Tag Archives: Travel

Book Review: “A Surfing Life” by William Finnegan

“A Surfing Life”, by William Finnegan

For those who have never surfed and never aspired to, this book may serve to offer insight into the obsessive nature and culture of the sport. However, the descriptions of waves and ocean dynamics, and pages about “making” a wave (and what that means), might cause you to question why you picked this tome. For the rest of us—those of us who have dabbled, aspired to surf, tried to learn when we’re probably too old, or have admired surfing for the visual beauty of the sport—for us, this book is an opportunity to get a glimpse of where we may never go: the green room, the long ride, the perfect wave, the mind of the surfer.

Finnegan’s youthful global surfing oddysey, which gradually continued into middle age, is filled with the adventures of a generation. His language is lyrical and fluid. It’s not all drug or wave inspired reverie and mysticism. Finnegan struggles as a writer, struggles with family, with relationships, and with his devotion and addiction to surfing. He has concerns about (real estate) “development”. Like many tourists who discover an untouched paradise, he hopes his discoveries remain pristine. (They don’t.) He laments the commercialization of Tavurua, where he and some others found “the perfect wave”. In later years he sees the EU-ization of the island of Madeira.

It’s all good until this paradox plays out for him in his stinging diatribe about competition in a sport that is largely non-competitive, the intrusion of corporate culture and mass media, and the popularization of the sport itself. He writes, “Still I find it unsettling when random Manhattanites jauntily announce that they surf. Oh yes, they say, they learned how on vacation last summer in Costa Rica.”

Now wait a minute. And he has gone on about this elsewhere:

“I wish, selfishly, that surfing would become uncool, leaving the waves to a few die-hards. That’s not going to happen. What is going to happen, most likely, is the Olympics, and another wave of growth and commercialization.”
“Surf for Love not for Gold”, from the New York Times

Bill dude, I will never be a surfer of your calibre or experience, and I enjoyed and recommend your book, but please don’t pick on casual surfers! We’re not groms, maybe some are posers, but mostly we’re newbies. We’re not trying to be “cool”. We want that ride. We want that wave. Just like you.

Peace out.

—Christo

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🌎 The Air We Breathe

Twenty years ago, maybe, the ozone layer was a big issue, and most anyone with eyes and a brain was at  least starting to think about “global warming*”.

It was summer, and coincidentally, I was at a picnic with family friends, one of whom was a government-employed environmentalist. The topic came up, we talked about automobile pollution and coal-fired power plants. It was a warm, pleasant afternoon in beautiful, Western Central New Jersey, and for the most part the sky was blue, with long white whisps high above, the man-made clouds that scar the sky, especially along those “skyways” from East to West that originate on the East Coast and point to California and beyond.

Mike, our hero, a bearded and unabashed ex-counterculture person (those of you too young to understand, would likely—and incorrectly—label him a “hippie”), paused from the discussion and gazed upward. “I wonder,” he said, without taking his eyes off the sky, “How long before we realize that is the real culprit…”

“Jets?” I asked.

“Jet exhaust, airline fuel.”

“They’ve done a great job cleaning up jet exhaust.” I said. Adding, “When I was a kid it was brown smoke spewing out like a diesel truck!”

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“Unfortunately,” he said, “It’s a global world now, and everyone, everything, businesses, and governments are hooked on the ability to move people and goods quickly over vast distances-through the air. They’ve only made the pollution invisible. The truth is we’re spewing tons of hot, microscopic exhaust particles and vapor into the upper atmosphere, non-stop, every day, in massive and increasing amounts.”

“Is there science about that?”

“Not enough. And even if there is, nobody wants to know about it. Internal combustion for cars, energy for homes, powerplants. They can all be replaced and supplanted by solar, wind, all kinds of renewable alternatives. But have you ever heard of a solar powered 747? When statistics are published about “contributors to air pollution” jet exhaust is never mentioned. It’s not on the map. It’s like there’s a secret agreement to ignore it. Nobody is going to stop this. The answer is right there, in our faces, so obvious, and we are blind to it. We want to be blind to it.”

Ironically there was even an episode of “Star Trek the Next Generation” that metaphorically addressed this topic: It becomes clear to one species that all that warping around from planet-to-planet at faster-than-light speeds is tearing the fabric of the universe. Gosh darn it. Captain Picard and his whacky crew investigate and find that this is in fact true! Star Fleet is duly informed, and except for the most dire of planet-threatening emergencies, a moratorium is placed on traveling at faster than light speed – or is it faster than warp four or five? Anyway, this restriction is mentioned in one or two later episodes, and then without warning, it’s gone! Back to the ol’ routine. Make it so!! And there you have it. A Gene Roddenberry history of the human race.

That’s all. That’s the story. Not much has changed. That New Jersey summer conversation nested in the back of my brain for all these years like some obscure conspiracy theory. I thought about it after 9/11, when the skies got a short break and were eerily free of planes. And time moves on, and my gosh, humans move on. I’d heard about, and known people who had jobs requiring them to travel the world. You usually just think about the glamour and the glory. Not the impact. Hey, Tokyo, Seoul, Paris. I’ve been there. Once in a very rare while you hear about a business, or person like Al Gore, who supposedly has an awareness of what has come to be called his “carbon footprint”, and actually tries to mitigate it. “I flew to Singapore, so I’m paying to preserve some rain forest.” But more and more I hear about global commuters. Not the silver-haired CEOs in First Class, not people who have occasional “business travel”, but people who actually commute via jet every day to Boston from Philadelphia. Or every week or two to Europe…It’s kind of crazy. What does it mean? For anyone? For the planet? And now I’m one of them. What am I supposed to do? Stop? Just say no? I need to work. I want to see the world too. Maybe it’s really not a problem. Right? Right?

*Global Warming – I’m not a scientist, but I’ll talk about it. It means the planet is getting warmer. And that’s what it feels like to me. There’s enough science (if you read) to understand that man has had a significant causal influence on this. And there’s also enough science to call it “global climate change” if you prefer, (since some people have their pants scared off, by the “w” word). It’s happening, warming, warming causing “change”, whatever.

Shelter in the Night

Boston, Massachusetts
Tuesday, March 24, 1981

Every morning the blackbirds fly to the east in long arching streams. A continuous band comes over the condo project across the street and disperses in a scattered line that breaks up the failing pink of the dawn as they head, approximately, for the ocean.

All winter, as I crossed the street, the wind cutting cold through my trouser legs, my cheeks red, scraped by the raw, I suspected that the blackbirds had set some dubious course for their migration and it was taking them to the coast before they turned south. Through the entirety of that season they persisted, crowding their sky-lane silently as their path intersected the man paths below. Did they ever actually leave? Were these the same birds? Every day?

One late afternoon I thought I’d discovered at least part of their secret.

I was waiting near the Brigham hospital for a bus. An agitated whirring drew my attention to the bare trees in the neighborhood nearby. Blackbirds filled the boughs, hopping about, leaning and looking, as if waiting for some imperceptible signal. One or two birds in the highest branches of each tree tested the air, springing free, five, ten, fifteen feet vertically; their greatest leaps mimicked by as many as five or six converts from the lower realm. These preliminary sortees gained in frequency and magnitude, clusters of birds circling the trees and then lighting again. And then springing spontaneously from the midst of hesitance and confusion, one bird shot with urgency and conviction into the darkening sky. Others followed at virtually the same moment, and then more, in ranks, one after the other, filling the air again with that dark scattered stream. The winding, blackbird cloud, swirled its way to the south, yet the buzzing, whirring remained. Many birds were left in the trees. Some, unsure, had peeled off from the original departing flock; others, anxious but not yet ready, never left the limbs.

Gradually the performance was repeated several times by those remaining, each a near duplication of the last—except for the deepening background of evening that was making the performers indistinguishable from their perches. Finally they all took wing, vacating the last trees in an instant, rushing to some goal beyond the approaching gloom, seeking companionship on the journey, or shelter in the night. 

Gone. Activity and noise receded like a wave, leaving a brief and sudden silence, until the #69 bus surged through the darkness, illuminating flecks of rain in the soft sphere of yellow light it pushed before it.

Your Air Freshener Makes Me Sick

SmellyTreeDeodorizerRant. Don’t read this if you don’t want to hear me go on about it. Seriously. Those bright colored Christmas Trees made of felt and soaked in some un-Godly formulation of toxic and aromatic chemicals that people put in their cars. Why?? I’d rather smell the rotting Burger King leftovers under your back seat than the chemical stench that overwhelms me when you open your car door. I can walk down the sidewalk and tell you which cars have these things in them just by smelling the air around the car. It’s AWFUL. Am I the only one who thinks so? When I’m traveling, and have a driver taking me to the airport, the only way to make a worse beginning to the trip than sitting in a car with an “Air Freshener” for an hour, is to do it with a stomach full of coffee. Oh yea, sitting on 95, stop and go Philly traffic with coffee sloshing around in my belly and overwhelmed by the noxious “freshener”. That is my Hell.

Once I knew someone who didn’t believe the smell was really so strong and obnoxious to me. I cannot tell you how many times I asked her to get rid of it. I begged her to throw it away. I swore I wouldn’t complain about it again if she would just take it out of the car before I got in. Finally, one day, as I was getting into her car she said, “It’s gone.”

“No, it’s not.” I replied.

“Oh, sure it is,” she said. “I threw it out. You must just be smelling the residual remains of it being in here!”

I took a whiff. “No, you’re just kidding, right? I can smell it strongly.”

“No,” she insisted. “It’s gone. Can’t we just drive?”

“Okay, one sec,” I said, looking around. Nothing obvious. I popped open the glove box, pushed a few envelopes aside. Found the f***ing phosphorescent Christmas Tree. Threw it out the window.

“Okay, drive.” I said.

Bitch.

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To the Guy in the Pinto Wagon

Dude! It was just a merge!

To the guy in the Pinto wagon who followed me twenty miles across New Jersey. Oh sure, when I first realized that you really were angry, and you were honking and shouting at me (with your window up), I thought I should pull off the road and kick your ass. My second reaction? This guy is obviously nuts, and might have a gun or other weapon, or at least, be someone who would get some weird satisfaction from smashing my window with a brick. Yea, that would be fair retribution for pulling ahead of somebody when the two lanes merge.

But most of my male defensive rage disappeared not long after you stopped honking your horn – which I remind you, you must have had going for a mile or two at least, from one backed up stop light to the next, down 206. So how could you work so hard to hang onto your anger? I started to become rational—even compassionate—very quickly. You must have had a pretty bad morning, or a pretty bad life, up to that point, to be so angry with a total stranger who just pulled in front of you at a merge. And then to follow me? And glare at every intersection? You had plenty of opportunity to pull ahead and get where you were going faster, if that was really what was important. But you stayed angry, and kept shouting obscene threats to your closed window, and kept following me. I got to experience a fear. What if this guy is more than a little nuts? What if he’s a Psycho-killer??

Then my survival instinct kicked in. If you were going to follow and attack me, sucker, I was gonna make damn sure you’d pay for your insane craziness. Oh yea. You stay behind me? I’ll pull into a Starbucks parking lot and see how committed you are. I’ll wait until you pull in behind me, then I…do something. Drive away, run you over, call the cops, or the baristas. But you know, once you start thinking about this, letting your imagination run, you can just go to incredible extremes with it. What if this guy gets my license number? Manages to find out where I live? And so on.

At that point I figured it out. Take the iPhone, take good picture. Get a record of the guy’s face, of his car. And I did. And make sure he sees me taking the picture. For extra measure, I might tweet it. Internet to the rescue. Sort of.

Because really, he was in the slow lane. I was in the fast lane. The lanes merged. He pulled forward, I pulled forward. He backed off his accelerator, I didn’t. It was just a merge. Dude! It was just a merge!!

Surf School in Costa Rica

July 22, 2012

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In the air
Since there is no cellular capability in my iPhone, and no Wi Fi on the plane for my iPad, I am out of touch with the Inkernet, and the rest of the electronic world for the first time in recent memory. Even at 5000 feet in the cow town backwoods of Elko, there is at least spotty cellular. Not here.

So, a chance to write.

I’m out of my element. This place is paradise. But another day or two, and I’ll be more laid back. It is really…not sure what the best word is. Primitive. We have some of the amenities – like Internet. But there is no phone service unless I walk to the cafe down the road. Speaking of the roads, they are almost impassable – rutted dirt – most people here ride dirt bikes or quads to get around. We are surrounded by jungle, with the beach just a bit down the road. The hotel is a loose affiliation of relatively new buildings constructed of stone or stucco with tin or tile roofs. Between them and the small pool and lounging deck is the bar/restaurant, wood pole construction in classic “tiki-bar” style, essentially open on three of four sides. There are paths around the lush gardens leading to a few private tables, to the laundry and office, and to the board rack and shower – I don’t think this is actual rain forest here, but it is tropical. I’ve heard but not seen interesting birds except hummingbirds. There are howler monkeys and iguanas, and sea turtles, also which I have not yet seen. Many of the surfing teachers have dogs, and they are accepted as part of the community.

Speaking of which, it’s been a long time since I have been around a community of surfers. I forgot how odd they are. The men are all beautiful, absolutely ripped, almost invariably with thick shaggy hair – depending on ethnicity, they are blond, or they have dark hair bleached by the sun. If they are of a background that gives them the right kind of hair, they have pony tails or dreadlocks. If they are old, they look young. A few, I think the older men, have short or shaved hair like mine. Most are tattooed, some extensively. They are all relaxed, comfortable with their bodies, part of nature, at ease in the moment.

The women are a bit harder to characterize, but they seem to fall into two classes: those who surf “inside” and those who go “outside”. “Inside” is in the foam, after the big waves break, closer to shore. That’s where the novices learn the basics, or play if they never graduate to the big waves. I rank these girls in the same group as those who don’t surf at all, but who are definitely part of the scene. The women who go “outside” are pretty much accepted as equals by the experienced male surfers. Though I’m not sure, I think you can pick them out – at the beach because they are carrying boards-away from the beach, because they stand tall and straight, and have confidence, and talk with the men about what the men talk about – the waves, the tide, the ride, because they know, as the men know, that they love the water, and there is nothing else that is so important, no love that matters more, than the next wave, the next long ride.

This is the heart of the surfer. They love life, they are in the flow, they live in the moment, it is about the experience, their experience, and not about thought, past, or memory, or anyone else.

Hang Ten,

—Christo

Sent from my iPad