ManicWorld Magazine

A drizzly Sunday. Yesterday’s mowing and trimming looks good. I cleared around the red cedar, crepe myrtle, and yukka to give them some room. 
Over the woods and past the river to the surf. 

A place of contrasts. 
The squatter’s ranch across the road from the fancy one. Ted said by the time his father realized he owned that land across the street the squatter had lived there long enough to lay claim to it.

The ocean is the same color as the sky, a blue grey. A slight wind ripple. 
Shoulder high sets with only a half dozen of us out. Yass.
I elevate backside, ride toward the rocks, turn and try to finish it out as a left.  I rise up on a left, it is going to get by me, I scurry to the front of the board and make a late drop. Find the sweet spot, accelerate, ride all the way to the inside, dive headlong over the back. 
A wave breaks on me as I attempt a whitewater take off. 
Get up on a solid right, make a hard backside bottom turn as I go quickly past a man who makes a camera with both hands and snaps a pretend photo. I smile by habit. Find another section and another.
Something breaches the water forty yards out. A large seal.

“Sophie,” I call to her quietly. 

There is a shrine and painting on the seawall for Patrick. Flowers, a plastic Elephant, a tequila bottle, a photo. I don’t have my glasses but he doesn’t look familiar.

Back in cell range my daughters have texted fourteen times concerning window shopping opportunities. 
This fire station is effectively a garage and rest stop at this point. All of us active firefighters live closer to the other station. I think we are going to give our old truck to Mexico and receive a newer wildland truck as hand me down from the larger department. 

It wouldn’t be a bad drive down there if I had the time. I did it once the other direction. Four long fascinating days from Mexico City. Doobies, Pemex stations, Federales, mountains, plains, listening to the Mexican radio. Kelly and I trading off at the wheel of the trusty VW Rabbit.

That’s when I saw the fastest breakfast cook in America in southern Arizona. A skinny dude named Frank. No written tickets, the waitresses just lean back and yell the orders to him. 

“Hey Frank! Over easy, hash, wheat. Bacon ched omelet muff. Tall stack ham steak side.”

He turns around and starts cooking, like his hair is on fire but smooth and efficient.

We are coming down the mountain above the fog at dawn. I turn off my headlamp. There is a small fox in the road. Willa the Bullmastiff wants to give chase.  I tell her, I don’t think you are ever catching them, even if I was an Englishman on horseback with plaid pants and a horn.

I am riding shoulder high backside waves as a cargo ship makes its way across the horizon. This is a break from normal studies so I won’t write a couple paragraphs about the economics of tariffs. Or about how Trump wants to reopen Alcatraz, the only prisoner there should be him. 
Our beautiful city of San Francisco is just a strong swim away mister.
Hegseth will signal when the tide is in your favor.

Mary waves her hands in the air as she goes left. 

“That was a Maverick’s wave on my own scale,” she is beaming. 

“A steep drop,” I add.

“I will remember that one. Normally I just paddle back out and forget them.”

“Did you hear the traffic report? Two surfboards in the middle lane of 101. Someone was having a real bad day.”

“I lost a board by W—ville one time, went back and looked all through the fields and never found it.”

A trio of Pelicans angles in almost touching the wave behind me. 

The hay trucks line up for harvest at the farm by the reservoir.


Trump is in a jungle hideaway making a drug deal. He is dressed in all black speaking fluent Spanish with English subtitles,

“Marco put the fifty kilos in your carro, or the more classic coche, if I may. You got the money? Ok excellent I won’t even count it. It is a pleasure and we will be in touch. Marco, is the boat ready? I took my motion sickness pills this time.”

He wakes up in the White House primary bedroom. Sweaty and in his red silk, with little white MAGAs, jammies. Laura Loomer is stroking his forehead.

“Don, honey, what’s wrong?”

“I had a dream I was exiled to Venezuela.”

“Oh sweety, it just didn’t ever never happen, like nine eleven.”

He turns his head and gives her an incredulous look.

“You are out of your mind, but so hot.”

They make out.

“What should I wear today?”

“Hmm… I’m thinking your blue suit and handsome red tie.”

“You gonna go fire some people?”

“Just going online so far, investigative journalism.”

It is a shame Saturday Night Live doesn’t return my calls. Nothin. Crickets.

I read about the three star Dutch chef who interspersed humble local ingredients with fancy ones, ahead of his time. Jonnie Boer. Played loud rock in the dining room. His wife took care of the wines and they had another place in Curacao.

The early Sunday drive is easy without the commuters and road crews. The report shows eight foot waves, low tide, a serious wind kicking up later. Three people smoking weed across the street have Maine plates. I ask if they have a favorite surf spot there. They live too far from the ocean. 

Ooh, the water is cold. It happens in late spring. Not eight foot but plenty of juice. 
I ride a couple of rights from well outside the rock. Paddle over to the left. Pop up frontside, catch a nice face, top turn, down the line. Coming back out two boards collide. I go to catch the loose board, someone gets there first. It is a grom I recognize, a good surfer. He seems to have hurt his hand. 
Now the waves are way outside the rock, going both ways. I make a whitewater take off that never amounts to anything exciting. 

“Shook em ma ah ley,” one dude says to his friend.
Farsi? I think he is saying there is a good set coming.

I have a great session. My ribs and glutes are sore. 
Getting dressed and David rolls down the street in his golf cart. Gives me a fist bump.  

On the deck of the restaurant the guitarist is so skilled at keeping a line with his foot, adding another, and moving on. Now there are three layers.
The manager rolls an umbrella by us.

“This is the least favorite part of my job,” he says.

“How about throwing out a drunk at midnight?”

He gets a big grin, “Oh no, that is fun.”

A major announcement at work. Our region 48 has gotten so big they are dividing it in half. 

“Darn it,” I message my friend, “like when the Fire Department consolidated and I had to change the Station 2 tattoo to a 9. It’s all gothic now.”

This time I think I will go with a pictogram of the four sub appellations; Sleeping Lady Mountain, Chicken, Moon, and Wine Press.
 
Hey nice haircut referee Ed Malloy. What do you even do now that you can’t play Lakers Win?

The guards touch each other with nine seconds left he calls a non existent foul on the Knicks. I answered my own question. I’ll take the raised hand emoji down. 

I paddle out into wind rippled blue gray water. Catch a fat right. A man approaches with a similar painted board and asks what mine is. 

“Scott Anderson.”

“I found this one on the street,” he says, “and got it repaired in the Sunset, it just says Palmer on it.”

“It’s a Mitch Palmer,” I tell him, “he made boards here years ago.”

“Right here?” He loves the provenance.

“Yes. Once this woman told me she left two brand new Palmers in her truck, went out to check the surf, comes back and they’re gone. All kinds of construction workers on the houses by the tennis court, no one admits seeing a thing.”

I meet his daughter, then move to the center of the pack. Suddenly a complete shift change, everyone goes inside or leaves altogether. I enjoy the prime spot for a while, catching frontside and backside waves.

A pair of Chatty Charlies arrive. Their friend is a skilled goofyfoot who is fun to watch. 

Now I take a big bottom turn, centered in the face, down the line and ride a left all the way in. I am tempted to get out on the rockier wrong side again. This time though a couple of paddles brings me to the sand.