the water log

At Sunset Cliffs today, a bit of swell showed up, though definitely a few notches below what we’d been expecting from TS Fabio. The lineup vibe was fun, about 10 people out, all thankful for an escape from the heatwave on land. 

A guy paddles out, face smeared in blue zinc. I can tell by the way he paddles and the way he sizes up each set, he’s out there to shred, and he doesn’t have time for any of our summer fun bullshit. This is surfing. This is serious.

A set comes through, chest-high at best, rolling in lazily as the Cliffs tends to do. It’s his wave. It’s his time. He’s been waiting a long time for this now, 10, maybe 15 minutes? When you’re frothing like he is, any time spent waiting is wasted time. He lines it up and starts paddling, popping up at the same time as the woman next to him. It’s hard to tell who has priority, he was much further inside but closer to the peak, and she was on her feet before him. Regardless, she doesn’t see him, and that’s a big mistake. He catches up to her, inching as close her as possible before letting out his war cry: “GET THE FUCK OFF MY WAVE.”

Instantly, the mood changes. Like stepping in hot gum on the sidewalk, the carefree summer day now carries with it sticky traces of someone else’s garbage. Not bad enough to ruin everyone’s day, but just annoying enough to be reminded of every step of the way.

Samarria Brevard is now pro for enjoi, much to the chagrin of some cranky bros on the internet. I have to admit, I’ve noticed a considerable drop in hostility, and much more positivity and support for women in the industry. But old habits die hard, and there are still a lot of people who want to keep it a boy’s club.

There’s always the argument when discussing the “fad” of turning women skateboarders pro that it’s simply a clever marketing ploy to sell more product by playing into a trend, and that any “well-deserving” man would simply be overlooked by any company for performing to the same standard.

Of course there’s a physical difference between men and women, and obviously that is going to come into play when discussing any physical endeavor. However, it’s important to note that this is not purely a physical accomplishment. There’s a lot more to being a professional at anything besides this. It’s about skill, yes, but also determination, discipline, and perhaps most importantly, style. 

It’s shocking how little people seem to know about periods. We have the vast expanse of human knowledge available at our fingertips, and yet here we are, arguing over whether or not women can summon apex predators with their vaginas.

 For obvious reasons, this interview with waterman Laird Hamilton has been making the rounds and getting quite a bit of attention. Laird is a living legend, and I’ve watched his films countless times. These comments, however, dealt quite a blow to my perception of him.

 Growing up, I read every women’s surfing magazine I could get my hands on (RIP Surfing Girl). Nearly every issue had a token mention of the fact that no, going in the water while you have your period will not make sharks attack you. It was a question that concerned me greatly, and I was glad to have an answer so readily available. I never did see any mention of it in a mainstream surfing outlet.

 Mark Healy defended Laird’s assumption. Healy’s credentials are listed as being “a true waterman in the fullest sense of the word,” charging big waves, a spearfisher, and that he “regularly swims with sharks.” Healy, who does not menstruate, claims that he’s not being sexist, but that “it’s just nature.”

 If this theory posted by Laird and Mark were true, wouldn’t shark attacks be alarmingly more common and women would be advised against entering the ocean during their periods? In fact, the opposite is true! 94% of recorded shark attacks in Australia have happened to men.

Walking up 25th street, an old woman dressed in a black felt hat, black dress, and black sweater smiled at me as we approached the corner. 

“It's hot out today!” 

I smiled back and said, “Sure is,” assuming that would be the extent of our interaction.

Words came pouring out, her pink lipstick faded and smudged around her mouth, up over her lips.

“I wish I could be dressed like you, in your breezy white shirt. You look like you could be in Miami or New York in the summertime! I can't dress like that though. My sister just passed away. We are from Panama, and she was back home in Panama City. 

It happened so quickly. I didn't have time to fly down there. She didn't want to leave to get radiation therapy, and in two weeks she was gone. That's it. 

My daughter said I need to get outside and stop crying in my house all day. She said getting out into the world will make me feel better. This is the first time I've left my house in a long time. I have to wear this hat because it's so bright out and I have trouble seeing after being inside for so long.

She was my youngest sister, she was the baby. I would like to wear what you’re wearing, nice breezy clothes, but I have to wear this for my sister. I have to do it for her, even in this heat.

At least it is a beautiful day and people are happy. It's nice to be outside and walk around. I'm glad to be outside today!”

Back to the important stuff: I set about this blog with the intention to write about people I admire, specifically women who are doing incredible things like making art, surfing, playing music, and putting positivity into the world. Let's get back to that. Fewer ramblings from my bad days, and more focus on the good, the powerful, the community, and the holy ocean that is my constant source of goodness through it all.

I lie awake and think of all of the other people committing to things like this 100 day challenge and how many have seen it wither in front of our very eyes. There were such high aspirations, this time it would be different, this time I'll show them, whoever they are. I realize I set a lofty, mostly unsustainable goal for myself by declaring I'd write, and publish, 100 posts in as many days.

I don't have as much to say as that type of challenge requires. I have a lot to say, but I want it to be eloquent, worthwhile, and good.

Each day slips past that I haven't posted yet again and I find myself not only worrying that I haven't done my self imposed duty, but what should my next haircut look like and will I be able to negotiate that raise this year and where am I going to live and I forgot to make lunch tomorrow.

Each of those things isolated is not an experience I would care to draw out for the sake of having a new topic or talking point each day. I could barely muster the strength to stare into the screen this late at night, but here I am and it's past my bedtime and the words come spilling out again as they tend to do after a while. This feels much better than hemming and hawing over what to write each day and post at the correct time and make sure that people see it so they know I'm doing it, I'm sticking with it. When social media is your accountability buddy and your online perception is the gauge for success, it stops being fun and starts to induce anxiety.

Perhaps it works for some, but it does not work for me. And that's good, cause now I know.

After writing for months and posting for just under two weeks, I’m questioning my practice and insistence on posting every day. While it’s quite an undertaking to write and put something out into the world each day, I’ve been thinking it’s more important to focus on the quality of what I post, instead of insisting that I post something (anything) every day.

I’d like what I write here to showcase the things I’m proudest of and what I’ve spent a good amount of time and effort on, instead of what I write as the day is coming to an end and I’m panicking about fulfilling a self-imposed deadline.

I’ve already strayed from my initial endeavor of focusing on women’s surfing and skateboarding culture, because I think the topics require much more attention than some blog post thrown together last minute to prove I’m still here.

Today I did a lot of things that made me happy, but the best one was getting on my skateboard and riding down 18th street to the Mission. It’s the perfect slope from my block down to Dolores Park. I can pick up a good amount of speed without having to worry about speed wobbles, and traffic is easy enough to work around.

The best part of my ride is usually from Castro Street down to Sanchez. There’s always a ton of people out walking or at bars, and I can feel them watching me as I fly down the street. I’ve been told I have good style when I push, and I hold onto that compliment dearly. When I skate I feel powerful, I feel joy. I’m exactly who I want to be. Adding to that, I can usually count on at least one person shouting “yeah skater girl!” as I go by, and that affirmation is something I dreamed of as a kid.

Today is not just Good Friday, it’s Great Friday. The 6th Annual Great Friday, in fact. It’s a friend-focused holiday of sorts started in 2012 by my friends Liz and Ian and I, and we’ve made it a point to spend time together (or at the very least, call and toast to each other) on the Friday before Easter for the past few years.

If I’m being completely honest, I’ve been sitting here staring at my screen for about an hour attempting to polish a few words into a more poignant expression of what the day means to me and to my friends. Really, it’s an excuse to catch up, remind the people you love that you love them, and drink. Getting older can be frustrating because it’s easier to fall out of touch with people, and carrying on a tradition like this gives an added sense of purpose to your plans.

In February of 2016, my buddy Ian asked if I’d like to go to Fort Bragg. I didn’t know anything about the place, except they have a tourist attraction known as Glass Beach. Fort Bragg sits in the middle of the Mendocino County coastline, nearly 200 miles up the coast from San Francisco. At the time, the farthest north I’d traveled was Point Reyes, and a long journey up Highway 1 sounded intriguing.

Driving up the 1, we passed through towns whose only semblance of having a population was a post office. The little town of Gualala (pop. 2,093) marks the beginning of Mendocino County, and once we read the name on the county limits sign, we had to say it out loud at least 20 more times. I just said it out loud now writing this. Gualala! It’s always a delight.

On further north along ragged coastline, redwoods, and coral-colored aloe blooms. Upon getting into Bort Fragg proper, first stop was the prestigious International Sea Glass Museum. The museum celebrates the town’s dubious history of dumping their garbage into the ocean and producing a tourist site decades later. Find a red piece of sea glass? That’s incredibly rare! It’s likely from an old tail light of an ancient car chucked off of a cliff after being reported stolen.

We were asked to please not take any sea glass with us, as the thousands of tourists per year have depleted the supply. This made me sad. I had planned to pick up a few souvenirs off the beach, and figured the least I could do was purchase a little package of “starter glass” from the museum. These pieces of glass were tumbled just enough to wear down their sharp edges, and tossing them into the ocean would ensure that future generations would enjoy the beach as I did. I paid around $5 for a small bag of glass trash, and we made our way to the beach.

Imagine my surprise when I realized there’s no sand on the beach in some areas. It’s smooth, rounded glass as far as you can dig, in all shades of clear, brown, green, and teal. I can’t imagine how many visitors would have to load up their pockets to excavate Glass Beach’s namesake treasures, and I felt like a total kook as I flung my idiotic purchase into the ocean. I picked up a few pieces of choice garbage to take home, and still keep one in the pocket of my jacket I wore that day.

I started riding a bike in Philly a few years ago, but was never big into the cycling scene. I haven’t invested in any of the gear and attitude that seems to be such an important part of appearing to be a serious cyclist, but I do own a Chrome bag now, which probably means I’ve leveled up.

This is all to say that riding a bike can be intimidating, especially in a city. When Bike East Bay announced their first women’s happy hour last year, I was intrigued. My strategy for most social events is: smile at someone who looks like they know what they’re doing there and say hello. Marisa looked friendly, laughing and talking to a bunch of different people, so I did just that. We bonded over bikes, fancy beer, and Warriors games.

Making friends sometimes feels like dating. Do you offer to buy a drink? When is it okay to ask for their number? Who sends the first text? Do you wait a few minutes to send a reply?

Marisa has been a great friend from the start. We didn’t have trouble making plans or bailing last minute, and having met at a bike-related event, always had something in common to talk about. She’s a genuinely kind person. When I mentioned moving back to the city, she made the ultimate good-friend move: she offered to help. When the day came, she showed up in her beloved old adventuremobile that had weathered many a cross-country road trip, and we neatly packed my entire life into it with room to spare and crossed the Bay.

I decided to go for a walk yesterday evening, with no particular destination in mind. While waiting for a light to change, I struck up a conversation with Jeffrey.

One thing I like about living here is that it’s fairly easy to talk to strangers. When I’m sitting at a bar, or waiting for a bus, a simple “How’s your day going?” is usually met with a friendly reply.

Jeffrey tried to cross the street against the light, and quickly darted back to my side of the sidewalk. “It’s only a matter of time before anyone in this city gets hit by a car anyway.” Crossing some of the city’s most dangerous intersections on Upper Market, I’d unfortunately have to agree. Yikes. 

It turns out Jeffrey and I are both from the Philly area. It’s a pleasant surprise, since most people seems to be from LA, Denver, New York, or the midwest. We walked along Market Street and had the prerequisite favorite cheesesteak chat, and ducked into the Orbit Room for a drink.

Jeffrey’s traveled all over the world. He’s been to London, Paris, Tokyo, Pittsburgh, and just isn’t sure what comes next. He’s scoping out Seattle in a few weeks, to see if he could call it home. I could tell by the way he spoke about his upcoming trip, he already know the answer. Seattle isn’t what he’s looking for. He can’t seem to find a place that feels anything like San Francisco. 

I want to write honestly here because so much of social media presence is manipulated to only show the best in someone’s life. Even when I’m living where I’ve wanted to be my entire life, I still have bad days. I find that the good days are more consistent here, so this is where I want to be. The most difficult thing about moving out here was leaving all of my friends and family. Some people think I have a point to prove, or I’m doing it to keep up appearances. Living out here isn’t always easy, but it’s fulfilling.

I have friends. I have a good community at work. Most days, I find purpose in what I do. It’s been an eye-opening experience to commit to this challenge because instead of writing “gosh, i went surfing and this burrito sure is tasty” every couple of weeks, I now have to find something to write about (and post) every single day.

On a previous iteration of The Waterlog, I kept a gratitude journal, making lists that included things like thunderstorms, avocados, and finding pretty shells on the beach. I love all of those things, but are they interesting to write or read about? Not particularly.

Right now, it’s sunny and a little breezy, but warm enough for shorts on the back patio in my house in San Francisco. The house may or may not be the most structurally sound, but it’s home, and it’s full of people I love. Me neighborhood is colorful and exciting and right in the middle of everything, and I can get anywhere in the city with ease. I’ve got a lot to be thankful for, and some days it’s easier to recognize that than others.

The doubt begins to creep in. I didn’t go to the beach today, the waves have been terrible all week, I didn’t go on a hike or a nice bike ride, and I’m debating whether or not to even leave my house tonight. I don’t have any pretty pictures to share. I drank too much coffee.

There’s a new skate shop opening in Oakland. The space looks rad, it’s right near a BART station, and I know I’ll feel better once I get out of my own four walls. But sometimes the world outside is overwhelming, and it’s easier to hide out. Tonight is their opening party. I won’t know anyone there, but I’ve gotten used to going to events alone. 

I always hope for the best when I venture out on my own, even though it gets more difficult to make friends as I get older and the years go by. I knew that there would be bumps in the road like this moving out here, but sometimes it still catches me off guard. Every now and then I meet some really nice people, and I’m certainly not going to meet anyone if I stay in.

The rain isn’t quite ready to give up here in the Bay Area, and I’m looking at a soggy weekend forecast once again. It was a long, (relatively) cold winter, and I find myself missing the East Coast as we creep into spring. In the monotony of San Francisco weather, I’m longing for the bright, beautiful pop of springtime and all of the excitement that comes with the reward of making it through yet another brutal winter in Philadelphia.

But I don’t get that here. We’ve had a handful of really nice days, and the hordes of day drinkers have once again turned Dolores Park into Dolores Dumpster. But I can count on both hands how many weekend days have been truly gorgeous. What good is living in California if I can’t rub better weather in anyone’s face back home?