Mushburgers and Life

I almost didn't go out this morning. From shore, it looked like mini- mushburgers with sienna water as a beverage. I called Andy to see if he was as desperate as I was, but only got his voice mail. I ranted for awhile, about how I was probably just going to go out anyway, at tenth street, to be ready for the possible surf that may be coming mid-week, and how I was going to miss it all, anyway, because of work. We finally have tropical activity, Anna, and now Bill, winding their way across the Atlantic towards us.

I looked at the pier, mushy and already becoming tourist-infested, and headed for tenth. Looking out at it, it looked dismal, but hey, I was there. I was the only one out, and once out beyond the break, I realized it was a little bigger and better than it looked. My first wave was worth the whole paddle out. Then I looked up, and saw two guys coming out ... hey, it's Andy and Mark! We had some fun goofing around and talking, and then Mark said something to Andy about something happening to someone, an accident, and I heard the name "Searcy."

That was when I learned that one of the Searcy's sons had just died in a fishing accident. Matt had been on our surf team, had gone to Guadeloupe with us, and... well, it was either him or Eric. I was in shock, kept hoping it wasn't Matt.

Please don't let it be Matt.

Mark couldn't remember the name exactly. When I got home, there it was in the paper. Eric had been spear fishing with his dad, who surfs, too, and had just surfaced by the edge of the boat, laughing, telling him about this huge grouper he had almost speared. "If you had been with me, Dad, I would have got him!" Eric went back down, and when he didn't come back up after a couple minutes, his dad said his heart started pounding. He dove over the side of the boat and saw Eric, lying on the bottom of the ocean. He brought him up and gave him CPR over and over, his son's lips purple, but it was too late. Eric was dead, at only 28. I am so very sorry, Matt.

They say the huge grouper came out of his hole and when Eric speared it, the fish yanked back so hard that it slammed Eric's head into the rocks, knocking him out, and he drowned.

It was pretty quiet out there in the lineup after that. All of us are parents, and this is every parent's worst nightmare.

"That's why you have to live everyday," I said. Mark nodded, "You just never know..." Ugh. That made my ranting and worrying about missing waves seem pretty asinine. We caught a few more, but with the lowering tide, and that wake-up call, we decided to go on in, get some living done, and check it later at higher tide...

I went back this evening, and tried it again. It was glassier and greener, maybe a tad bigger, but still mushy with the high tide. I had about two that made it worth it, and Andy paddled out, and that always makes it more fun.

I started painting again. I have almost finished the first one in, hopefully, a series. I want to learn how to be more spontaneous, more fluid, and that seems to be the hardest thing for me to do. Goal: To try not to make it look "better" according to the standards inside my head. That's why I love art done by children. So fresh, so uninhibited. We lose that, and it is so hard when you realize that little, but utterly pervasive, fact.