Bri's Board and My Theory of Loss

I took Bri's board surfing with Caius and a friend while visiting home for Thanksgiving. There wasn't a very good break at the beach we went to, but the waves were medium-sized and surprisingly strong. I snapped Bri's longboard in half. I didn't do anything special, just got knocked off the board and dragged under by the leash. Another wave followed and snapped the board while I was underwater. That was it.

I really loved that board, which brings me to my theory on the nature of grief and loss. I believe that the emotional fallout of loss, which is to say grieving, is the process of disentangling the lost thing from your vision of the future. I didn't realize it until now, but I really wanted to hang ten off that board.

Bri wasn't overly bummed about losing her board. She had always magnanimously taken my board when the two of us surfed. Our surf guru, my mom's exboyfriend Bob, however, adored it. The board was a full length longboard, broad winged and thin with an extra-light shell. This made it particularly fragile and a rather elegant ride. The board was quite sensitive for its length and could turn as fast as my much shorter board. The broad nose always beckoned me to try and get my toes on it, but it also caught the breeze like a sail, which was especially inconvenient because of the ease with which the board turned.

After the board broke, I gathered up the two pieces and took them home. Caius asked if we could repair it, but breaking in half is universally understood as a surf board's death sentence. Once the wood stringer's integrity is ruined, there's no way to make the board whole again. Bob wanted to make sure we'd kept the pieces, though, because he had a friend who could make a replica based on them. Bob estimated it would cost four hundred to make (the price moderately-used longboards go for in retail surfshops). Knowing Bob and his trouble with alcoholism and, even when sober, with finances, Mom predicted that he'd never get the money together for the board.

That not-quite-loss makes the whole experience more agonizing. The possibility of riding a board like that again makes it that much harder to let go. But let go we must. No good will come from wistfully looking forward to a day that will not come. Unfortunately, Bob left that cursed glimmer of hope and I'll likely have trouble shaking the image of one day riding a board like that. Instead of dealing that loss decisively, that hope will linger and gnaw on dark cold nights. Sometimes I wish that board's reincarnation was impossible.

We also must remind ourselves that, excepting the people we had at birth, loss necessarily must follow gain, and for all that we've had, our lives have been richer for it and we are still the better for it. I'm a much better surfer than I was before I started riding Bri's board.

We should also remind ourselves of all that we still have. Though I transferred technical ownership of my board to Bri, I'll still be able to ride it whenever I get a chance. I've always really liked my board. It doesn't paddle quite as fast or have a broad, inviting nose, but it's a more durable and versatile board. I think every surfboard has something to teach the rider, so my surfing may ultimately benefit when I eventually buy a new board to replace the one I ceded to Bri. Of course, I'll have to return to living on the coast for that to happen.

On Dana Point

I lived in Dana Point from the age of 11 until I left for college. My mom still lives there and my dad still lives in the neighboring town of San Clemente. The pictures were taken my senior year of high school.

Dana Point is a coastal town in Southern California, located almost exactly halfway between Los Angeles and San Diego. Dana Point sits at the southern tip of the greater LA/Orange County metro area along with neighboring San Clemente. To the south of these two beach cities lies a wilderness area dominated by Camp Pendleton. Dana Point gets its name from a mention in Richard Henry Dana's Two Years Before the Mast, where he described throwing cowhides off the bluffs of a cove that served as port for Mission San Juan Capistrano.

Dad, Donna and Bri in the foreground, Dana Point bluffs and harbor in the midground and Catalina Island in the background, January

San Clemente brags that it has the best climate in the world. Both cities have an average 342 days of sunshine and typical highs in the high seventies/low eighties in the summer and low sixties in winter, respectively. Like all of California, the bulk of annual precipitation falls in winter months. However, among the cloudiest months is June, a phenomenon known locally as "June Gloom" and caused by warming ocean temperatures.

Matt Wingert in my front yard, December

Trees commonly planted in Dana Point include palms, eucalyptus and coastal pines. Subtropical and Mediterranean plants are easily grown. Some classic continental plants that require chill or extreme heat are difficult to grow, like cherries and watermelons (though that didn't stop me from growing a 94lb pumpkin). Undeveloped headlands and canyons are mostly coastal sage scrub, a chaparral-type mixture of californian sage, sagebrush, lemonade berry and coyote broom.

Demographics in Dana Point are mixed, not possessing the wealth of northern neighbor Laguna Beach. A significant number of Mexican immigrants and lower-middle class whites live in apartments, while professional class people commute to central Orange County and live in hillside houses with ocean views. The local economy is driven primarily by tourism and the aforementioned commuters. The worst traffic jams in our area happen on sunny Saturday afternoons.

Many neighborhoods in Dana Point were developed slowly enough to evidence an eclectic mix of social classes. The oldest houses are beach cottages, built in the 50's with low square-footage and flat roofs. Many of Dana Point's N-S streets are named various colors of lanterns (ie Blue Lantern, Golden Lantern, Amber Lantern). The town's decor is mariner themed, and houses are frequently painted marine blue-grey. The town has approximately reached build-out, though adjacent landlocked cities demonstrate textbook McMansion sprawl, particularly Laguna Niguel, a place that handily manages to be both much wealthier and much uglier than Dana Point (I have a lot of high school friends from Niguel and that is fact, not opinion).

The local public education system is excellent. Dana Hills High is both a Blue Ribbon and California Distinguished School. It offers a large number of Advanced Placement courses and produces high standardized test scores. The school football team has always sucked. The school surf team is pretty good, but never beats neighboring rivals San Clemente, who frequently contend for the State Championship title.

Prom photo, taken at one of the half dozen locations commonly used for weddings within walking distance of my house, May

The two cities collectively lay claim to a handful of excellent surf beaches that host annual surf contests including Salt Creek, Doheny, T-Street, Trestles and San Onofre. Dana Cove was famous for a surf break called Killer Dana until the harbor was built. Surf culture is everywhere, most visible in the many local board shops, board-laden cars and the popularity of the word "surf" in mostly taqueria restaurant names (one Dana Point restaurant, in fact, succinctly named "Taco Surf"). In addition to both Mexican-owned and white-owned taquerias, the region has a lot of local burger joints that recall the glory days of Southern California car culture, as well as a mix of 20$ entrée restaurants with an emphasis on California cuisine and sushi.

The overall culture is laid back. Politics are mildly conservative. In spite of those politics, hostility towards immigrants is remarkably low. Upper-middle class people either appreciate the Mexican immigrant population for services rendered (though I don't know anyone with an in-house maid, as pop culture might have you believe of OC, even in Laguna) or respect them for their strong work ethic. The stereotype of the lazy Mexican has always struck me as a foreign idea, product of Los Angeles demographics.

View of my neighborhood from my front yard, February

I live in a beach cottage in a mixed-income part of town. The yard is fronted by a couple of Canary Island Date Palms. It takes me 20 minutes to walk to Doheny with my surfboard underarm. I love the diversity of houses here. I love the weather, especially the foggy and cloudy days. I love the smell of sagebrush. I love getting burritos after a day at the beach with friends. I love walking downtown to pick up avocados from little Mexican markets. I love that my prom photos have a backdrop most wedding photos would be in envy of (in fact, Brandon's cousin flew from the east coast to get married in Dana Point this weekend). I love hearing Bandas on the neighbor's radios. I love Dana Point.

Wipe Out!

Since I moved, the route to school is mostly a long straightaway on Anderson road. The result has been my riding harder and riding faster than any time since early freshman year. I've been pushing my physical limits, developing some impressive quads, and pushing my bike's limits, sometimes skidding slightly around campus traffic circles.

So this afternoon on my way home for lunch, it was to my surprise when I was passed by a bicyclist with a nice road bike. This happens maybe twice a month. I caught up to him on the next red light and I decided to draft him when it turned green. I found that I only had to pedal intermittently to keep up with him. My chain needs lube, so every time I pedaled there was an audible grinding sound. The rider turned around and told me so. I said that I knew and asked if it was alright that I was drafting him. He nodded his assent. A block later he prepared to turn onto his street. I laid into the pedals to squeak through a yellow light, feeling pretty good about myself. I was going extremely fast and still pedaling as I began to cross lanes for my upcoming left turn.

I've long been aware of the similarities between bike riding and surfing. The sensation of flying, the casualness of countersteering and the rush of a smooth, deep turn make the resemblance unmistakable.

One crucial difference is the inevitability that when you wipe out on a bike, it will hurt. Never mind submerged rocks or shallow water, the pavement is right there waiting for you. I think the knowledge that you are gliding over hard, unfriendly stone is one of the most magical things about the bicycle.

I looked to the oncoming traffic to time my turn. There was plenty of space behind the last car, so I cut across early and hard. I got greedy and pedaled through the turn for additional speed. That's when my pedal dug into the pavement and launched the Ash Maiden and I across the street.


This was the fourth wipeout of my college career and by far the most badass. Never have I wiped out at such obscene speed. I bruised my heel hard enough that I've got a limp, my chain derailed and my hip was shredded red from the landing, but otherwise it was a practically bloodless wipe.



Some might take away the lesson to ride less recklessly. Not so for yours truly. I learned to make sure to tuck in my feet on my next high speed turn.

The Central Coast

Before the start of school I visited Southern California for a few days before embarking on a road trip with my mom and sister up the central coast to drop Bri off at UC Santa Cruz for her freshman year. As you can imagine, the trip necessitated some serious photography. Not one to shirk duty, I nearly filled up both memory sticks and ran through three sets of batteries.



We camped in San Simeon State Beach on our first night and the next morning we went for a walk.



Later that day, we stopped to see an elephant seal colony.


After camping in Big Sur, we arrived in Santa Cruz. Waiting in a line for unloading directions I noticed Brandon's distinctive political bumper stickers on the red minivan in front of us. His brother happened to be moving into the building next to my sister's.

Though Bri had been freaking out about the move the entire trip and we bailed on her that evening, when we brought her her mini fridge the next morning she already seemed to be flourishing.

Mom and I left up Pacific Coast Highway on a pilgrimage to Mavericks. We found the surf shop that held exclusive rights to the name in the middle of an industrial section of Princeton-by-the-Sea, a fishing village just north of Half Moon Bay.


In all of my travels through California that week I didn't find a town nearly so charming as this harbor hamlet. I resolved to spend a summer there if I get the chance.



Those rocks are a half mile out to sea and are threaded by the brave surfers of Mavericks. The biggest rock is almost two stories high. That day I was repeatedly informed that it was too flat to surf. Everybody there seemed to have a distorted understanding of the term "flat".