The priceless approval of a twelve-year-old.
Tag: Surfing
Dwelling in Ireland
Continued from - "I Am a Writer" And so I was in Europe, my first time, arrived by epic adventure across an ocean, and all I could do was huddle against the damp Irish chill in my father’s down sleeping bag, glued to Caribbean weather reports on the screen of my tiny iPad. I couldn’t … Continue reading Dwelling in Ireland
Barefoot Freedom
Halfway between the Canaries and Barbados, Arek, one of the Polish boys on our crew, asked what the main difference was between childhood on a boat in St. John and childhood on land in Oregon. I thought harder than I usually do before answering questions about our unique childhood. Honestly, we left that lifestyle so … Continue reading Barefoot Freedom
Hillary
I want to spend all day in the water. It soothes me. I feel pure, young, innocent. I think of you. I ask you to send me messages through the waves, answers. Can you hear me? Send me a wave. The water is clear, I see straight down to the dust-colored sand. The waves are … Continue reading Hillary
Committed to Write
We leaned against the chrome railing overlooking the beach and watched dozens of surfers wobbling to their feet, toppling over, shooting boards at each other through the foam. The waves looked nice again, as they had in the morning, but just the sight of the bright ocean puckered my sunburned eyes and lips. My left … Continue reading Committed to Write
Ireland is for Walkers
PEAT FIRE ON A WOODEN BOAT * WALKING, AN IRISH PASTIME * CABIN FEVER, TIME TO DRY OUT * Continued from - "Cruising Cork and Kerry" All is quiet and dark in the cabin, the others are in bed. Wet clothes hang with high hopes of drying. Spare drops of rain thud on the hatch, … Continue reading Ireland is for Walkers
Phase 4: Arriving by bike
So I became a bike commuter. Monday I awoke to an empty parking spot where my car had been. Tuesday I was on my way to orientation for a new job. The bike I could use was a red Nishiki, with thick cruiser tires and sit-up handle bars, a rack on the back, and a … Continue reading Phase 4: Arriving by bike
PHASE 3: KICKED FROM THE NEST
“Oh my God, that is beautiful!” I exclaimed to no one but myself and the shameless sun. I shook my head, moved. I stood on the cliff above Capitola, squinting at the bay creased with perfectly parallel swells. Ripples from up here, their size betrayed by the small black dots paddling around, tempting their power … Continue reading PHASE 3: KICKED FROM THE NEST
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