My submission was late for the Quilcene Community Center Newsletter. It’s now June 12 and I never got one over the electronic network. Because I post these pieces here, usually, I probably should apologize for it taking this long. There is some surf news to report; I did just recently surf with Nick, nicknamed, probably only by me (and because I got it from him) God.
He took off in front of me; twice; but said I deserved it. I will explain next time. Meanwhile, and partially to help the financially struggling United States Post Office, which, out here in the boonies, I particularly appreciate; I am considering preparing and sending a number of postcards to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW, Washington, DC, 20500. No manifestos, just brief notes, like, um, maybe, “Which voices are you listening to right now?”
First Amendment, folks. Still, because of the omni-demic and all, I am considering wearing gloves in the process. That I am also considering sending them anonymously and from a different zip code; well, the farther-out folks on both ends of the conservative/liberal spectrum do agree that, as Americans, we always have to worry about our rights, alienable and otherwise.
Again, only positive messages. Like, uh, “Considering building a bunker: any ideas?” “Juneteenth? Really?”
OBVIOUSLY READY TO FROLIC
It’s Saturday, May 30, 2020, and, here in Quilcene, Washington, Spring’s last push toward the eminent arrival of Summer, is, other than the bright yellow blooms on the non-indigenous Scotch Broom, the changing of the landscape from grays and browns and more grays, to green.
Maybe it just seems like it was a massive invasion, a sudden and overwhelming onslaught of green.
Everything is green. The north side of the car you parked because you really had nowhere to go. Green. That patch of dirt where you had the car parked. Green. And all the trees, shrubs, hayfields; green and growing, unchecked, undeterred by the intermittent dry days, pushed forward by the rainy days, greens in shades from almost yellow to almost blue.
Greenness, everywhere, and so crazily active you can see grass grow, leaves spread, plants crawling out of their pots before you can get them in the ground. Blackberry vines are winding their way through your flowerbeds, dandelions outgrowing your lawn, thistles and nettles competing for the chance to sting you, you out in your Summer clothes… Ow!
Okay, I could have gotten all lyrical here, but the truth is, I’m a day past the deadline and I’m racked with guilt. Racked? Is that a word derived from THE Rack, medieval torture devise? Maybe. I won’t Google it. YES, if you are receiving this a day later than you anticipated, it is my fault.
I won’t make excuses. I hate excuses. The guiltiest people have the best excuses.
So, here’s mine: I went surfing. Friday. Dawn. Yeah. Could have been writing. The first two vehicles I passed while heading north on Surf Route 101 very close to Lake Leland, were towing boats. No, not those big boats that loom over the truck hauling them. Those boats are headed to or from ocean waters. The next car had one of those very plastic kayaks on top of it. Again, it was a Friday, and I don’t know what these folks, were supposed to be doing, but they were obviously ready to frolic.
Obviously. Not me. I was going stealth. I had my board hidden inside my work van, with six ladders on the roof. Incognito. BUT first, in order to go surfing on Friday, one day ahead of what might just be a weekend rush from people cooped up anywhere east of the Olympic Peninsula, I had to try to use the best scientific data available to divine that there might be waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. BUT, first, I had to finish a job in Bremerton on Thursday.
Quite late on Thursday, and it’s an hour home; so tough to get up early enough to drive an hour and twenty-two minutes (on average) and be in the water before the sun comes up at… checking… 5:21 am. Didn’t make that. Got there at 7:10, surfed two hours, took a nap in my wetsuit, on a towel, in the reclining passenger seat, went back out in the very small waves for another hour or so, then went shopping at Costco, then Walmart, then QFC.
I do have an explanation for why it is necessary to shop at each of these stores. I did skip Home Depot and Office Depot, and might have gone into Michael’s if they let people in. Not yet.
With groceries to put away, and quite tired (not, you say, that it takes maximum energy to tap on a keyboard), and having passed so many recreational vehicles, other surfers, cars and trucks towing boats and trailers with motorcycles, and, of course, motorcycles, and all the folks who come over on a Friday in an attempt to beat those who foolishly wait until Saturday, I got home around 4:20.
“…foolishly wait until Saturday…”
Okay, you’re right; I could have taken a nap and written a piece on… wait a minute; I did actually write a piece on how people are afraid to dream due to anxiety connected with the whole Covid omni-demic. I do dream; and I did write about it.
Although the piece didn’t seem totally appropriate for the Quilcene Community Center Newsletter; here’s a bit of it. “If dreams are meant to make some sense out of chaos, writing is dreaming; and I write.”
Not necessarily ahead of a deadline. Be safe, be well, dream fearlessly, and definitely frolic when you get the chance.
Oh, maybe that’s a good message for the White House; “Are we having fun yet?”