Watercolor Wash

 

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Saturday Late Afternoon Sanity Beach Trip

I asked Henry to come with me and Sophie to the beach for an hour or two around 4:30 this afternoon. O,K., I begged Henry to come with me and Sophie to the beach for an hour or two around 4:30 this afternoon. I was desperate to actually go in and under the water, have been feeling this deep craving to do so for weeks.

Even though he had no interest in going in himself, he obliged me and brought his lacrosse stick to practice what they call cradling.

It was a scorcher elsewhere in Los Angeles today -- in fact, I went into the deep dark valley earlier in the afternoon to pick up Sophie's cannabis oil, and my car thermometer read 105 degrees. The temperature at the beach in the late afternoon was about 80, though, and the water as warm as it gets here which is still refreshingly cold. I took Sophie for a walk along the edge of the water and then in to about our knees before bringing her back up to her stroller and Henry. Then I walked down past the lovers and the mothers and the children and one small man in a bicycle helmet and what can only be called a private-parts or -- let's be blunt -- penis holder whose fabric was the American flag. I surmised porn star, such was the area and -- uh, length -- of the flag (honestly, Henry and I could not get over it), and when he turned away, it was difficult not to notice the line of stars, perhaps twelve out of the glorious fifty, disappearing into his ass.

Anyhoo.

The surf was pretty high, but the water was clear and blue and I felt immediately refreshed and replenished. Thank you, southern California. Thank you, Ocean Park. Thank you, Pacific Ocean. Thank you, Henry.

Pacific and Atlantic

Yesterday, Oliver and I swam in the Pacific, me up to my waist in blue water with seaweed wrapped around my ankles and Oliver all the way in, laughing and sputtering. The beach was an uncharacteristic gray yesterday, but the water was the perfect temperature -- the kind of cold that takes you a moment to acclimate to but then restores to what, for me, I imagine is my primitive, free self. The Pacific is infinitely colder than the Atlantic, at least the Atlantic of the south, and much of the year it's frigid cold, but in August and September, it's just about perfect. I've morphed into a Californian, and my boys are natives. Oliver agreed with me that the ocean in Hilton Head, where we most recently submerged ourselves, is more like a bathtub than anything else, and while that easy, gentle warmth is relaxing, the bracing blue of the Pacific is what we really love. And there are no jellyfish! Oliver shouted to me, over the roar of the surf.

A walk to the sea

I turned left and walked to the ocean this afternoon. This is what I saw:

It was so beautiful -- rugged and lonely and really just perfect. I glanced to the right of that driftwood and noticed, quite suddenly, that two people were lying on the beach, and I peered a bit closer, looking much like this:

and realized that they were -- well --

ahem.

Yes I said yes I will, Yes.

Rogue Wave Parenting

All this talk of the mommy wars (I shudder even typing it!) makes me raise my eyebrows and smirk, so when I saw this video on Facebook of a guy surfing what was dubbed THE BIGGEST WAVE EVER SURFED, I couldn't help but compare it to extreme parenting -- the parenting that those of us with chronically ill and disabled children do every moment, every day, every year. 

Here's to all of you -- mothers and fathers, guardians and caregivers, surfers of the big waves and amazing riders.

It felt kinda big...it felt like a ton of bricks..but it was teeny little whitewater... The waves were not supposed to be that big that day... but because they're rogue waves.. As I rode this wave, it seemed pretty massive, but I couldn't really tell how big it was...when I got to the bottom and turned, and got around the wave and went to kick out, it landed on me, it felt like a ton of bricks...probably the most powerful one to land on me at the shoulder.

...and it was pretty amazing.