin cycle treatment at the hands of a particularly burly wave.
Torrey Pines is steeped in nostalgia for me, but truth be told, she’s a moody temptress on most occasions. She’s picky about the tides and only takes certain swells. Even if these factors align, which takes some kind of astrological miracle or possibly a unicorn crying into the water, her sandbars have to be just so. On big swells, Torrey Pines normally produces board-breaking waves that make you question why you even bother. Yet occasionally she treats you just right, and you know why you deal with all the abuse. Wednesday was one of those days at Torrey Pines.
Thanks to heavily overcast skies reflecting on the water, the line between sea and sky blurred into shades of grey. From the shore I watched six surfers bob up and down as a series of 6-foot waves rolled in. There was only a hint of wind in the air. I dropped my board into the grey water and paddled out.
An older surfer caught a left-breaking wave 100 yards from me. His longboard carefully trimmed across the face of the wave. He just kept going and going, subtly maneuvering to stay on the face of the wave as I kept paddling. Before I knew it, he’d nearly closed the gap between us. He kicked out of the wave before it collapsed - only five yards from me. A ride that long had to be sign of good things to come.
I didn’t catch a bad wave that day. The wave peak kept shifting. But Torrey Pines being home, my instincts told me where to sit in the lineup. It’s a kind of six sense that surfers develop by being a regular at a spot, even if it is a shifty beachbreak.
Anticipating a set wave after being in the water for an hour, I lined up 10 yards further out than a few nearby surfers. A 7-foot wave approached and I barely caught it before it crashed down on me. I raced across the steepest part of the wave, gaining speed. Crouching lower, putting pressure on my back foot and torquing my body, I felt the tension ball up in my board as I bottom turned and climbed up the face of a wave. I released the pent-up energy by smashing the top of the wave with my entire board - fins slid and buckets of water flew through the air (reading this part again, this sort of sounds like a sexual metaphor - I may or may not have impregnated a few women with that turn). I descended back down the face of the wave. When I was a few feet out in front of the curl, I pivoted my weight and cut back - a youngster paddling out gave me a few “stoked” hollers. Zipping down the line, I rode the wave all the way to the beach.
Three hours and two dead arms later, I exited the water. Walking to the parking lot, I looked back at the sandstone cliffs and the grey waves, which seemed less and less distinguishable from the equally grey sky the more time I spent at the beach. When was the last time the waves were that good at Torrey Pines? Last spring? Two years ago?
Best. Birthday present. Ever.
As a long-time 49ers fan, the 49ers/Saints game was incredible, especially since I’ve barely watched the 49ers these past five seasons - not by choice, mind you.
Prior to this season, it was really hard for me to follow football. I worked at a grocery store for more than five years, which meant spending every Sunday afternoon in the produce department. Needless to say, I almost never got to watch football games from beginning to end. I would ask customers shuffling into the produce department during halftime if they knew who was winning the 49ers’ game. Some customers would even take pity on me and recount exciting plays or dramatic finishes. Tired of relying on secondhand accounts, I would go to great lengths to see the real thing. Sometimes I would strategically park my cart at the apple pyramid and act like I was adding Granny Smiths in order to catch brief glimpses of the TV hanging over the store’s Wells Fargo. But my produce manager would invariably give me a “WTF look” within ten minutes.
So it was hard keeping up with pigskin. That is until I quit Vons last spring. My Sundays free, I’ve watched every 49ers game that’s aired this season. Christ I can’t tell you how good that feels. It reminds me of life as a young man, glued to the TV every Sunday -amazed by every Young to Rice completion. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that the 49ers are back to being good this year. All I can say is that it’s great to have Sundays back.
And don’t get me started on Alex Smith. Definitely one of the greatest comeback stories of all time. My brother-in-law loves to hate on him, so I sent him the following message after Alex engineered that game-winning drive: “If you don’t profess your love for Alex Smith right now I will fy to Salt Lake and fight you.”
I was rear-ended on the freeway several months back. My bumper was dented, the passenger side of my car was scraped up and my mirror was cleanly plucked off by a girl’s Toyota Camry.
Thankfully we were both OK.
Our cars driveable, we high-tailed it off the freeway. She called 911 and we waited for the police to arrive in a nearby Vons parking lot. The impact of metal-on-metal was fresh in my mind. Still, the worst had passed. Or had it? After all, I had recently been to the dentist.
I had three cavities filled a half an hour before the accident. Infused with novacaine, all of the nerves on my tongue and around my mouth were numbed into submission. Remember that Seinfeld episode when Kramer was the guest of honor at an event mainly because he sounded “special” after a visit to the dentist? That was me, except I had a feeling the popo wouldn’t find my speech patterns as endearing. I’m not expert on the law or anything, but I’m pretty sure officers don’t take kindly to people who sound like they just finished a marathon-long pub crawl.
I figured I should practice talking to someone, especially since my tongue only seemed capable of lazily hugging the side of my mouth - drool flowing from the right corner. But the only person in proximity to me was the very girl responsible for my predicament. We’d exchanged insurance information with a few muted words several minutes prior. She was clearly upset, and striking up a conversation ran the risk of being more upsetting. Not to mention, awkward. ”Soooo… You hit me with your car, your insurance premiums will probably go through the ROOOF”
Actually, it would probably sound more like, “Sooohhhh.. Yud hid me wid yur cah…”
Before I could test the waters, red and blue light’s flashed in front of us. The fuzz.
Doubting my ability to produce a sober-sounding account of the accident, I had another horrible realization: There was an empty wine bottle underneath my seat. Emphasis on was. Jarred loose by the crash, it projectiled against my left foot (if only the dentist had the foresight to inject said foot with novacaine) upon impact. Stunned by the accident, I couldn’t remember where it ended up. I subtly leaned against my grey Honda Accord and snuck a glance inside. A glint of glass by the clutch caught my eye. I considered quickly opening my door and lodging the bottle back beneath my seat.
Too late.
“How are you doing tonight?” Are you both doing alright?”
The office walked toward us. We both nodded.
“OK, that’s good to hear. Can you each tell me what happened? I’ll start with you.”
He pointed at me and motioned south with his left hand, walking ten feet away from our cars. I followed him, leaving the upset girl next to her white Toyota Camry.
Let’s briefly recap. Man (well, boy-like man) was in a car accident. Luckily he and the girl were unscathed. Another piece of good news: The accident wasn’t his fault. He was rear-ended. Yet the man sounds drunk. Looks drunk (he can’t help the goofy smile that’s always spread across his face). And the wine bottle conveniently located underneath the man’s steering wheel? That’s what the French called le coup de grace.
The law has another term for it: shithouse drunk.
The officer stared at me expectantly. I knew what I was going to say, but saying it was a whole ‘nother matter.
“I wasch schtopped on the free-way… andd… andd… *gurling sound* … ”I feld a cah hid me frum be-hi.. be-hi…” *more gurgling*
I felt less self conscious the time I forgot to wear pants in Kindergarten I dreamt I’d forgotten to wear pants to school. This wasn’t going to work. I decided to level with him, wondering how many drunks had used the same defense.
I inhaled quickly and exhaled slowly.
“I’m sarry I can’t t schpeak. I wasch at ta dentiss ad he nubbed me.”
He stared at me. And kept staring, followed by several elongated blinks. Was he considering pulling out his breathalyzer?
Then I noticed the girl was walking toward us. Previously she’d looked upset, yet now her steps seemed composed. Oh no, if she was going to blame the accident on me, this would be the perfect time to pounce.
“Officer, he was stopped on the freeway. I was going too fast and didn’t break fast enough, so I ran into him.”
The spotlight was off me, thankfully. She proceeded to give him the rest of the details of the collision while I stood there, interjecting with a slurred word here and there. I felt awful for questioning her motives; she clearly wasn’t trying to pin anything on me.
Several minutes later, the officer told us we should call our insurance agents the next day. He hopped in his car and pulled away.
I turned to the girl.
“Thank yud fur tah-king.”
I couldn’t be sure, but she seemed to really enunciate every word of her response.
“NO PROBLEM. SORRY FOR THE TROUBLE. HAVE A GREAT NIGHT.”
Did she suspect I was…? No, couldn’t be. Or? Did she hear me talking about the dentist? Was she a Seinfeld fan?
I opened my door, put my wine bottle back into its rightful place and drove away.
This hilarious Jimmy Kimmel clip featuring parents giving their kids terrible presents on purpose reminds me of my favorite gift-giving story.
On Christmas Eve two years ago, most of my extended family had finished tearing off the wrapping paper enveloping their presents. Content with our new gifts, a few of my family members and I started growing antsy after an hour or so passed, so we decided to play a prank on my grandpa.
First, we grabbed a discarded gift bag, the contents of which had recently been liberated. Next, we pulled a dusty novel off my grandpa’s bookshelf. We placed said book in the gift bag, discreetly dropping the “present” in front of him when his attention was focused on carefully unwrapping a gift that had actually been recently purchased.
Finally his gaze locked on the gift bag near his feet. Reaching into the bag, his hands waded through the silk paper, extracting his novel about fishing seconds later.
“Geez, what a great present guys! Who’s it from?”
Yep, my grandpa was genuinely excited to receive a novel he’d clearly forgotten about. And no, I’m sure he wasn’t masking disappointment or hiding the fact that he already owned the book to spare the gift giver’s feelings. Everyone can read that man like, well, um, a book. Score one for regifting.
You would think this is the result of a string of late-night deadlines, but as far as my desk goes, this is actually pretty clean.
Ahh man, up against the same problem so many recent graduates are facing: where are the jerbs?
I’ve done pretty well with freelancing lately. But I want something more consistent, a job where I’m plugged into a larger group of individuals I can learn from and teach. Sounds corny, but I want to do be a part of something bigger than myself, contributing to a greater purpose and connecting to people in the process. Yep, even introverts like me need to feed off like-minded people’s energy.
Rereading that last paragraph again, it sounds like a want to join a cult. I can assure you that my aspirations don’t include taking part in some kind of freaky religious sect. And just to put the matter to bed, I’m decidedly against sacrificing people and/or things (unless it involves appeasing the surf gods, because lord knows San Diego isn’t getting enough waves this winter).
To be sure, much of my disconnectedness can be attributed to the current economic climate. Sometimes I think I grew up at the wrong time in history, and I don’t think I’m the only one. My age group is in danger or becoming another lost generation. With fewer opportunities available to us, we’re not sure of our place in society.
I believe economics have a greater impact on attitudes and institutions than most will acknowledge (see: Freakonomics) - so it’s no wonder many of our institutions (political or otherwise) are crumbling. Yet when I look back to other hard economic times like the 1930s, I don’t see the same kind of disjointedness and cynicism when it comes to others in society. Particularly, I’m amazed by how easily some today dismiss the downtrodden. I’m no historian, but I always got the sense that people’s attitudes back in the 1930s could be summarized thusly: “shit sucks, but we’re in this together, so let’s make the best of it and help each other out while we’re at it.”
Maybe I’m looking a recession that was worse than our current one with rose-colored glasses, but I don’t feel that way about society today. From my perspective, even compared to just 10 years ago, everything is more dog-eat-dog, bottom-line, a prevailing I-got-mine-I-don’t-care-about-yours attitude. This goes beyond writing about jobs, but being in it for the greater good of society has become a completely foreign concept to most people, and we’re worse off for it.
I don’t want to finger point about what caused this, partly because I’m not exactly sure where to finger point. It’s a sort of restlessness and confusion, a feeling made greater by approaching my mid-20s. Helplessness blues, indeed.
Maybe I’m being pessimistic. And I have to remember that I gave up a well-paying job to travel and pursue a career that I’m passionate about. Struggling is part of the game. All I can do is appreciate what I have and try harder to reach out to and connect with others - you know, abide by the classic saying “be the change you want to see in the world.”
It’s just an odd time to be alive, I guess.
With the help of Jenn (the New Yorker who inspired a previous post), I snapped some pictures of the reveling for one of the websites I freelance for. First time taking pictures at night. Learned it involves praying that photos don’t come out (a) too dark or (b) too blurry (or both).
Speaking of Jenn, I know what you’re thinking: “Didn’t you listen to any of our romantic advice? What’s romantic about taking a girl on a journalism assignment?”
Go easy dudes. Turns out we had a lot of fun. Europe or no Europe, we always have a good time wandering around cities together.
Dane Reynolds + Joy Divsion = So sick!
Me: I had a dream we did acid last night. And then I had another dream that I told you about it. So now I’m telling you.
Gary: That’s funny. This girl I was with last night wants to do it this holiday season. It’s a great time.
Me: It was the most vivid dream. Lots of swirling images. Feel like I’ve done acid without ever touching the stuff.
Gary: Maybe you were a hippie in your past life. In that case, die.
