It had turned into one of those days when things were not going right. It did not portend well for the weekend getaway I had so carefully been planning for months to visit my sister, and my daughter, and friends visiting San Francisco. The day began with vertigo that I waited out and it finally passed. Then I could not get Quickbooks Online to record deposits correctly. I was in my second hour of trying to get phone help when I had to give up on the quarterly treasurer’s report for the board meeting because of an issue at the construction site.
The master bathroom turned out to be four inches shorter than planned when we had drawn the cabinets. This is one of these measurement things going on constantly in construction that is a lot like the hardest part of science. It really must be exact, never mind uncertainty principles. Having spent most of my career in government work, I can say this is not my forte. Here ¼” makes a difference, so 4” was definitely noteworthy in its implications for the cabinets designed for the room. An even more immediate need were specifications for a soaker tub in the bath which was to be partially counter sunk to allow for ease of entry, but not set so deeply that there would not be sufficient “fall” to the grey water outlet at ground level. The plumber was on site laying in basic plumbing and sewer lines before the framing began. I could tell Allan was very frustrated. He was doing that thing where he ruminates over the plans off in the corner, then takes off his ball cap and runs both hands through his very short hair and then, if it is really bad, he puts his head down and rubs his eyes. He was doing all that and more. He was asking me his favorite question when he gets frustrated, “Who is in charge here?” A question I always hesitate to answer. He quickly adds, “If I’m in charge, this will be easy, because I can work it out. But, if we have to satisfy the designer, or the landscaper, then we got a problem, because I can’t get in touch with them. You have to do that and you have to make a decision. Unless you don’t want this house built this year.”
We finally got things sorted out. I offered to run to Fed Ex where I could print out the specifications for the tub for Allan. Then I called Laura to tell her about the missing four inches, and she promised to get a redraft of the plans to me in the morning. Finally problems solved for the moment, I headed home to start packing.
I finally had time to return my daughter’s calls. She had called me three times by this point, twice since I told her I would get back to her within the hour. She was calling to tell me she didn’t think I could stay at her place with her this weekend. She had decided the situation wasn’t safe enough for me because of her new house mate who had moved in recently to cohabitate with her roommate. When she relayed to me how the situation, which had been festering for months, was rapidly deteriorating into something I felt was dangerous for her as well, things shifted for me into another gear. I spent a long night gnashing my teeth, making phone calls, and generally kicking up quite a ruckus. I finally decided to call the police with whom I have worked closely in my earlier career as a city planner. I knew that contrary to my daughter’s firmly held conviction that it would do no good whatsoever to call them unless there was a criminal situation, they could be more helpful. In fact they offered on my call to do “a well check.” While I wasn’t precisely sure what that meant, it certainly sounded in the neighborhood of just what a mother wants to hear. I think my daughter and her friend felt better after talking to the police as well, and probably enjoyed listening to the cops talk to the problem guy. It ultimately moved everyone to meet my demands for not maintaining the status quo ante, which was good, however, ultimately I was ostracized by my daughter because I had intruded instead of trusting her to work it out.
My excuse is that something just clicked in my head and I could no longer keep going along, as in situation normal. It was akin to the morning I decided I had to take myself to the Emergency Room. Because I don’t have anyone else here to help me, I feel as if I’m walking close to the edge. I suppose I’m afraid. But fear for your children is something else again. I will confess that I do not do well in fearful situations. I know my motor runs very high and I am prone to gear slippage and not firing on all cylinders. Not quite sure why I have slipped into car language except that these situations do frequently occur in automobiles, but that’s another story.
Perhaps too it’s because the next day I set off in the car for my weekend getaway, which I did not find very relaxing. When you have no one else to help you plan and prepare, it’s easy to get caught up in doing and fretting about the details. I finally decided to get a hotel room in San Francisco so that I would have a place to stay after meeting my friends who had come all the way from Texas to babysit their newly adopted grandson. They were staying in the freaky Mission District where I believe we might have been the only people over 35 in the entire densely populated zone, now reserved for techies. I am exaggerating of course, I did see two other older women. They were walking on the sidewalk in their housecoats, holding hands, clinging to each other, as they looked about the teeming streets, bicyclists whizzing by, skateboarders gyrating in and out with their tattooed colors and pierced out ear lobes. My friends and I did manage to find refuge in a splendid local restaurant. One of the luxuries of being old is you can afford a quiet restaurant away from the madding crowd. We enjoyed great food, and a relaxed and delightful Saturday evening exchanging stories about putting the hammer down on adult children.
I was very thankful I had a hotel bed to crawl into and did not have to face a three-hour drive home that night–even with the $62 additional parking fee that I had not factored into the cost when I made the last-minute arrangements. I had a good night’s sleep and though I had texted my daughter several times, I no longer expected that she was going to see me that weekend. In addition to working nights, I was sure she was still angry with me.
I kept getting Beach Hazard signals on my phone warning me to be careful walking on the beach or even near the ocean because of “Sneaker” waves that roll in unexpectedly and snag unsuspecting tourists (and wayward moms) and drag them out into the rip currents. Waves were forecast to be especially high. I had recently seen a movie, “Chasing Mavericks” about a famous daredevil surfer from Santa Cruz who trained to surf very large waves called mavericks at a particular point just north of Half Moon Bay. I decided I would go there. I have never taken Hwy 1 south from San Francisco to Santa Cruz. You just follow Market Street up to the top of Twin Peaks for a 360 degree view of the bay area. It’s a straight shot from there down the coast.
Along the way I could see from the road that the surf was phenomenal. You could hear it booming and see a fine mist like a fog except the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and it was unseasonably warm in the high 80s. The mist cast a white refracted light to an overexposed landscape. I stopped at a couple of pullouts along the way just to get out of the car.
Only because I had researched it ahead of time and plotted my course carefully was I able to find the unmarked cutoff to get to the place where I thought the Mavericks were. When I finally arrived into a little seaside community north of Half Moon Bay, I began to see signs referring to Maverick Events, surfing contests that let me know I was in the right place. The mavericks only occur in unusual weather systems and storms that swoop down from Alaska via the Pineapple Express. On this day, the surfers knew this was the place to be and the off-road parking areas were jammed. Since I couldn’t park anywhere close to the beach, and I wasn’t exactly sure this was the right place, I thought about turning around and getting back on the highway. On second thought, this was something I really wanted to do, perhaps I needed to do. I found a parking space in town and walked the extra distance at what looked to me to be just a couple of mile hike around the end of the point.
After I had changed my shoes and set off for the walk out to the point, my phone rang. It was Erica reconnecting to tell me she was safe and the roommate was gone and the locks changed so he couldn’t return. Suddenly the day turned and I could feel the sunshine on my face. We talked hesitatingly at first. She was still angry. She asked me where I was and I replied, “Chasing mavericks,” thinking to myself it sounded rather silly at my age. We talked for a while and then agreed that I would call her back in a couple of hours when I had a more reliable signal.
But first, I headed off down the beach with other picnickers who seemed content to stay in the harbor. I wasn’t quite sure where I was headed, but recalling visuals from the movie as my guide I kept walking out around the bend below an Air Force facility up on the bluff that had not been part of the film. When I rounded the corner, there it was, Sail Rock. It is the southern terminus of the mavericks. The Rock is a point jutting about 400 yards out to sea. There were boats there at the western terminus of the point. I supposed they were there to rescue any surfers who needed help. But the waves come in north of the point, headed south to crash on these rocks. I couldn’t figure out how a surfer could escape crashing into the rocks. Beyond the waves I suddenly had a glimpse of them, these little dots in the water, surfers’ heads so far out you could barely make them out. They were waiting to catch one of these behemoth waves which were coming in sets about 16 seconds apart and looked to be 15-20 feet high. Suddenly I saw a surfer get up and catch a wave. It was so far away I could barely make him out, but he would emerge out of the froth of the wave which then consumed him until out again he raced ahead of the curl of the wave, over and over as he rode the wave west out into the ocean, avoiding the rocks. The wave seemed to go on forever, all the way to the boats. He had a terrific ride! Me, I was just standing on the shore, but feeling exhilarated by his daring do, feat of strength.
Why had I always sat on the beach and watched the surfers? Why hadn’t I taken it up? But, I could hear my mother’s admonitions about sharks and rip tides. There were just a few people at the point, friends and family of surfers I supposed. One woman sat with a girl who painted upon a tiny easel a picture of green waves perfectly curled around a little surfer in a black wet suit on a beautifully colored board.
There was still the fine mist in the air as I turned and headed back, away from the action. I felt suddenly relaxed in the heat of the day, like a euphoric stone high. My affect of late has been rather flat, punctuated only by dinners with friends, adventures to the sea. I was feeling very appreciative now of family and friends, but also for my small bursts of courage. I doubted the next step would be riding mavericks, but I can’t cower in fear for myself or my children. I think courage takes practice if only in small bursts.
Phebe Force 