Sunday, 18 April 2010

Slow to warm up.

Little surfer, little one
Made my heart come all undone
Do you love me?
Do you surfer girl?
(Surfer girl my little surfer girl)

I have watched you on the shore
Standing by the ocean's roar
Do you love me?
Do you surfer girl?
He is determined.

Hours climbing up and down probably active volcanoes, across suspension bridges, down semi-washed out footpaths and herded like human touristic sheep onto creaky, rickety gondolas in order to be ankle-deep in snow, still in my t-shirt and sneakers from the twenty-degree broiled city sidewalk a half-hour previously. Hours in the deep dark woods chasing slugs across footbridges and marveling at the width of the giant redwoods. Standing inside the hollow ones, climbing over the fallen ones, everywhere a carpet of pine needles and fresh new beginnings, found just under the moss.

Everyone says Don't you just love the mountains?

I'm not all that sure yet, truthfully. Apparently this one is covered in snow and the other four are volcanoes. What do you think? Oh and should I love that it will cost me eleven thousand dollars to snowboard for a half-day?

I don't say that out loud though. I merely look down the mountain toward the beach and point silently but then off we go in another direction at three thousand miles an hour. And then finally at the end, a slow drive home with a detour into the park and through to the ice cream stand and down to the beach where I found two huge colorful pieces of beach glass in less than ten seconds flat and then the dog started EATING sand so we had to leave before we had ever really arrived.

We can go back, I think. The sand beaches with endless sandbars, covered with shells are what I crave but these are almost too civilized, too close to people and buildings and cars. And the other ones are creepily remote and covered with huge rocks and violent and downright dangerous.

(Bridget definitely isn't in Kansas anymore, is she?)

I can appreciate the radical difference between the edgy, wild pacific coast in sharp contrast to the holiday-postcard Atlantic seaside. I can relish it. I will sink my teeth into it and digest it like it's the singlemost important meal of my life. I will embrace it, collect all of the glass from it and tell it my thoughts, wash away my worries and soothe my tired, broken skin in it and we will be forever friends, lovers reunited so closely that everyone steps away for fear of being crushed with the weight of mutual admiration.

He was wearing his heavy jacket and we were tired. And the dog was eating sand. And so I said my silent goodbyes and I vowed to come back and I'm somewhat sure now that there's a well-planned effort underway to keep me off the beach and away from the ocean for more than just a few minutes at a time so that I don't come completely unglued.

It wouldn't be the first time. She's a powerful force, you know.

Bridget. Not the ocean, silly.


Until you learn to control her, it's best not to do anything that might get her going. You know how it is. He's doing his very best to find the balance between massive relief and total damaging surrender, and I don't blame him for it. Not even a little bit.

He's doing a really good job, actually. The very best one can.