From Google AI: "The marine layer is a weather phenomenon that occurs when cool, moist air from the ocean meets warmer, drier air from the land, causing air to cool and condense into fog or clouds." Inland air temperatures in Southern California have been in the 90s and above lately. The ocean water temperatures have been in the mid to low 60s. Waves have also been non-existent recently, due to the shifting La Niña/El Niño pattern knocking off the jet stream and the regular storm patterns out to sea that create our waves (rough translation of info from Surf Sensei). The surf has disappeared and we have been shrouded in fog for weeks. Serious surfers are losing their good vibes. The Sisterhood has not lost enthusiasm one bit.
As Surf Sister Katy wrote in the chat this morning, "Coffee + Fog = VIBES." Katy and I were at the beach twice last week, and I paddled out to sit on my board and meditate both days. I find the fog beautiful. It is incredibly peaceful to sit enveloped in softness. Very gentle waves under a blanket of fog have definitely created sacred vibes recently. Both BTG and MMTCP mentor Jake have talked about rituals or habits this week that create a holding space for our infinite vulnerability on this planet, so I looked at our gathering at Blackies differently on Saturday morning. Both sacred and profane, the weekly ritual of going surfing with my Surf Sangha has held me and allowed me to feel safe on this earth, so what does that ritual look like?
I arrived early under darkness and fog to see only one small wave breaking very close to shore. No hurry to get in today. Two or three supplicants already in the water, sitting in the calm sea. The parking lot already full and bustling by 6:30 am with fish market customers lined up for the Dory Market, a ritual that has likely been happening since 1891. I park the car, my own personal sacristy.
Other Sisters arrive in their own time, and we gather initially in a side chapel off of the main parking lot. If Blackies is the church, then Beach Ball is the small chapel we go to for special ceremonies, to be blessed by barkeep Wendi's kamikaze, our post-surf altar wine. Coffee, hugs, and quiet conversation start this day in the dim glow of the bar surrounded by three or four older men already there for a different kind of sacrament. Men drinking liquor at 6:30 am and those who are unhoused on the Newport Beach plaza, apostles in disguise, remind me how lucky I am. But for the grace of Howard go I.
Gifts were exchanged today both before and after surfing. Beautiful, bright pink dragon fruit from Sister Ahn. Colorful fins for new surfboards. Friendship bracelets for new sisters and old dog toys for a bitey cat. Mineral zinc for our freckling faces and good soap suggestions for getting that sticky stuff off. Trunk sacristy liquor from Waylon. Beach chairs for unenthusiastic children accompanying Mom to the beach before a softball game, "I get up early for him, so he can get up early for me, right?" Kind and supportive words in our chat. Gratitude is shared often among us. And I received deeply touching mementos for my beloved Lucy. I was so surprised by these gifts, I sobbed openly in the parking lot, and was held tight by Surf Sister Toni, spiritual leader of us all.
We then briefly part ways, visit the Blackies holy font to go to the bathroom before squeezing into our wetsuits, or because we've been squeezed into our wetsuits for awhile, that 360° compression working our insides. Each of us visits our individual trunk sacristy to prepare for services. Wetsuits, booties, hats, gloves, our sacred vestments. We anoint ourselves with tinted zinc, covering our faces, feet, lips, and hands. Each of us has developed our own system for the STUFF of surfing. Some newer hard surfboards require a big board sock or bag to cushion it for transport and a detailed system for applying wax. Some people have roof top racks and some carry boards inside cars. It's no small miracle how much surfboard can fit into such small cars; I'm reminded of Hermione Granger's Undetectable Extension Charm and wonder how many graduates of Hogwarts are surfers.
I have two plastic bins in my trunk. One holds the stuff that stays in the car: cheap prescription sunglasses, suntan lotion and zinc, towels, extra friendship bracelets, changing mat, Sharkbanz, and dry packs for keys and the phone. The other bin goes in and out of the house with the wet stuff that needs washing or hanging to dry: wetsuit, booties, hat, gloves, used towels, and swimsuit. Getting that system down to a well-rehearsed ritual took months. I look forward to the day when I include jugs of water for rinsing, a bigger changing mat, and maybe a roof rack -- sliding my board in and out of the car is awkward and is causing some minor damage to The Admiral.
Naming our partners in this adventure, our surfboards, is a thing. Baby, Neptune, Tweety Board, Poppy, Biscuit, Lucy, Ruthie, Willy, Cecilia (because she was shaking Haley's confidence daily), Lil Moody Girl, Bruiser (now gone), Bad Bitch, and Winnie Kirk are all a part of the family. You all know that I ride The Admiral so named for Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, WWII admiral in the Pacific. The Admiral is named after Nimitz, because there is an aircraft carrier named for Nimitz, too, and my Admiral is also big enough to land planes on. Welcoming a new board is cause for celebration in the chat. Recently, new sisters have joined us. When meeting for the first time, one asked, "How will I recognize you on the beach?" We all spontaneously shared pictures of our surfboards instead of our faces. Ashley wrote, "Tell me you're a surfer girl without telling me you're a surfer girl."
Organizing keys is a thing. What do you do with your car key while surfing? Lock boxes or hide-a-key? Not great for beaches where theft is a problem. Dry packs work well but go around your neck, and some people don't like that feeling. Some wetsuits have pockets or elastic loops for hard keys, but not all car keys have hard keys anymore. So what to do with your key is an individual spiritual problem.
All suited up, keys stowed, we each grab our board and meet on the beach or find each other in the water. Baptism on a weekly basis, our boards are our pews for the blue mass. (Or when enveloped in fog, a gray one.) The water is clear on this calm morning. Small fish, tiny seashells, and our toes clearly visible in the water. Occasionally, a puff of sand cloud will stir from the bottom, letting us know to be wary of the stingrays relaxing below us.
The Sisterhood is not hard to find. We cheer for each other, laugh out loud, and always talk. One day this past summer, we showed up at Doheny and everyone was silent. Tens of people in the lineup, we wondered what was going on. We broke the silence with our cheering and that seemed to snap people out of their doldrums. This is meant to be fun, people! Let's have fun! Seems to be our consistent message. Saturday held VERY SMALL SURF. Like relatively nonexistent waves. Undeterred, we cheered every tiny ride as if it was a 100-foot wave. Whether we ride the wave of our life, float peacefully together, or get slapped by Mother Ocean, tossed in the spin cycle after a faceplant, it's all a gift. It's all an amazing gift.
We traded and shared boards. As a group, we are at the point of trying out new boards and moving to hard boards from soft tops. Rites of passage. Investigating what fits for us. If we had a human sermon today, then it was Father Waylon, Blackies Surf Angel, teaching us about rocker; depth, width, and volume; shape and size and different brands; and how it all affects our ride. Sister Haley is a shortboarder and most of the rest of us are, or aspire to be, longboarders. Totally different surfboards for different conditions and different goals. Surfers have a quiver of different boards for different conditions. (I look forward to having a garage for my future quiver. Right now, there's no room for more boards in my dining room.)
Figuring out when to end your surf session is a mystical decision. Generally, one will declare, "One more wave," at some point. "One more wave" is a theoretical construct, neither meaning one wave nor a set period of time. It is an internal declaration of the need to get out of the water, a recognition of a "should," with no real boundary on when that need will be satisfied. For me, one more wave means I'm hungry or thirsty or I've been dumped too many times or my skin feels like it's getting a sunburn or I have some responsibility at home to get back to. One more wave could mean hours left in a surf session. One more wave is as timeless as a Buddhist pinned to the present moment.
The trunk sacristy is employed before and after surfing. We get dressed and undressed in the parking lot. Rinse off the board and ourselves in the showers -- a kind of cleansing baptism. Changing mat and bin on the ground, we begin the difficult process of removing a wet wetsuit. This is the most challenging part of the ritual. Already exhausted from surfing for a couple of hours, arms like spaghetti noodles, and we've got to wrench this sloppy neoprene from our bodies. Changing robe over the head, arms wiggling underneath, one needs yogic flexibility and stamina to pull it off. Just need to get one elbow out of the top and you are on the path to redemption. I sit on the edge of the trunk to pull off the bottoms -- I feel certain that I've flashed countless tourists waiting for my parking spot as I struggle to get the legs off over my heels. Again, nothing has done more for my body positivity that stripping down to my skivvies in front of an audience of impatient tourists.
Many surfers have signs that say "Not Leaving" hanging from their trunks, so the tourists can pass them by. Saturday, I actually got dressed after surfing for the first time. Usually, I will wear my changing robe home, my wobbly bits flopping about and airing out underneath. But we had post-surf plans for bakery, coffee, and a surf shop visit, so I put clothes on under the changing robe after taking off the wetsuit. Massive accomplishment. Every bit of dry cloth sticks to damp skin and I need a tent not a robe to accommodate my squirming elbows.
Exhausted, dressed, board in the car, wet bin stowed, key around my neck, I close the trunk and find my sisters. Communion wafer is an almond croissant this morning and a hot cup of coffee the wine. Some visit Mother Wendi at Beach Ball Chapel for a kamikaze. Waylon has a bar in his trunk. Instead of 10 pm at a nightclub, we stand at 10 am in a parking lot to discuss the important events of the day, the minutiae of our lives, and everything in between. Our community the best part of the day, every day.
Baptism and boards. Sacred vestments and vessels. Grace and communion. Sermons and stingrays. The gray waters our cathedral today, Saturday Services at Blackies are a blessed event.
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