Sitting in the Fog

I’ve been adding and subtracting to the following collection of words for too long, trying to make sense of this moment in time. I don’t know if this is a collective weird moment, or if I’m just sliding into an unfamiliar season.

I spent a recent morning in a blanket of fog that started at the 101 and was thick enough to camouflage the grey set waves. Everything blended and I couldn’t see the landmarks on the shore. The landmarks tell me where I am. The white stairs zigzag up the cliff, and that’s the good break. There is a round house up there that tells me I’ve drifted too far south. The break is called round house because surfers aren’t that creative with names. I paddled deeper into the fog when I thought I could see a set wave coming, or when I felt the bumps of energy travel under my floating board. That gentle rise and fall means something might be coming, or it could mean nothing.

Sometimes you have to trust your gut, so I paddled further out, beyond the handful of other surfers in the water. I’d done this a couple of times, and there was nothing there, just the fog and the gray. But this time I guessed right and rode the clean face to the shore, making a few slow turns, the only turns I have left. It was a quiet walk along the rocky shore to the stairs. The rocks come back every winter. I thought of luck and gut feelings because there was something there in the fog.

It’s isolating and lonely in that small circle of sight, but that small circle is everything, and I’m learning to love that small circle.

It’s my wife and kids.

It’s the small group of friends who share weekly trails and beers.

It’s the text chain of a few guys recording guitar and sending songs to each other.

It’s my fuck you to the screens that do their best to isolate us, market to us, market us, and divide us. I like being in the water because it’s the one place I can’t reach for my phone. I’ve realized my favorite things to do are also the activities where I can’t access my phone. All this access has become too much for me. I had to place a blocking app on my phone that has me do some convoluted things to be able to open social media for 5 minutes. TV is too slow now. I reach for the small screen because the medium screen is too slow.

It’s sitting in the fog and choosing to be there, hoping that this is the right place. Feeling the energy and knowing that eventually, you’ll make that slow, but happy walk along the shore. It’s the disappearing footprints of hundreds of trips to this same spot and the special moments that come once in a while.

Recently, it’s sharing those moments in the water with my son. I watch from the back as the wave folds over him and I can see his body twisting, gaining speed, the sun shining through the spray, faster down the line on his small board than I could ever hope for. He paddles back out and one side of his mouth forms a smile.

As long as that small circle is there, I feel okay. It can be unsettling when time loses its track, when the fog feels like deprivation of more than just sight.

Last Friday, the fog came again, and we paddled out again. I kept thinking about the small circle. My son was in sight. We’ve been going out like this together for years. And I still worry about the semi-dangerous situations that I place him in. I probably always will even though his skill outpaces mine. I couldn’t see where we were in relation to the shore, but we were out there alone, and the surf was good. The fog kept the normal Friday crowd away.

Eventually, the sun won and through the haze, I could see the shore and an outline of the familiar houses on the bluff that told me where I was. We had drifted pretty far south, so we paddled together. The circle grew a little larger and the haze started to disappear, and we could see a faint fog rainbow to the north. It was a beautiful sight, one I hadn’t seen before. Just enough of a rainbow to give me that taste, to keep me coming back.

And we’ll keep coming back, hoping it will be amazing, yearning for that all-time day when everything just clicks. And it rarely does, but that small taste will expand in your soul and keep you coming back until the joints are rusty and the pain outweighs the joy. When that happens, I hope I’m content watching with the other old guys at the top of the stairs, morning coffee in hand.

The morning haze that has been heavy this winter cleared by Christmas, and Santa fucking delivered. We woke up at 5:30 AM Christmas morning because the swell was good, and we wanted to be home in time to open presents and eat breakfast, my wife’s famous Eggs Benedict. Gone are the days when my kids wake up before sunrise to see if Santa came, so my son and I had some time.

I’ll always remember my favorite present this year, seeing a set wave build and yelling Go, go, go at my son as he turned, paddled confidently, and glided down the face of a wave twice his height.

I had a chance to thank Santa (yes, the real one) as we washed the salt water out of our wetsuits, but I couldn’t wash the smile off my face. Santa had a busy morning ahead of him, heading to a hospital to make some kids happy, but he still had time to come over and talk to us about the surf.

His circle is wider than mine, and there is some kind of lesson here about growth and trying harder, and generosity of spirit, and an answer to why I feel the fog creeping in. And I’m trying to get there. It’s a work in progress, and I have to remember that we all are.

Thanks for taking the time to read.