The road rolls under our treads and i am in the far back of a half-empty blue van, trying to piece together a thought coherent enough that it's worth sharing, all the while my head spins with sights and sounds, sweets and sours; the sweat of a sun-bathed swelter i cannot help but pine for, the kiss of saltwater on my eyes and lips, the rememberance of a whirlygig of lights and music and people and laughter that i think is called Austin...
Phew, here we go…
In which we will discuss(and in no particular order): falling in love with the wrong ocean; a city built around a celebration of the weird; ignoring our physical necessaries for the sake of our psychic ones; and remembering who we are by imagining who we might be.
For those of you who know me only through the ASC, I think i have presented myself mostly as a West Virginian country boy by way of the Baltimore/DC area. This is true; i was bred in WV and studied there for most of my life. My family lives in Shepherdstown. It is a quaint hippy meccha nestled in the Shennandoah valley, coming butt up to Harpers Ferry, which plays host to the meeting of the Patomac and Shennandoah, making it a historically bustly area. An adventerous soul, bound for adventure of a historic kind, could walk a paddle boat down to the banks of the Potomac from Shepherd University's downtown campus, and row their way all the way past the Ferry and straight on to DC, all the while followed by a tow path that follows the same route.
It's old.
It's quaint.
I love it.
It's mine.
I am not, however, from this place.
I was born in San Diego, California, and lived the first nine years of my life there.
This does not identify me as a true californian, i acknowledge this.
To be so, i would've needed more intellectually formative years spent there; my identity is that of a hippy weirdo who grew up working at Wal-Mart one summer and an organic farm hand the next.
However, being born so near the beach, and being borne there so often by my lovingly indulgent parents, has made me a Beach Baby.
I remember loving the history of California classes and trips we took as youngsters; visiting old adobe relics tucked inside the thriving historic districts of the less gentrified parts of southern california and eating their foods, enjoying their music, experiencing then what i would no doubt now identify as cheap recreation-theatre…some of the best memories of my childhood involve eating stone ground tortillas and breathing the smell of recently woven blankets sweating sweet stinks of sheep and natural dyes while holding hands with my Field Trip Buddy.
But, it is that great, fire-rimmed Pacific that lives most in my memory.
I remember my childhood as a series of jaunts in between the time i got to spend dancing across the hot sand, burning and suffering until my toes finally had a chance to rest in the mirky brown swill of water that constitutes a wave's dying reach for the shore. I can still smell the smell (oh, and how much i do remember the smell) of seaweed and salty air, of the sand itself, of sunscreen and (when necessary) the aloe vera balm for when the sunscreen failed.
I was not then, nor am I now, an adventurer of the highest regard, but i Owned the sea when i got my little buddha belly up on my boogie board and flew down the froth and bubble of a wave, a ride, a roller coaster rocket that was for this moment only and when it fell, either back into the water if i'd caught a wave that was deep enough, or tumbling onto the cushioned concrete of wet beach sand, i would run back, trying to find the next ride, the next inexplicable mountain of salty blue that would carry me on it's back until it, too, would waste itself on the sand for my pleasure.
Truly, ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing quite like the beauty of a day like that.
I tell you all of this, dredge up all these old dusty thoughts, because i got to be with the beach again.
I had spent most of our time at Daytona sleeping off the hilarious volume of debauchery that had constituted our time in Austin (more on That, anon) and had, therefore, completely missed any chance to go to the beach for a proper visit.
A proper visit, of course, involving sun screen, floppy hats, beach blankets and towels, possibly an umbrella, definitely a cooler, and, without a doubt, every intention of swimming.
So, there we are; i've just used the last of my food vouchers at our host university's convenience store to stock up on the food stuffs that will (and, at time of writing, has) feed me for the duration of my time on the road.
I'm walking back from the conveniently located convenience store with Mr. Mahler, so much food in tow that i'm using that time honored trick of holding the hem of my shirt in both hands and putting everything in my little poly-cotton basket, all the while treating passers by with a scandalous view of my belly button, and he gets a text from the P-Earls that they'd like blue keys so that they may visit the beach.
"Oh, my god, the beach…Ask 'em if i can come!"
"What?"
"Just…tell them that they can have their private time on the beach and i'll walk in the opposite direction and they can text me when they're…ready to leave"
at this, Jake rheufully does as i ask and i am becoming giddy.
It's now a matter of dropping off all of my perishables (all but my king-sized drumstick ice cream cone) and then hopping in the van.
I am practically bouncing all the way there.
i've brought my phone, my headphones for ambiance; i am ready for a foggy night walk along the edge of Florida's atlantic beach.
The P-Earls are gracious enough to have me along on their walk, so i spend the time i thought might've been filled with quiet, ruminating introspection (accompanied by appropriate music, of course) engaged in the lovely conversation of friends on the beach.
And then i couldn't take it anymore; shirt off, trunks (which i wore all day) on: let's do this.
I am appropriately attired and off like a shot.
Pounding the pavement hard wet packed sand, i'm running like a man on fire; low water, ankle deep, shin deep(now i'm doing that flappy, high stepping run that's always a treat to watch lifeguards-in training practice), Waist deep.
DIVE!
And, for just a second, i'm a kid again.
I feel the rush and churning of the tide in my ears and i can taste (yes, oh yes, thank the stars, this i can Taste) the salt of the water on my lips…and then i hear, in the back of my id-addled mind, the casual mentioning of all the jellyfish on the beach that Rick and Bridgette had seen earlier that day, and how we had talked about on our drive down here that, well, Technically Man 'o Wars are more like mobile choral than jellyfish…and then i remember that i'm a coward.
RUN!!
The walk back was cold, and flavored by that inexplicable stickyness of salt-water all over my goose-pimpled, parchment white nerd-flesh…but dear, sweet, merciful Anybody…i need to get back to the beach.
I need to get back to the Pacific.
Well, then… This journal, by the way, has been an amazing venue for me to just take a moment and examine things i would otherwise have no reason to think over: it wasn't until i was scouring my mind for things to talk about that i realized how present the beach had been in my thoughts.
how much i wanted to talk about it.
here.
with you silly people.
so, thank you for that.
END PART ONE!!!
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