Burn Day

      Six days until Winter Solstice. I have to turn on the flashlight on my phone to see if the porta potty is clean. I paddle out with the sun coming up over San Francisco.

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      I am coming down the face thinking I am too deep and will pearl dive. Recover and ride a rough textured wave. Another better longer left. Angle the take off on a right, looking back over my shoulder finding the top turn arc. A satisfying wave that makes the drive worthwhile. Experience and the glider has made me better backside. I am not as good frontside nowadays.

 

   Our window is closing as the wind increases. A nimble little goofy footer takes advantage of a similar right toward the houses. Fully hooded, man or woman I do not know. Just talented.

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      Christmas Eve. I have a large pile of cut brush accumulated. The burn day number says it’s a go. I get the metal rake, lighter fluid, the hose going around the perimeter. We have received ten inches of rain so the wet leaves underneath take some time to get going.

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      While I push the exterior in and clean up the edges, I write a scene for Fire Country in my head. The woman Firefighter and I are talking, asking each other about their hometown then discussing the low moisture conditions, minding our own business, tight t-shirts and hair just so, when something randomly explodes behind us.

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      An acorn pops and whizzes by. I take a step back.

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      We’re thinking about going to the punk show Sunday night. LBHJ (formerly Lauren Boebert Hand Job, they wanted a more timeless name) is opening for Gas Station Kombucha. I can almost taste the Street Fair Noodles from the place near the venue.

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      The surf has been the star of the news lately. New Year’s Eve, it settles a bit and I go out. Traffic is light, still plenty of people at the beach. Overhead sets with some texture. I duck dive a wave and it compresses my torso.

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      Phew. I make a top turn off the face of a right and race down the line. Rights are prevailing, I do tuck in to one tasty left. Today would be the day to heed Johnny’s advice, leave something in the tank for getting out. An instructor paddles out with a whole class, a dubious choice. You should bring them out here on an easier day, some of them may never surf again. The ladder is gone with most of the sand, surfers hand each other their boards up to the seawall.

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      Reentering cell range I see the news. Shecky Greene has died; I have catapulted, from downtown, in the final hours into a four way tie for first in the Dead Pool, with McBee, Stones, and Troy. Five out of ten apiece. Anna says “I’m not sure whether to say congratulations.” I email the group I will make it rain in the club tonight, in Sonoma this is around 8:15.

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      Making my list for 2024, I research Abdul Malik al Houthi, Malachy McCourt, Gay Talese. Bartenders, writers, warlords, I’ve had the first two jobs.

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      What didn’t stay in Las Vegas. My cold. Our Uber driver said it is cold five months, too hot five months, just right two months. Rob and Toon’s wedding was beautiful. The Little Church of the West.

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      Bobby and Deanna are also at the Cosmopolitan. We walk down the Strip, have dinner at Julian Serrano, whom we formerly worked with. Oxtails over Sopes. Give the doorman a twenty to get a table for an hour at a rocking warm up act. A speakeasy behind the Barber Shop.

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      I see the Sports Book, the different forms of card games, some things I have been curious about. The desert, the mountains, really pretty.

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      Meet a Homicide Detective on the plane who doubles as a boxing cut man. He knows our friend Andy, a terrific Lightweight, from when we were kids.

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      Chris said he’d never been there, believe it not.

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      “Me neither, they don’t have a coastline.”

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      I’d imagine they have a wave pool by now for fifty bucks per, not this kid.

 

      As I float a burp across the glassy ocean I wonder if this feels like home for Mari. Anna will let go unabashedly, prodigiously.

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      You must take into account the rotation of the earth and its curvature when lobbing a shell upon a distant enemy. The coriolis effect. It’s kind of like Uncle Harold taking down a pig with a bow and arrow in a side wind.

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      Our Poet Lindsay joins Americore and is given a territory of 15 Northern States. She learns to shovel snow. Diffuse an angry situation. Drive the 12 person van. She already knew how to cook for the team on $3.50 average.

 

        I invite Willa The Bullmastiff up to join me for a nap in the guest bedroom. A rare treat for her. I can hear Eddie the Frenchie, jealous, dragging his hind legs and wiener along the carpet, stretching. Willa takes one pillow and I the other. My lungs make a sound like the number eight on the keypad before settling in to a more conventional wheezing.

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      Patience rewarded, I take off on a smooth head high left. Only homey Mark looking on. Bottom turn, slice the top turn, lesser angle bottom turn, come down the line, getting a little shallow on the inside. I paddle carefully in here to not be surprised by submerged rocks. Sometimes the ocean can knock the cold right out of me, we’ll see.

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      I am Palace Royalty electronically now at the Market instead of the old sandwich card. Just hit “Yes” and enter my phone number. Eleventh sandwich is free. Outside the Court Jester is just warming up his pseudo scientific act with a nervous laugh.

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      “Good morning people.”

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      A few heads turn at the bakery line across the street. I am picturing end times, a crowd of a hundred, two hundred, gathers to hear him, sprinkled with Dead Heads. Excited for the wisdom they have memorized and repeat back to him.

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      “Just look at the climate. I’m not gonna rhyme it.”

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      Willa and I make it to our far spot on the mountain before I have an early Fire Call; Tree in Roadway, no injuries. The career people have cleared it when I arrive.

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      We see a great show down in the Bay. LBHJ opens for the female band Barbie Oscar Outrage. Pre game with Drunken Man Pork Noodles, Yellow Curry with Chicken and Vegetables, IPA, and outdoor.

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      I’ve been surfing here since about seven years after Richard Brautigan last roamed these streets. I am completely alone. Maybe they all learned to play Pickleball.

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      I pull into a closeout and get slammed in the chest, rag dolled by the wave. Good times. Robert joins me and we ride head high rights and lefts, encouraging each other. I walk to the front of the glider and it does a speed wobble like a skateboard.

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      A pair of pelicans fly by silently skimming the surface.