Missing

I didn't pay much attention to the first flyer I saw- I was running late for work, and hurried right past the photo-copied sheet growing damp in the morning mist.  There's no shortage of this sort of fluttering plea in our bustling downtown- pitiful little scraps asking if anyone's seen a lost pet, rebellious mini-posters screaming about an upcoming indie show, the occasional obscure image expressing some post-post-postmodern street artist's ironic sense of humor.  Usually I'll take a moment to read the pet ones, and keep an eye out for at least a day or two, but like I said- this morning I was in a hurry.

By the time I headed out for my lunch-time walk, I'd forgotten about the flyer.  The mist had strengthened to rain over the course of the morning, but had since dissipated to the point where I felt comfortable leaving my rain jacket in the office in spite of the threatening clouds.  I walked briskly, however, and almost missed the flyer a second time, thoroughly soaked now and clinging to the telephone pole like a scared child.

But something about it caught my eye, and I slowed myself enough to peel up a corner and see if it was an animal, after all.

It was not an animal.

I stared at the picture, my face burning with a curious combination of rage and shame, my stomach a block of icy dread.  Because it wasn't an animal at all, it was a girl.  A girl I knew.  A girl around twenty-five, with waist-length red hair done in four french braids.  A girl wearing a shiny black wetsuit and laughing as she clutched a surfboard that towered above her head by a good three feet.  A girl standing in front of a wild sea of grey and green and white.

A girl that was me, ten years ago.

MISSING

The word was large and messily scrawled in sharpie above the image.  It continued beneath:

goofy-girl.  swimmer-with-seals.  wave-worshipper.  fellow-frolicker.
if seen, please tell her i miss her.  please ask her to come home.
i want to go home, too.
-Ruli

There was no contact information, but I didn't need it.  Because I was probably the only person in the whole world who knew who Ruli was.

What Ruli was.

Except apparently someone else must know, too, because there was no way an 8'5" mini-longboard could have gone around town posting missing posters for her- for it's- owner.

Could there?

***

You wake up one morning to find your face plastered all over town on a "Missing" poster.  Who posted the signs?  Where were you last seen?  What were you wearing?

Following the Crescent

Crescent Bay

We thought we might go surfing here, but as it turned out we had to travel farther afield.

My Dog Hates Camping

When I got home last Friday, I discovered that Isis had decided to emulate her mom:

A previously pristine leg.

Yep, that's right- she got ink.  Did it herself, too.  By which I mean she chewed up my good pen that one of her cat-siblings must have helpfully knocked onto the floor for her.  ::sigh::  And while it may not be quite so permanent as my forelimb-adornments, it is proving to be more resistant to being washed off than one might have imagined (until one remembered that I buy water-resistant ink pens.  ::sigh:: again).

Thus it was with new spots that Isis hopped into the back of the car and allowed us to drive her three hours to Ocean City State Park, where we were meeting up with Lara and Chris (and Moose) to do what we'd dubbed a "Scaled Surfing Trip".  Scaled because I'd not surfed in almost exactly a year, and Lara... well, Lara was only eight weeks out from surgery, so there you go.

We got there and set up in the dark (someday perhaps we'll pitch that tent when it's light out, I swear), ate some stupid-delicious burgers, and shortly thereafter went to bed.  Isis curled up between the two of us on top of our double sleeping-bag, which had the effect of pinning us to the sides.  Super comfortable for her, not so much for us.

Now, the last time we took Isis camping (her first time), she was so miserable about having to lay on the ground that, in order to keep from going to bed at 7:30 (as she would have preferred), we ended up doing this:

70 lb Lap Pig.

...for two hours. Because she wanted to sleep.  As such, I thought I'd be super clever this time around and bring her dog bed so that she could be more comfortable.  When we got up the next morning I brought it out of the car, and it seemed to be just the thing:

Watch Pig is Watchful.

That settled, we made a leisurely breakfast of bacon and omelets:

Lara has some culinary skills, y'all.

Leisurely!

 After a bit more puttering about the campsite, we all headed down to the beach for our surfing adventures.  There are no photos of that, unfortunately, because Lara and I were too busy surfing, and Nathan and Chris were too busy wrangling dogs (and lifting logs, apparently).

Functional Fitness?

Oh wait they DID get a photo of us!  With dogs, not surfboards, but still...

But it was glorious to be in the (white)water again, and this time I swear on all that's holy it won't be a full year before the next excursion!

The guys kept charge of the campsite while Lara and I went to shower off, but when I got back they informed me that Isis, for reasons known only unto her and the gods of derp, had decided to pee on her bed.

I was not amused.

But she was so pathetic standing there, not wanting to lay on the hard ground, that I flipped the bed over and gave it back to her.  She did that little circling-three-times thing that dogs do before they lay down- and promptly peed on the bed again.

I was even less amused.

So then she was forced to lay on some pine needles.

Nathan comforts Isis in her misery.

 And then this happened:

Because basically I am a freaking pushover.

That night, Nathan and I decided to split our double sleeping bag into individuals, so that when Isis lay in between us we'd still have the ability to, you know, move.  Isis and I went to bed first (something she'd been desiring for at least an hour), but do you think that dog would settle down and sleep?  No she would not.  Not until I opened my sleeping bag and she climbed in with me.

She slept like a log, too, the little beast.

My dog is the most spoiled.

The next morning we woke to thunder- and then rain.  But hey, that's camping in the PNW!

Please notice that Moose is happily rolling in the mud behind Lara.

Isis, of course, just took it as one more miserable piece to her miserable existence.

FML

Eventually I just let her sit in the car while we packed up.

Princess Pig in the Royal Chariot

So everyone (except for Isis) had a lot of fun, and we can't wait to do it again.  In the meantime, I've started researching doggie jackets...

This is a dog with STUNNINGLY built character.

West End Girl

Start: Annascaul

End: Annascaul

This morning’s first order of business?  Laundry.  Long overdue laundry.  Nathan was relegated to the bed by the lack-of-clothing, while I ran around sporting my finest towel-and-coat combo, so that all the things could get clean.  Once they were (such luxury!) we headed down the way to the somewhat famous South Pole Inn for some fortifying lunch.  It was not quite open, so we meandered down the street towards a pottery studio I’d spotted on the way in, and found to our delight that it was Exactly Our Aesthetic, which means we are now the proud owners of two beautiful hand-thrown mugs for drinking tea from, and one lovely and tiny plate with three fish painted on it (I just… needed it).  After lunch we drove around until we found Annascaul Lake, and spent a while there getting in some photography before my 3pm surfing lesson (it’s been over a year since I last surfed- I am not too proud for a refresher course).

Nathan keeps insisting this looks like "Lynch"

Nathan dropped me off at the Kingdom Waves truck on Inch Beach, then dashed off to climb a mountain that had been beckoning/thwarting him since our arrival.  I made fast friends with my instructor, Tom, who ran me through the basics quick-as-can-be before getting me out in the water.

I’d been worried about my ability to pop up, in light of my still-not-100% ankle, but as it turned out the popping up was fine- what was less fine was something I’d not even considered: coming down off the board.  Falling off into deep water is fine, but stepping off onto the sand in shallow water can be quite jarring- which meant that after the initial experience I made some seriously awkward moves trying to avoid jarring my right ankle.  I’m sure Tom thought I was insane as I fish-flopped this way and that...

It was good to have a private lesson- I got some pointers on a better position for my hands, and that I need to be further back on the board than I think I do, as well as a tip on how to turn my board by repositioning my feet (I’ve always relied on shifting weight).  I’m always a little shy when I surf with other people, since most of what I’ve learned I’ve learned by doing it over and over again until I get it right(ish)- and I’m always a little afraid I’m doing it wrong.  I don’t have that fear when I’m alone- I figure as long as I’m having fun I’m doing it just fine.  But once other people are watching me, I have this vague fear I look like a complete kook.

Now, I am fully aware of the fact that I was paying Tom to be in the water with me, and it is entirely probable that he was blowing salty sunshine up my ass, but he said I had a lot of raw potential in my form and movement, and that if I’d get in the water more often I’d improve really quickly (“You have to get back in, Jenny O!” he exclaimed when I told him I used to surf once a week, but that it just… hasn’t happened lately.)  Anyway it made me feel good that I’m not completely hopeless, and I’m choosing to believe him.

All of that aside, it was just soothing to my soul to get back in the water again.  I’m never happier than when I am in the ocean, and there had been a certain quiet misery at having not-surfed for so long.  As I once tried to explain it to Nathan: it’s like my church.  It’s where I find peace with the Powers that Be.  We’ve discussed the fact that next year we need to get me out to the coast more often.  We just have to make it happen.

Anyway, about an hour into being in the water, I felt something in my ankle shift, and not in a good way (felt like tendon slipping over bone and back again).  Although I still had another hour due me, I made the Adult Decision to get out before I janked it up even further.  I explained this to Tom, who was very gracious about the whole thing, and appropriately impressed with the story of How it Happened.  I showed him the difference in my ankles when we got back on land and he let out a mild Irish epithet and agreed that it was smart for me not to push it at this stage of recovery (it’s been a month, and although it’s gotten a lot better, I’m still probably a month or two away from 100%).

Nathan, of course, was not due to come pick me up for another hour, so after struggling out of my rented wetsuit (and impressing the guys with my mad towel-skillz) I stumped back up to Sammy’s, elevated the ankle, and drew for a while.  By the time Nathan showed up (smug because he’d finally found his way to the top of the mountain), I was more than ready for some Bailey’s-fortified hot chocolate.  Nathan had the same, and we went completely nuts and had dessert while we were at it, thereby making it the kind of dinner our young nieces and nephews might fantasize about.

Man, I love being a grownup.

Oh Glorious Day!

Today has gone just about as well as a day can go.

This morning Nathan and I loaded up the car, strapped Ruli to the rack, and nipped down to Portland to pick up  my Katie.  From there we traveled three hours to Otter Rock, where they released me into the wild to surf whilst they went about their esoteric photographer business.

This is only the third or fourth time I've gotten out since being back, and I have to admit that the previous times have left me feeling a little discouraged.  It's been cold (really cold), it's been rainy (which I don't mind for surfing, per se, but it sure makes me feel guilty about anyone who's come along with me), and I was out of surfing shape, which means I couldn't go for more than about half an hour to an hour at a time.  But today-  well for starters it was an insanely gorgeous day: sunny with a nice wind (maybe not so nice for surfing purposes, but nice for non-surfing pursuits) and the water just normally cold instead of dangerously cold.  I was afraid such lovely weather might make for a crowded beach, but as it turned out it wasn't that bad- and what was really awesome was that it was the largest gathering of female surfers I've ever seen on an Oregon beach.  And all surfing at about my level, so it really felt like a community- lots of smiles and laughing and encouragement.  Very comfortable, very empowering, very good.

And then, of course, the coup de grace to my previous discouragement: I'm back in shape.  The daily cycling commute has got my cardio back up to where it needs to be, and my back finally seems to be recovering from whatever it was I to it back in March (it involved dancing and alcohol and back-bending too exuberantly) which means my pop-ups are far less painful.  That combined with the small, pleasant waves meant that I was actually catching and riding more than I was missing- and I had one especially beautiful, long ride that felt like pure triumph.  My soul was singing all day long, happy to be home again in the ocean.

Happy happy- but see how my hair was already drying from the sun?  I'd been out not even an hour at that point.

 
Once the other two lured me back on shore we headed out to in search of fish and chips, which, as you may recall, is something of a favorite of mine.  I've not had particularly good luck finding any of decent quality on this side of the Atlantic, but I am happy to announce that the fare to be had at The Chowder Bowl in Newport, while not perhaps on par with the docks of Portsmouth, was definitely the best I've had stateside.

Woo, mission accomplished!

So that was particularly pleasing, as well.  Not to mention the scrumptiousness of Katie's clam chowder, followed up by bread pudding with a generous dollop of brandy.  (Hmm, I am beginning to detect a Certain Correlation between my Best Days and Delicious Food.  Mere coincidence? Or something more sinister...)

On the drive home we got to talking about how nice it will be to have the house, and access to a driveway and a hose.  I'll be able to rinse off Ruli, and clean up all my gear without Ridiculous Shower Acrobatics, and give the Blueberry a bath without worrying about what might happen to our various racks.  The sewer scope came back good, so we're still on track to close by the 15th.  It was pointed out to me that I've not yet posted any pictures of the house on this blog, so that will be an entry in the near future.  But now?  Now it's time for bed, 'cos Nathan's gotten it into his head that we should go hike around Mirror Lake tomorrow, and I definitely need to recover from today's activities!

Inquiry Letter

(Sent to WSSM)

I know what you're thinking- "Birmingham, Alabama? Isn't that darn near as close to land-locked as you can get in this country?" and you're right: the closest decent break is a good six hours from here. Nevertheless, Ruli (my 8'10" mini longboard) is leaned up against a wall in the bedroom I share with my (very tolerant) husband. Why? Because even tho' I'm landlocked, I'm still a surfer. And I have the stories to prove it.

Oh, they're not impressive stories, by any means. I've never surfed anything larger than said husband (who is six foot) and even that was with more spirit than style. But they're stories that I feel speak to any woman who got bitten by the surf-bug in her mid-twenties, set about teaching herself, and didn't let a little thing like living (at the time) two hours from the cold coastal waters of Oregon stand in her way. They're stories that speak to anyone who can remember that first, burning love affair with their board, and all the little triumphs that came with it.

I'd love to share some of my stories with your readers, if you think they'd like to hear them. Please let me know your submission requirements, and I'll be happy to comply.

Thanks for the consideration!

Jenny O

PS I also happen to be a visual artist, which means I can supply (or at least submit for your perusal) illustrations to go along with said stories. Just let me know!

Synchronicity

Do you know what my favorite day of the week is? Some of you do. But others of you don't, so I shall tell you: it's Thursday.

Why Thursday? Well, it goes all the way back to 2006... back then I was working at Borders, and my "weekend" was Wednesday/Thursday. And Thursday was the day I used to make the two-hour (one way) trip to go surfing.

Ah, surfing- my one true (non human) love. Until I discovered that sport, I'd thought myself incapable of being passionate about anything (again, non-human). But then... oh, then I found passion and love and a place in the universe where I belonged. And faith, actually. It also brought me that.

And then I had to leave it for a greater love, which made me sad, but it had to be done. (Totally worth it, Nate- just get me back to a coastal state soon, okay?)

But then I discovered hoop dancing- and discovered I can have passion for other things, too. And I was shy about it for a while, watching videos and practicing in an alley where no-one could see me, and then I got more bold by poking around on forums, and then last week I finally broke down and went to a class and met some other hoopers.

And this week I went back. And by the end of the class I was so happy- not just because I was doing something I loved for an hour, but because I feel like I've finally found community again. I feel like these women are people I can really be friends with... it's so good to share a passion, you know? I feel like I belong again. So as I was driving home I started smiling to myself as I realized...

Thursdays are still my favorite day of the week.



(PS I got my new hoop and it's so sweet... I plan on making Nathan take some pictures this weekend...)

Parameters

Back when I lived near Portland I drove out to the coast just about every single Thursday to go surfing. Two hours to get there, two hours to get back. Assuming traffic is good. So that’s a four-hour round-trip, for anywhere from two to eight hours of surfing, depending on conditions and how quickly/badly I injured myself (there was this one time when I was pretty sure I’d broken my arm- fortunately I hadn’t, but it did bring my surf day screeching to a sooner-than-might-be-desired halt). Sometimes I’d only catch one good wave all day long, but I always, always felt it was worth it.

Today Mom and I made the drive back to Alabama. It took me about nine hours to get home to Birmingham. So that was eighteen hours of driving (although Mom did relieve me for two of them) for about six hours of surfing, during which I had maybe five truly good rides. Also I spent three nights sleeping on a floor with a sheet, which is not the ideal sort of rest for sore muscles.

Worth it?

I’d have to say yes. But I’d have to say it with the sort of hesitation that comes from waking up to an ankle you hadn’t realized was sprained until it stiffened up during slumber. Yes with the sort of hesitation that comes from being exhausted as hell after driving longer than you’d normally have spent working. Yes, it was worth it, but no- I couldn’t do it every week. Or even every month. But definitely more than once every two-and-a-half years. So I guess that gives us an idea of the parameters of my devotion.

To tell the truth I have a bit of fear in my belly, now that I’m back. It was so joyful to be surfing again (especially yesterday’s experience) and I have that joy still racing through my bloodstream, buoying me up. But the flipside to that is that I’m dreading the gradual loss of the joy. The way it will inevitably drain away and I will have to go back to longing for it. And not being able to have it. And crying because I miss it so badly. And I know I shouldn’t think about that- I should focus on the now-happiness rather than the coming-despair, lest I taint the Now, but it’s hard.

Hubris

I did not get up early to go surfing all by my lonesome today- instead I managed to coax some companionship in return for a promise to let them sleep in. As such, it wasn’t until just before 1500 that I hit the beach with my mom and aunt (the girls elected to nap- darn screwy teenage circadian cycles). It turned out for the best, however, because the waves were far superior to those I was dealing with yesterday.

Of course, first I had to make the appropriate sacrifice to the Oceanids. Remember all that smack talk from yesterday about gentle waves and being able to surf with my sunglasses on? Um, color me hubristic. I went leaping into the water for a little pre-surf frolic whilst wearing said eye protection, and guess who Took Their Due. Yup. So I forfeited my sweet shades in return for some truly surf-able waves. I’d call that a damn good return on my investment.

Mom and Steph elected to watch my performance from the relatively safe confines of their beach loungers, and I’m pleased to report that I gave them something worth witnessing on my first attempt. Beautiful, perfect, lovely wave that I caught and rode like someone who actually knows what they’re doing. I even stepped gracefully off at the end, rather than my typical hapless bailout (from whence the epic bruising on my knees arises). So that was pretty fantastic, and they cheered, their mental preconception of my Surfing Prowess confirmed. I, of course, knew from previous experience that I had just officially blown my Talent Wad on the first wave of the day, and that from there on out it would be nothing but hilarious mishaps. I didn’t have the heart to shatter their illusions verbally, however- I knew my subsequent performances would eventually get it across.

No really- I wasn’t that pathetic. But I did pretty much hit my peak on that first wave. Plenty of flailing and falling and “I guess I’ll just surf this one on my knees as though I intended to flub the pop-up,” ensued, but Mom and Steph continued to be convinced that I was truly Epic. Bless their biased little brains.

There were a few other surfers out there with me, running the gamut from raw beginners to effortless artists. I was disappointed to find that the surfing culture does not, in general, appear to be as friendly as that which I’d grown accustom to in Oregon. I expressed my sadness at this to Mom, and she pointed out (and rightly so) that to be a surfer in cold-ass Oregon waters you have to really love surfing- you get out there to do it because you’re dedicated to it, and you’re necessarily stoked to meet anyone else with that same level of love and dedication (and okay touch of insanity). In Jacksonville people can afford to be sort of “Meh,” about surfing, because they can do it pretty much whenever the hell they get a whim- they live on the beach, and it’s warm all the time, and the waves trend towards the very-easy-to-catch (my latter performance notwithstanding). So the ratio of rude-holes is bound to be higher.

Still. I can’t help but be a smidge resentful that people take what is to me a great and joyous spiritual experience and turn it into an occasion to be an off-putting jerk. Now I guess I have an inkling of what a lot of my Christian friends experience on a regular basis…

Ruli Wakes

I got up semi-early this morning and began the pre-surf ritual. The main component of said ritual is stripping down, pinning my hair up, and slathering myself with waterproof, sweat-proof SPF 30. Then, of course, there is the bagel eating portion of the ritual, followed by the strapping-Ruli-to-her-rack part.

You may not understand when I tell you that the drive over there was filled less with anticipation and more with dread. In a way all I wanted to do was turn around and go back to bed: I felt downright sick to my stomach. I thought about it then and I’ve thought about it since then, and I’ve decided that what it came down to was fear; fear that I wouldn’t remember how to do it, that I would be once more reduced to an utter kook making a fool of herself- but worse than that, the fear that it just wouldn’t be the same. That the joy and passion I once felt was only a wishful-dream of a memory, not and just as intangible.

When I arrived at the beach is was pretty empty- only a handful of joggers and walkers, and two guys with a short board learning how to use it. I smiled with nostalgia and thought to myself- please don’t let me fall down more than they do. As many times is fine, but just not more…

I’ll be honest- it was not good surf. But it wasn’t flat, either, which means that the waves were a hell of a lot better than they would have been in Birmingham, so I’m not complaining. In fact, I felt downright grateful for those teensy little swells that I knew would help ease me back in to the feel of things without threatening to drown me.

I unzipped Ruli (she travels in a pretty sturdy board bag, since I tend to have to take her ridiculous distances) and put on a fresh coat of wax- I was a little nervous about that, since I only had cold water wax with me and the last time I surfed in Jacksonville the water was warm as blood. It turned out, however, that the water was plenty cool enough to keep the wax in place (and me from wanting to die from lack of refreshment).

We eased into the water cautiously- although the calm meant I didn’t have to worry about losing my balance while I stood on one foot and strapped my leash to the opposite ankle. Then I walked her out a little deeper, keeping my fingers lightly on her back until it was deep enough for me to slip on and start paddling.

As soon as I was on I realized that I was in the wrong spot on the board- so I shimmied backwards until I felt the proper balance my body remembered. Then it was one clean stroke after another as I drew myself out to where I could see the little waves peaking. I have to say that a part of me didn’t mind one bit that I didn’t have to battle frigid white water to get out. It was definitely not a bad thing to not be exhausted before I even attempted the first wave.

I picked my spot and sat up, automatically shifting my weight to swing Ruli’s nose back toward the shore. I only had to sit maybe thirty seconds before I saw the tell-tale wrinkle that told me I’d be able to ride it in. Theoretically.

Down on my stomach I went, falling back into the familiar rhythm of paddle-paddle-paddle- then I felt the wave reach me and I felt the tiny drop that means Ruli is well and truly set and then…

I wish I could say that I triumphantly sprang to my feet and rode in on a blaze of glory, all my former hard-won skill undiminished by the passing of years. But the truth is that I lay there on my stomach and let myself be carried in while I re-familiarized myself with the movement of a wave. Time enough for standing on the next one.

And I did stand on the next one, for a whole split second, although it was the most awkward damn pop-up the world has ever seen. My body remembers a lot about how it should move while surfing, but not, apparently, how to properly place my damn feet. Nor how to keep my ass out of the air. A pop-up should be one fluid movement from prone position to crouched- mine was more like a pop-and-lock gone horribly wrong.

And yet.

And yet, even though the faulty pop-up was repeated several times (and yes, even the belly-ride to shore got repeated) I did manage to nail it once- and then again. And I remembered what it was to surf again.

I will admit that the joy was neither as deep nor as fierce as what I have felt in the past- but I think that has a lot to do with the fact that the Atlantic and I are Just Friends- whereas the Pacific and I have something of a Passionate Love Affair going on. Don’t get me wrong- I enjoy hanging out with the Atlantic, she’s a cool anthropomorphized body of water and all- but there’s just something about the Pacific that really stirs my blood and makes my heart sing.

It’s possible that it’s the raw power of the Pacific. I go in there and I know damn good and well that I could die- in a very serious way she could crush my body and fling it lifeless to the shore, or hold it down until the air has disappeared from my lungs. I step into her and I surrender to her- she lets me ride her- or she doesn’t. Whereas the Atlantic tends to be so mellow that I can wear my sunglasses in without fear of losing them.

But whatever. It’s a start.