words & art by shé

bookshelf

Tag: short personal essay

  • Reflection

    “Don’t want no short dick man.” The singer is adamant, and I am shocked by the explicit English words emanating from the Mazatlán bus speakers. Loudly. Repetitively. Blatantly stating what she does not want.  I am sitting next to another sailing woman, part of a group on our way to a store with maritime supplies…

  • Hauling Out

    I’ve been over the edge for a while, and wondering why. Did the math and realized that I left Kaua’i 15 months ago. Seems to be my limit, as I wrote a book about an earlier excursion, also 15 months. Crashed in Florida in 2018. Now I’ve crashed in Mazatlán. Too much time doing hard…

  • Mine

    Paid the seller, paid the broker, not paying to fix the hull blisters at this expensive marina because the surveyor says it can wait until next year’s haul-out. Habibi is mine, all mine. No one can evict me. No one can raise the rent. I can paint her inside and out — any color! —…

  • Habibi

    Beginning at the Berkeley marina, I drive south for days, seeking out sailboats and surfing when I can: Santa Cruz, Morro Bay, Santa Barbara, Oxnard, Long Beach, Newport, Dana Point, Oceanside, San Diego. Cross the border into México and check out San Felipe, Bahía Tortugas, Santa Rosalia. Spend an afternoon and night at Playa El…

  • Grace

    There are moments of grace and beauty. Blowing bubbles with Antonella was one of them. Let me set the scene: a church group sings nearby of peace and love and liberty; the sun is setting big and orange and low; for the first time in México, the tiny house is unhitched and plugged in; and…

  • Stung

    Knee deep in the La Jolla Pacific, I feel a gentle slice on top of the second toe on my left foot. So gentle in fact that I’m surprised to see blood. Hunh. Wading out to get a better look, a half inch cut bleeds copiously. Foot above heart to slow the flow, I rest…

  • Turning Toward

    Turning toward love is harder than it sounds.

  • Distressed

    So, my baby brother would rather hire an attorney than apologize to me. And, get this, my father paid the retainer. What happened to them? The boy I watched over when my mother was too nuts to do so? The man I adored beyond reason? Wow. Their conduct is hard to comprehend. I am a…

  • Painting

    “Paint the ocean,” said my dad, but I didn’t dare. His huge 3D map of northern California covered a wall of his house, sans sea, and I was afraid to screw it up. I was fifteen. Back in kindergarten, though, I painted a picture for my mother every day, so she would be alive when…

  • Ya Gotta Tell ’em

    Pakala. Lying on my board on a small day, waiting for set waves. A stand-up paddle boarder startles me, swiftly passing on my immediate left. He’s gone before I can say anything, and I bob in his wake. Another SUPer quickly paddles after him, yelling in pidgin, “No do that! Respect da surfers! Whatchu problem,…