Course, he didn’t like being called “kid corkscrew” and tried to whip me with his towel. This is the shit you forget unless you write it down, blog it, snap pics. Having kids is great.
When I was out there Tuesday night in more shitty waves, I was happy. I love salt water. I love swimming. I love spending time with my kid outdoors. I love escaping fucking embarrassing news coming out of Washington (“make America NORMAL AGAIN” is what I’d love to scream at tRUMP).
As I paddled around in teeny waves, memories came back to me of the horror I have experienced surfing here. Enormous towering monsters scrambling to rip my lungs out of my chest through my mouth. Boulders waiting to crush my face after crashing. Hurricane waves destroying my boards. Total assholes dropping in on me inexplicably (Jamie). Demons trying to pull each of my limbs out of their sockets as I tumbled helplessly under water after crashing. Board smashing me in my cheekbone when it resurfaced after I did (never ditch your board).
Yet I still keep coming back, and I’m teaching my kid this stuff.
What at is it about the ocean that draws people like me to it like a moth to a candle?