wb surf

my life in wrightsville beach, starting today

wish i'd had my camera
wbsurf
At the pier: another 65 degree day, overcast, NE wind, no one surfing, intimations of things to come.  Nothing summerish here.

While standing on the wooden steps behind the restaurant (facing the ocean) this afternoon, a brownish bird a tad smaller that a crow landed on the flight of steps above me.  He was clutching two packets of pink sweetener in his claws, which he stood on.  He immediately began to peck into the packet, and every time he withdrew his beak, a tiny bit of white powder would fly out.  Soon he had a fine mist of it on the top of his beak.  It wasn't Scarface, but it was pretty funny.



The Oceanic.

right here, right now
wbsurf
It feels like I'm now living on the other side of the mirror.  Two weeks into my time here it was all about looking forward to waves, summer, new friends, the unknown --  and I couldn't wait to have it all unfurl.  Today, with two weeks left to go in WB, a heavy slate sky, a chilly north wind blowing -- I feel sick with . . .  not exactly loss, but with the end.  There will be a last wave, a final sunset, a few good-byes and an melancholic look or two at the ever-changing/always there Banks Channel, and then I'm gone. 

Not that I'm complaining.  Back in Atlanta I'll see family and friends I haven't seen for months.  There are birthdays and anniversaries and holidays coming up.  Pamella and I will be starting a new chapter together.  I can do some Bikram yoga again!  And, I'll come back to WB next year.  But for now, a little depression is not only inevitable, it's probably good for the soul:  although I've tried to be in the right here/right now/in-the-moment/these-are-the-good-old-days frame of mind for the past 6 months (and, I think, succeeding most of the time), in lots of ways, you don't really know what you've got til it's gone.


outlaw
wbsurf
All the fake airline tickets, bad credit cards, scams, petty larcenies, etc., finally caught up with Dora in the early '80s.  He goes to jail at the age of 47 --  no money, no waves, no nuthin'.  From the book:  "Deputy Padillas described defendant as 'the biggest crybaby and hypochondriac we have ever seen.  He refuses to do anything and won't even clean his own cell.  He always claims he is too ill to do anything, but is always the first to go out for exercise'."  --p. 269

"I called Lompoc.  He'd been released two days earlier.  His exit photo showed him with very short hair and a ZZ Top beard.  He looked like Rip van Winkle after the Apocalypse, or a wandering mad monk."  David Rensin, p. 276

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