Sunrise, Sunset II

I didn't bother trying to stay awake for the drive from LA. In the past I'd got drunk as a monkey before check-in but this time I had reason to go straight to bed. After the usual petty grumbling about his room from the same petulant wankshaft, I got into a real bed around 3.30.

I was awakened from my fuzzy slumber at 7.15 and almost went back to bed, but soldiering on, I packed my bag and went downstairs for breakfast.

Following a quick trip to the bus to raid the beer fridge, the cooler was packed and we were on our way to Mission Beach, San Diego. Sitting on the near-deserted beach at 8.30 in jeans and a jacket, ominous clouds overhead, I was wishing I'd stayed in bed.

Not being the greatest swimmer, I let my regular off-day buddy Crabman go first. The other guy, Lobsterboy, had his own board and suit so he would act as instructor.

When I finished laughing my ass off at watching Crabman get dunked by the waves, it was my turn. lobsterboy, in broken English, gave me the very basics on paddling out, surviving breaking waves and sitting up on the board.

Then he high-fived me, said 'you are surfer now!' and fucked off.
Now, I know a lot has been written about the sea and surfing. Surfers have a certain 'you wouldn't understand, mere land-person' attitude. But there's definitely something special about it.

Once you're in there, paddling for dear life to catch up with your buddy, regularly rolling under the breakers or getting ripped from the board, the sea is a beast. It doesn't want you there, wants to dump you back on the sand. I knew standing up would be a struggle, most likely would never happen on my first day. I knew it would be tiring. I wasn't anticipating a David & Goliath-style battle of wits.

I expected the tide would be regular, like that part in Papillon where he counts the waves, times his leap and in doing so avoids the deadly rocks, instead being flumed harmlessly out to open sea and escape. This was not the case. Some waves were only feet apart, so that if you survive the first lashing, you find yourself scrambling in a trough, a bigger wave breaking right over you.

It's a weird feeling to be belly-deep in water one second, then be 15 feet from seabed the next. Or to be thrown from your board, the waves roaring over your head and the force of the wave dragging you by the ankle back towards shore. In 2 seconds you can be 30 feet closer to the beach, coughing and spluttering, stinging from the shock of the wave or maybe the board hitting you on the head as it's forced from the water.

Pretty soon we were all exhausted, and collapsed on our little spot of safety with a beer. For Lobsterboy it was simply hair of the dog, for us a hard-earned reward. As the tide died down and the waves got more crowded, Lobsterboypassed out, so Crabman and I went out together for a while, laughing at each other's misfortunes.

This time I felt different about the waves; less frightened yet more wary. Up to now I'd been fighting against the sea, and unless you're that guy with the blue penis in Watchmen, that's pretty much an unwinnable battle. Now I was treating it more like a difficult friend; employing techniques to get my way, treating it with caution and respect.

Being rushed towards the shore at an unexpected pace, I managed to stand for a brief, shining half-second before tumbling into the surf in a foot of water. Lobsterboy seemed to sense it, as he rose from his coma to witness the glorious moment.And yet, something overshadowed this shining day. As you all know, yesterday was Fathers' Day. This one was different for me, as rather than being the one who had to buy a card, I actually received a card.

But being away from Trousers Jr and Mrs Trousers was more difficult than I ever imagined it would be. It's difficult anyway, being so far away and knowing Mrs T is raising him pretty much single-handed.

But seeing young fathers on the beach with their sons, digging sandcastles and throwing balls? Yep, there was sand in my eyes yesterday. That must have been it.

Sunrise, Sunset

In a world of mid-life crises and weekend motorcyclists, my dad remains a true man of the woods. Just as the sun will rise in the early maudley, so my dad would turn up filthy at 5 oclock every night and eat his tea whilst watching Neighbours. I used to believe him when he'd come back with a bag full of fish on autumn nights, saying he'd opened the back doors of the van by the riverbank and the fish just jumped in.
I regret the fuzzy contempt I held for him when I was 19 or so (ten freakin years ago!) and working with him as a lumberjack. In my defense I was a terrible pothead- waking up at 5am to drive to Scotland and drag a steel rope up a muddy hill was never going to be easy. Tree-murder is a pretty dangerous job. Nature will bite back at any given opportunity. Despite a catalogue of injuries, he still finds time to get on the European history trail with this, his 1938 Matador, lovingly restored from scrap.
Now aged 69, he's still out there making his own living, and a couple of years back he and his lifelong friend 'Dangerous' Ken built my sister's house. And a damn fine job they did, too.

Easily as hard and as resourceful as Jason Bourne, I'd say. Obviously this is a bit of a mushy post, but I feel my dad deserves some credit, even as I continually let him down. Happy Fathers' Day, Beardface.

The Quiet Man

This man is coming to visit me in a few days. No doubt he'll turn my bathroom into some kind of tannery.

In a world of mid-life crises and weekend motorcyclists, my dad remains a true man of the woods. Just as the sun will rise in the early maudley, so my dad would turn up filthy at 5 oclock every night and eat his tea whilst watching Neighbours. I used to believe him when he'd come back with a bag full of fish on autumn nights, saying he'd opened the back doors of the van by the riverbank and the fish just jumped in.
I regret the fuzzy contempt I held for him when I was 19 or so (ten freakin years ago!) and working with him as a lumberjack. In my defense I was a terrible pothead- waking up at 5am to drive to Scotland and drag a steel rope up a muddy hill was never going to be easy. Tree-murder is a pretty dangerous job. Nature will bite back at any given opportunity. Despite a catalogue of injuries, he still finds time to get on the European history trail with this, his 1938 Matador, lovingly restored from scrap.
Now aged 67, he's still out there making his own living, and a last year he and his lifelong friend 'Dangerous' Ken built my sister's house. And a damn fine job they did, too.

Easily as hard and as resourceful as Jason Bourne, I'd say. Obviously this is a bit of a mushy post, but I feel my dad deserves some credit, even as I continually let him down. And if you don't like it, I'll set The Beard on you.