Last Saturday was one of the coolest days ever. Tommy, Steve, Dan and I drove down to Seaside reef in San Diego for the "Anything But 3." AB3 is just a bunch of shapers showing up at the same beach and letting other people try out their new boards that aren't like the standard three fin thruster set up.
There must have been at least 100 boards one the beach of all kinds of shapes and sizes. I saw styrofoam twin fins, battail quads, a half quad half twin fin, bonzers, five fins, single fin eggs and so much more. I spent five hours surfing, switching from boards every few waves and I still didn't try all the boards that I wanted to ride.
I wasn't the only one either. There were little kids with their dads trying out quad fins and girls out trying to get something with a little bit more jump for the summer. The organizers made sure the word got out and they chose one of the best waves to do it on.
Seaside is a rivermouth/reef/beachie that has multiple sections and take off spots so it could handle all the people out there. There were a few times that people were burnt by someone, but the area was big enough that most people got enough waves to keep themselves cool. It didn't hurt that everyone was trying out new boards.
There were some hassles by the park rangers, because they said that the shapers needed a permit because it was an event to promote future sales. In a sense they were right, but not really. This event was more about seeing what other people were doing. I was talking to the shapers and all of them had been walking around checking out other guys boards and giving them a surf. I didn't hear many people talk about buying boards, everyone was talking about what board was the most fun, strangest looking, most surprising or the worst. It was cool to hear the comparisons between boards that I would never, ever have a chance to ride had I not gone to this event.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Grandpa Borges
I thought I was going to write more down here in Chile than I had been writing than I had written back at home. Well, that wasn't even close to the case. I spent most of my time hanging out with the family and friends and surfing. I guess I had time at night to write, but I was so exhausted from surfing that I'd just fall asleep before I could even get the computer out. Not that it's a bad thing but that's what happened.
I didn't even finish a book. I don't know the last time I went on a trip of two weeks, especially with this much travel time and didn't finish a book. I started out reading V. by Thomas Pynchon, but I don't think I was quite in the mood for him. He's more of a guy that I like to read when the surf isn't good. I'm not sure what that means, but most of my reading of him has occured when the surf isn't very good. I read Gravity's Rainbow last year while I was in Chile, but in Viña where the surf is no where near as good as Pichilemu. I think it's a book that I like to be at full attention to read, and during the day seems to be the best for that, save the 45 minutes after lunch when I am utterly worthless.
It's not a book that I can read in the 30 minutes before I go to bed every night. I find that I just end up rereading the same four pages because I don't remember a thing that has happened. It's really annoying, I think I'm going to start it back up after I finish the book to which I switched, Ficciones por Jorge Luis Borges.
He's a much better read for those thirty minutes before bed because, despite being in spanish, I find that the short stories and the wonderment of each tale seems to keep me more closely tied into the story. Yeah, I still go back and re read stuff, but it's usually a lot quicker rereads, so I can get a story in every night. Of course, I wasn't noticing this until the end of a very short trip so I've only read the first three stories in Ficcionnes.
I think Borges is one of my favorite writers because he emits this wise grandfatherly voice. The kind of voice that would keep me spellbound when I was a kid (and does now). It's definitely not a fatherly voice, because it lacks the fidelity to realism. Grandfathers (not mine really, but in general) have a lovely way to embellish things until they are no longer anything remotely close to what the real story was, but it doesn't matter because they can see it so well and so enrapt in it that their charisma envelopes you like blankets fresh out of the dryer. It's lovely, and sweet and laced with fantastic ideas and philosophies. All this is why I love Borges. He makes me feel like that enchanted kid again. He inspires me in spite of the fact that I know I could never write like him. He inspires because I know that he'd be happy that I am writing. Maybe that sounds simple but in my head he's grandfatherly, and grandfathers seem to emit a gentle pride with their grand children.
I didn't even finish a book. I don't know the last time I went on a trip of two weeks, especially with this much travel time and didn't finish a book. I started out reading V. by Thomas Pynchon, but I don't think I was quite in the mood for him. He's more of a guy that I like to read when the surf isn't good. I'm not sure what that means, but most of my reading of him has occured when the surf isn't very good. I read Gravity's Rainbow last year while I was in Chile, but in Viña where the surf is no where near as good as Pichilemu. I think it's a book that I like to be at full attention to read, and during the day seems to be the best for that, save the 45 minutes after lunch when I am utterly worthless.
It's not a book that I can read in the 30 minutes before I go to bed every night. I find that I just end up rereading the same four pages because I don't remember a thing that has happened. It's really annoying, I think I'm going to start it back up after I finish the book to which I switched, Ficciones por Jorge Luis Borges.
He's a much better read for those thirty minutes before bed because, despite being in spanish, I find that the short stories and the wonderment of each tale seems to keep me more closely tied into the story. Yeah, I still go back and re read stuff, but it's usually a lot quicker rereads, so I can get a story in every night. Of course, I wasn't noticing this until the end of a very short trip so I've only read the first three stories in Ficcionnes.
I think Borges is one of my favorite writers because he emits this wise grandfatherly voice. The kind of voice that would keep me spellbound when I was a kid (and does now). It's definitely not a fatherly voice, because it lacks the fidelity to realism. Grandfathers (not mine really, but in general) have a lovely way to embellish things until they are no longer anything remotely close to what the real story was, but it doesn't matter because they can see it so well and so enrapt in it that their charisma envelopes you like blankets fresh out of the dryer. It's lovely, and sweet and laced with fantastic ideas and philosophies. All this is why I love Borges. He makes me feel like that enchanted kid again. He inspires me in spite of the fact that I know I could never write like him. He inspires because I know that he'd be happy that I am writing. Maybe that sounds simple but in my head he's grandfatherly, and grandfathers seem to emit a gentle pride with their grand children.
Friday, March 7, 2008
I feel like I'm home. It's weird to be in a foreign country and get that feeling. Where you know exactly where you are going and how things are going to work out before you even get off of the plane. There is a pre established routine that comforts you and some other small reminder that you are home. For some people this sensation may only be for one place. But for me I have 4 places in 3 countries that will always give me this sensation.
Obviously, flying into LAX gives me that feeling because, well, I am going home. But it always seems to hit me once I get picked up. The reason being my mother, she almost always picks me up from the airport with eyes watering. It's just one of the most comforting sights to see, and especially because it just means that I'm done doing anything for the rest of the trip home. Mom scoops me up, we might stop by Taco Bell and then we drive straight home. I look forward to that in a week an a half.
Hawaii also has this sensation. I was born there and lived there for 6 years, so that shouldn't be enough, it's the smells. To be honest, I don't have too many memories from my early days in Hawaii: a green bike that I'd ride everywhere (and crash once, successfully, and frighten my parents horribly), a enormous leather football, some friends, and the smell of ginger. I guess that last one isn't a memory, but something that permeates through all of my memories like the red clay in Hawaii. But it is what most reminds me of Hawaii because there are so many leis and flowers around, the smell hangs thick in the air. It's almost visable, like a pleasant smoke. One of the few smells that I can imagine clearly and it's definitely my favorite and most comforting. So naturally, I feel alright at Honolulu Airport.
Ireland. I know that I'm a mongrel, my blood so mixed that it's probably brown, but for some reason I really identify with my Irish heritage. Partly due to my surname, Murphy, and partly because my grandfather (from whom I inherited my first name, Breene) has been such an important part of my life. There's probably more reasons, but as soon as I saw all the green hills, leaning next to the Atlantic I had that rush of going home, in spite of never visiting Ireland prior.
Lastly is Chile. I think this place has been a more earned position than the rest. There wasn't any instant connection with Chile. When I first flew in, I was overwhelmed with trepidation, for I was embarking on a nine month journey. But I grew a confidence and an understanding of spanish and I flew in and out of the Santiago Airport many times in my stay here, and it became routine. Eventually the lilting accent of Chilean spanish put me to ease. Just hearing all the "sípo," "nopo," "cachai" and "huevon" bubble through the air made me think of the family that I somehow earned down here. I will think of Pati, and her sailor's mouth, from which I have learned more curses than I will ever know what to do with. I think of Pati Sue and Pati Paz and their incessant banter and play, like two puppies. Of Claudio and Pato, who will always be the first to sing karaoke with you. I love all the people at the school.
It's weird having earned a spot here. Like Hawaii/California I was just born into that. And Ireland, is just heritage. I had no prior connection to Chile, and yet, it holds as much importance, maybe more, than all of them except California. It's crazy to think of it, but it gives me confidence that I could make my home anywhere I want (providing there is surf, of course).
I do wish that Chile was closer because it pains me to think that I could only have two or three weeks to travel a year and that doesn't seem like nearly enough time here. But that gives me extra motivation to have my project in Canada work out. I've got to think that being a writer affords way more free time than a normal job.
I'm just going to have to enjoy this time, enjoy my time back in California and maybe I'll create another place of comfort if/when I go to Canada.
Obviously, flying into LAX gives me that feeling because, well, I am going home. But it always seems to hit me once I get picked up. The reason being my mother, she almost always picks me up from the airport with eyes watering. It's just one of the most comforting sights to see, and especially because it just means that I'm done doing anything for the rest of the trip home. Mom scoops me up, we might stop by Taco Bell and then we drive straight home. I look forward to that in a week an a half.
Hawaii also has this sensation. I was born there and lived there for 6 years, so that shouldn't be enough, it's the smells. To be honest, I don't have too many memories from my early days in Hawaii: a green bike that I'd ride everywhere (and crash once, successfully, and frighten my parents horribly), a enormous leather football, some friends, and the smell of ginger. I guess that last one isn't a memory, but something that permeates through all of my memories like the red clay in Hawaii. But it is what most reminds me of Hawaii because there are so many leis and flowers around, the smell hangs thick in the air. It's almost visable, like a pleasant smoke. One of the few smells that I can imagine clearly and it's definitely my favorite and most comforting. So naturally, I feel alright at Honolulu Airport.
Ireland. I know that I'm a mongrel, my blood so mixed that it's probably brown, but for some reason I really identify with my Irish heritage. Partly due to my surname, Murphy, and partly because my grandfather (from whom I inherited my first name, Breene) has been such an important part of my life. There's probably more reasons, but as soon as I saw all the green hills, leaning next to the Atlantic I had that rush of going home, in spite of never visiting Ireland prior.
Lastly is Chile. I think this place has been a more earned position than the rest. There wasn't any instant connection with Chile. When I first flew in, I was overwhelmed with trepidation, for I was embarking on a nine month journey. But I grew a confidence and an understanding of spanish and I flew in and out of the Santiago Airport many times in my stay here, and it became routine. Eventually the lilting accent of Chilean spanish put me to ease. Just hearing all the "sípo," "nopo," "cachai" and "huevon" bubble through the air made me think of the family that I somehow earned down here. I will think of Pati, and her sailor's mouth, from which I have learned more curses than I will ever know what to do with. I think of Pati Sue and Pati Paz and their incessant banter and play, like two puppies. Of Claudio and Pato, who will always be the first to sing karaoke with you. I love all the people at the school.
It's weird having earned a spot here. Like Hawaii/California I was just born into that. And Ireland, is just heritage. I had no prior connection to Chile, and yet, it holds as much importance, maybe more, than all of them except California. It's crazy to think of it, but it gives me confidence that I could make my home anywhere I want (providing there is surf, of course).
I do wish that Chile was closer because it pains me to think that I could only have two or three weeks to travel a year and that doesn't seem like nearly enough time here. But that gives me extra motivation to have my project in Canada work out. I've got to think that being a writer affords way more free time than a normal job.
I'm just going to have to enjoy this time, enjoy my time back in California and maybe I'll create another place of comfort if/when I go to Canada.
Monday, March 3, 2008
I'm in LA but I'm not
I hate having to put pants on to use the internet. It's so frustrating. I mean, I guess I could have left the pants off, but I'm not sure everyone in the lobby would be too pleased to see me in my skivvies.
I shouldn't have to be in this situation, staying at a hotel in LA waiting for my flight. But for the second straight time, LAN has done fucked up. They start by saying that there is only going to be an hour delay and then the next time they announce notice the delay is for a whole day. If my flight home does the same thing, this might be my last time flying LAN. It's just way too annoying.
I guess it could be worse. I mean last time I was shuttled two hours away for a four hour sleep in a mediocre to poor restaurant with only breakfast included. This time, we got lunch, dinner and breakfast and the hotel is nice and only two minutes away from the international terminal. It's close enough that I could walk there if it weren't for the fact that I could get mugged on my way.
That's not to say that this is all that exciting. Being at the Sheraton Gateway hotel is definitely a businessman's hotel (read: 35-50 year old white dude heaven). It's seriously the most unbelievable thing. Which lead me to understand why there are so many strip clubs in the LAX vicinity (I have one that is right across the street from my hotel, its the one by the Carl's Jr. on Century with the sweet NUDE NUDE NUDE signs). That is to say, there is absolutely NO female presence here. It seems to be the only situation where it's okay to randomly chat up some dude at the bar because it's either that or silence. I gotta figure that most these guys are in sales or some representative role of some sort, so they probably have some proclivity to babble and with the dearth of women the guy next to them at the bar is the victim. It's really annoying to sit next to all these guys at the bar, because, honestly I chose silence rather than to converse with these douchbags. I have never heard guys more openly talking (embellishing?) about banging chics (regardless of whether or not they are married) in all my life. It's gross. Possibly the most slovenly thing since sloppy joe day in second grade. I think I want to puke.
This is a pretty new thing for me, because I normally don't hang out too much in the lobby/bar area of these types of hotels. But being that it's the only area that internet is offered, here I am. I'm beginning to get a new perspective on businessmen. It would not surprise me to find that there is a higher percentage of gay men in this group, although this might be influenced by the fact that a man in a green argyle cardigan ordered a raspberry cosmopolitan. Really? Other than the fact he likes men, that has to be the gayest thing about that guy. Incidentally, because he was obviously gay, he was the least annoying because he wasn't trying to prove his manhood in front of all these other half drunk men. I swear the ratio of men to women here is at least 12-1. And the few women that stroll in are older than me by at least 20 years and are probably married to one of the guys. I think it's official, airport hotels are the worst places to meet women (especially in my age bracket) or to meet someone worth talking to (although, I've heard many women claim that this is just a generality).
Anyways, I can't wait to blow this taco stand and head on down to Pichilemu, Chile, the land of endless left pointbreaks and underage women. I can say that I'll be surfing quite a lot, due to the fact that I have an aversion of doing any sort of jail time, especially in third world countries. Although, I should be fair, I am going to catch the tail end of summer so maybe, just maybe I meet some college girl back for the holiday. That's just wishful thinking though, because I'm really going down to see my Chilean mom, the crazy Pati, because she developed hyperthyroidism and her body decided that being 4'10'' and 110 was too big, so it dropped 30 pounds. I'm nervous to see her because I'm hoping she is doing better. She had an allergic reaction to the normal treatment of hyperthyrodism (which I'm told is relatively simple and painless), so this second treatment coming up is really important. I know she has to go to Santiago for a couple of days right when I first get there to check up on her second treatment, so I'm hoping things go well.
So now I'm going to go back to what I do, Scrabulous and reading.
I shouldn't have to be in this situation, staying at a hotel in LA waiting for my flight. But for the second straight time, LAN has done fucked up. They start by saying that there is only going to be an hour delay and then the next time they announce notice the delay is for a whole day. If my flight home does the same thing, this might be my last time flying LAN. It's just way too annoying.
I guess it could be worse. I mean last time I was shuttled two hours away for a four hour sleep in a mediocre to poor restaurant with only breakfast included. This time, we got lunch, dinner and breakfast and the hotel is nice and only two minutes away from the international terminal. It's close enough that I could walk there if it weren't for the fact that I could get mugged on my way.
That's not to say that this is all that exciting. Being at the Sheraton Gateway hotel is definitely a businessman's hotel (read: 35-50 year old white dude heaven). It's seriously the most unbelievable thing. Which lead me to understand why there are so many strip clubs in the LAX vicinity (I have one that is right across the street from my hotel, its the one by the Carl's Jr. on Century with the sweet NUDE NUDE NUDE signs). That is to say, there is absolutely NO female presence here. It seems to be the only situation where it's okay to randomly chat up some dude at the bar because it's either that or silence. I gotta figure that most these guys are in sales or some representative role of some sort, so they probably have some proclivity to babble and with the dearth of women the guy next to them at the bar is the victim. It's really annoying to sit next to all these guys at the bar, because, honestly I chose silence rather than to converse with these douchbags. I have never heard guys more openly talking (embellishing?) about banging chics (regardless of whether or not they are married) in all my life. It's gross. Possibly the most slovenly thing since sloppy joe day in second grade. I think I want to puke.
This is a pretty new thing for me, because I normally don't hang out too much in the lobby/bar area of these types of hotels. But being that it's the only area that internet is offered, here I am. I'm beginning to get a new perspective on businessmen. It would not surprise me to find that there is a higher percentage of gay men in this group, although this might be influenced by the fact that a man in a green argyle cardigan ordered a raspberry cosmopolitan. Really? Other than the fact he likes men, that has to be the gayest thing about that guy. Incidentally, because he was obviously gay, he was the least annoying because he wasn't trying to prove his manhood in front of all these other half drunk men. I swear the ratio of men to women here is at least 12-1. And the few women that stroll in are older than me by at least 20 years and are probably married to one of the guys. I think it's official, airport hotels are the worst places to meet women (especially in my age bracket) or to meet someone worth talking to (although, I've heard many women claim that this is just a generality).
Anyways, I can't wait to blow this taco stand and head on down to Pichilemu, Chile, the land of endless left pointbreaks and underage women. I can say that I'll be surfing quite a lot, due to the fact that I have an aversion of doing any sort of jail time, especially in third world countries. Although, I should be fair, I am going to catch the tail end of summer so maybe, just maybe I meet some college girl back for the holiday. That's just wishful thinking though, because I'm really going down to see my Chilean mom, the crazy Pati, because she developed hyperthyroidism and her body decided that being 4'10'' and 110 was too big, so it dropped 30 pounds. I'm nervous to see her because I'm hoping she is doing better. She had an allergic reaction to the normal treatment of hyperthyrodism (which I'm told is relatively simple and painless), so this second treatment coming up is really important. I know she has to go to Santiago for a couple of days right when I first get there to check up on her second treatment, so I'm hoping things go well.
So now I'm going to go back to what I do, Scrabulous and reading.
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