Birthday in the Land of Sand and Eggos

I turned 33 on Labor Day. Melissa and I were in San Diego, just having a good time vacation weekend. We stayed with my cousin Ben and his wife Lydia, the expecting young parents of a real human baby. Saturday evening we watched the sun disappear into the Pacific.

For dinner we ate at a Persian restaurant featuring a madman on synthesizer who accompanied the Persian equivalent of Robert Goulet, singing in his mysterious foreign tongue. By the time the belly dancer emerged, I was so stuffed with lamb that my view of her contortions was filtered through a shimmering meaty haze. At some point during our repast Ben sneaked away and paid the bill, clearly illustrating "The San Diego Way." I shook my fist at him in rage and gratitude.

Sunday we slept in, and by late morning made our way down the coast to La Jolla. We strolled along the shoreline, watching scores of snorkeled pink tourists bobbing about in the water. I marveled that more of them didn't drown, or founder and become dashed upon the rocks. They drifted around in a delirious mirth, somehow staying afloat in spite of lacking any sort of flotation devices. Melissa reminded me that it was salt water and furthermore, fat floats. A few seals appeared, but mostly they seemed to prefer the depths than give show to the masses.

We ate brunch at a cafe on Prospect street where the service was rude beyond the pale, but the food was decent and the fruit was fresh. I have been told that all avocados in California are hand picked by blonde lifeguards, but I was unable to verify this claim. We strolled the streets of La Jolla for a couple hours, then drove south past Sea World and Mission Bay to Ocean Beach.

I had a boogie board, but something about the volume of humanity already at sport in the sea deterred me from even sticking a toe in the surf. I complained that the ocean was more fun when you went at it with a friend, but Melissa doesn't go in the water. In retrospect I realize that the ocean doesn't give a crap who your friends are and will generally try to throw you out of it no matter the company you keep. We gave up the broasting sands and walked under the pier to the rocks. Along the way some grubby youth requested that we support their acid research program with a small donation; we politely declined. Further along we encountered some apparent subjects of severely failed research projects. We had to leave the side walk to avoid stepping on the needle mottled limbs and torso of one subject in particular. He only moaned at the sky, while his silent companion slumped into himself like a deflating Barney the dinosaur forgotten in the scorching sun.

We made it to the rocks. Here the sea was bold and refreshing, clapping and bursting against the stubborn stone, hurling through crevices and erupting in foamy heaves. Tiny crabs danced around in their tide pools with sideways choreography, and countless pea-sized snails did nothing interesting at all.

Later that day we drove to Oceanside, where my Minnesota college accomplice Steve made a tidy home with his wife behind the gates of a hilltop subdivision. The well known Scott Silbor joined us there, having navigated the treacherous 5 from the Palisades with one arm in a sling. Two days prior he himself was dashed against the sands by the insolent Pacific, resulting in a torn deltoid. After dinner (including more of the afore-mentioned avocados) we set about making music in Steve's home studio. There may exist somewhere some recorded evidence of our impromptu cover of the Sesame Street theme. Anything can happen.

My alarm went off at 5:30 the next morning. I had been awake at 4, and was drifting in and out of semi-sleep until the beeping peal commenced. Melissa had a shower while I loaded surf boards and other necessities into the truck. BY 6:30 we were back at OB, where Rob Stevens was pacing the shore in wait. My first lesson in Surfer Boarding Man began, and I spent the next three hours eating a vomitous quantity of sea foam. By the end of it I was totally taken by the thrill of the sport, though my oceanless desert residence does make regular practice a bit of a hassle. Maybe next time I'll actually stay up for more than ten seconds. Maybe I'll find myself riding on the face of a wave instead of looking up at it from below the surface. Or maybe I should just focus my efforts on the thousands of feet of granite in my own backyard. I'm sure I'll try surfing again but my real game is on the rock, on the end of a rope, the other end of which is tied to my beloved Melissa. The falling is not as much fun here for the landing is far worse, but the escape is much easier. At any given beach there is but one focus, one direction, and all interested parties are in it at once together. In the mountains the paths are countless and varied and your limits are set only by your will to walk and your skill to climb. The farther you push yourself, the fewer people you encounter on your journey. I don't know exactly why, but for me that is an essential element to the satisfaction of my soul.

We hit the road by noon and made it back to Tucson just before seven. It was a very good 33rd, and I am extremely grateful to all those involved. To those who reside in CA whom I was unable to see; my apologies, and I know we will meet again.