Tag: short personal essay
-
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…
-
Straight to the Ocean
I was conceived in the Bahamas, on my parents’ honeymoon. Nine months later, I emerged in Arizona, a desert fish. Despite my surroundings, I managed — always — to find water to splash in, swim in, and play in. Waterbaby, they called me. My first ocean was the Pacific, off San Francisco. I was four,…
-
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,…
