Fins

There’s a place on the Big Island that is sacred in many ways to our family.

I get over there when I can, and Hawaii requires a negative PCR test before takeoff from the mainland, then a rapid test upon arrival. I tested negative before the flight there, and positive when I landed.

I was put on civil defense lockdown until another PCR test result came back from the lab, and the government official told me to expect a 72-hour delay. My test came back negative a few days before I had to return to the mainland, and even though I’d had a false positive, I still had to get cleared by the civil defense to be able to leave the house.

I hadn’t surfed at all, so I headed out. The ocean was choppy and ugly, with lightning and rain making things even nastier. I wasn’t going to not go, though.

The waves weren’t huge, probably head-high, but Hawaiian ocean power is different than California. I took off on wave after wave, and my board slid out from under me every time, prompting a fall and solid pounding. I hadn’t surfed that board in a long time, and told myself that it was looser than I was used to. I’ll figure it out, I affirmed. Just keep trying.

Paddling was harder, too. I’d get stuck inside after a beating and power my way through, duck-diving under churning whitewater, only to get dragged farther back.

I shouldn’t have been getting dragged back, not like that.

The last wave I took off on was bigger and steep. Really steep, and farther to the left, closer to the reef. The board slid out again and I got crushed, barely missing the exposed coral and taking on a lot of water, enough for that slight panic to rise in my throat. I managed to get away from the shallower section of reef, and was so tired by then that I rode the next wave on my belly to the beach, frustrated, exhausted, defeated, and lucky not have gotten hurt.

First an unwarranted lockdown, then an unexpected beat-down.

I was so mentally and physically drained that I didn’t even notice the problem, not until I was putting the board in the back of the truck.

I’d been basically trying to ride a piece of plywood out there.

Because I’d ripped out the boards’ fins, probably on the paddle through the reef. I’d noticed a couple of bumps and sturdy tugs below me, but was focused on getting through the inside section between sets.

Fins exist solely to give you stability, both on a wave and when paddling.

They ground you, in ungrounding territory.

Make sure your fins are there.

Living Halfway

Well, I wrote a book.

I mean, I’ve written a few.

But this one is different.

This book started out as a collection of rants from a foul-mouthed, 57-year-old chain-smoking lady living in a run-down trailer park. She’d come to life in moments of vexed observation, when I’d notice irritating human behavior, but didn’t want to do the actual complaining myself.

That story evolved into someone else’s, though.

Mine.

It’s called Living Halfway.

We’re also wrapping up an album that accompanies the stories in the book, For-The-Sender-style. Your favorite Nickel Creek guitar player Sean Watkins produced the songs, which we recorded live, both in my living room and a small outbuilding in the back 40 of Sean’s family property… those will be available for free on the all the streaming platforms, the same day as the book.

Oh, and there’s a special something that I’m stoked about, which marries these stories and songs. I’ll share that as soon as it’s ready.

Also, I got kind of destroyed yesterday in the ocean. Mentally, physically, and ego-ly.

I’ll tell you about that tomorrow.