Returning to my beach camp after a slightly above average surf session I was approached by a faux-hawked young man. His wetsuit was half peeled down, revealing a sculptured torso painted with terrible tattoos. He was smoking a cigarette and I immediately hated him. In between drags he asked me,
“Bro, how was it on a shortboard?”
“What?’ I said.
But really I meant,
“Don’t bother me. I’m not here to talk to you. I talk all day every day for a living. When I’m at the beach, I’m here to let the ocean slap me around, maybe ride a few waves, gracefully if the universe permits, but I am not here to talk to you. Or anyone. Particularly surfers. Back off. I am not your bro."
“Shortboard, bro. I brought my 5’8” but I think I should have brought my long board. What do you think?” He went on.
“It was just fine.” I replied and then went on to disrobe, hopefully alone, in silence, just me and the sun drying the sea water into a salty crust on my wrinkling face.
But "Bro" wouldn’t’ let it go.
“I’m pretty new to surfing.”
No shit.
And then it hit me. I am an arsehole. I am a grumpy 44 year old arsehole. Why am I being so rude to this guy? I’m tired of being rude and grumpy. I want to be nice.
“You’ll be OK on a shortboard. Its pretty steep and dumpy out there, perhaps its best you left the longboard at home but its fun. Get out there, man.”
Faux-Hawked-tattooed-smoking-bro saw this as his invite to join me. So he left his pit bull at his camp and came over to share a seat on a fallen log with me.
I learned he’s 28, a recovering opiate addict, trying to wean himself off methodone. Mainly a climber and new to surfing. Then his pitbull, Oliver began humping his guitar.
“Mate, your dog is humping your guitar.” I pointed out.
“Hey hey! Oliver get over here. He loves that thing. Must be the shape.”
And so I met Matt and Oliver.
I liked Oliver right away. He gently licked the seawater off my dripping hand as I greeted him. Matt was growing on me also. Slowly. Matt was lonely, looking for a girlfriend. He said, he’d go five years in either direction for the right girl. He got a girl’s number the other day at this very beach, his age but she immediately played games with him, so he let it go. Matt’s disappointed with Portland people in general. A lot of fake people, he says.
I say, you’re talking to the wrong person. I’ve been married nearly 20 years and we have a fifteen year old daughter. Matt loves this. He wants this.
I ask my first question, “So Matt, what do you do?”
Matt is pursuing his Masters in Social Work, he tells me. After a few years clean and sober and after living the life of drug addict on the run, he wants to give back. He wants to take young men in recovery into the wild to help them heal. I ponder, do I now tell him what I do for a living? Or is that going to open a whole clusterfuck of conversation and bonding I really do not want to embark on but again, I want to be nice. I’m tired of being a grumpy arsehole, so I tell him.
I’m in social work myself.
And so, Matt nearly looses his shit. A social worker! Like him! Who surfs and skates! We were destined to meet!
“Pete, I like to network, can I have your number? Perhaps you can call me next time you go surfing or skateboarding? One day I want to start a non-profit taking clients surfing. It would be so cool if you.... ”
Goddamnit, a 28 year old dude wants my phone number. What do I do now? I don’t ‘network.’ I don’t give out my number. I keep my work life very very separate from my real life. It’s the only way I can keep sane. No one will ruin that for me. I think about telling Matt about all the young people I’ve know who are now in prison or dead, killed, overdosed, suicide, murdered, causes otherwise unknown, probably over two dozen at this point. It is never going to happen. The beach is my personal sanctuary. I can’t bring others into it.
But I give him my number. I wonder why. Even as I did it, I wondered why.
I will probably never call him.
But
This is how I grow as a human.
Ever so slowly.
Ever
so
slowly.
...and I circle ten thousand years long;
And I still don't know if I'm a falcon,
a storm, or an unfinished song. -Rilke
