DAYS OF THE ZIPPY FISH PT.1, FRI 26OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Churches to Middles

Crew: Bri

Time: 0745-1045

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, offshore, consistent, not coo crowded, sunny, warm.

     It’s been three weeks since Bri and I have been able to do a Staycation Friday. All week long I kept an eye on the surf forecast for San Onofre. It never changed: 3-4FT, Fair to Good.

     We wake up at 0545. With the shorter days, it’s still dark as night outside. Since we prepacked everything, all we have to do is strap the longboard on top of the wagon. We head to Vons, grab four sandwiches, a salad, water, and two Odwalla juices for breakfast. There’s a slight hint of orange in the distant horizon, but we’re still making good time.

     To take up time during the drive, I tell Bri stories about growing up in L.A. I tell her how in sixth grade my friend Sebastian got into a fight with one of the neighborhood gangsters. He punched him above the right eye, cutting his eyelid. The gangster was quick to apologize thereafter. Then I told her how the leader of the gang got revenge on Sebastian a couple weeks later. It’s funny how writing and the art of storytelling through verbal narrative are still interrelated.

     There’s a high-wind warning in effect, but right now the trees and brush are calm. We exit Basilone and take a look at Lowers. It looks empty until we get higher up, and we can see about twenty heads. It takes bad conditions for Lowers to be empty, although . . . the waves are flat.

     The peaks at Old Mans are a little hard to gauge from where we are. It’s crowded, and there are waves, but it’s hard to tell how big. From here, they look two-feet high. Since Churches is closer, we foot it over there to have a look. The wind warning is unnecessary. The wind is faint offshore, and the water is glassy. The high tide is swamping things out, but occasional pulses break from the top of the wave all the way south in front of the campgrounds. Even north Churches is producing a little left. Churches has a crowd, but it’s not as bad as Old Mans, so we suit up and decide on Churches.

#

     Did I say the high-wind warning was bullshit? Well, think again. By the time we’re ready to paddle out, the wind is howling offshore. What was calm and glassy water is now rippled and textured. At least it’s offshore, but the wind is still a bit much.

     I didn’t intend on using the Zippy Fish again. To tell the truth . . . I’m kind of tired of it. I miss turns, riding the thrusters, but every time we come out here it just hasn’t been big enough. After borrowing Cheryl’s Don Kadowaki fish, I can’t get it out of my mind. I need one. I think about how much fun it would be to have it. For the first time, I can grasp the idea of “rocker.” For sure, South Bay in the winter during a big WNW and HB on any day that’s three-feet plus calls for a thruster. But San Onofre and Trestles? If it’s not at least a consistent three feet, one can do without rocker. Since I tend to surf smaller, mooshier waves with Briana, a fish is perfect for when I’m with her. But as I’ve complained before, this Zippy is too big; I need something tapered down so I can have more fun on the turns. The next time I see Don, I need to ask him to shape me a board.

Guess who's stoked?

     Bri and I can’t feel the wind as bad in the water, and we sit just south at the end of the string of surfers. Nothing is breaking. I wave Bri down and have her work a little more north with me. The waves have backed off, and I curse this wind, thinking that it has something to do with it.

     Despite the wind, the conditions are perfect, too perfect for October. The low sun is so blindingly bright that we have to squint when looking towards the shore. Through the palm trees, the mountains, and the sand, we’re hit by a radiant gold. We can’t be upset about that, save for our eyeballs.

     Just then, a bump forms on the horizon. All the other surfers are complacent in the grips of this last lull, so they’re all on the outside. I can tell . . . this one’s gonna break further out. Bri and I are the only ones in position. To my surprise, it’s a classic, Churches, right-hand peak, a solid four-feet. I paddle out to meet it, steer with my knee to point my board back towards the shore, stroke three times, and pop up. My bottom turn draws a lot of rail . . . TOO MUCH RAIL. I can’t hook it high off the face and redirect down the line; the rail is set and not letting me go. I try to force the board out of it and fall in the process. Blown . . . a perfectly good wave. A longboarder on my inside backed out of it because he thought I had it.

     There’s a second wave behind it, but I let it pass and let either Bri or the dozen guys on the inside have it; I don’t deserve it.

     Bri paddles up to me. “Fuck,” I say, “I fuckin’ blew a good one.”

     She’s more focused on her paddling, not replying.

     “Weren’t you in position for that second one?” I ask.

     “No . . . yeah. Maybe.”

     “Too big?”

     “I don’t know. I guess I could have gone.”

     I’m preoccupied for the next ten minutes, unable to let go of the fumble, the crime, the sin I just committed. I’m thinking, I blew the wave of the day. I feel it inside: there won’t be another one like it.

     We paddle just south of the main peak where the pack is, but it’s still inconsistent. I try to suppress the thoughts that we’re getting skunked, the thoughts that I’ve waited, we’ve waited, three weeks to be here, and now we aren’t gonna get shit.

     I can’t say that I’m a good surf teacher, but if anything, I’m getting Briana to paddle long distances for a beginner. “Follow me,” I tell her, as we paddle through the main pack and end up on the north side of Churches, the area that Klaude has so infamously named: Mons Pubis. On a good day, the left breaks over here.

     Three groms and some guy have the spot on lock before Bri and I make our way there. As soon as we arrive, a wave comes in. Bri paddles out to turtle-dive it, but I turn-and-go. A grom is way ahead of the section, hooking the lip, cutting back, and redirecting down the line. I’m trying to make the section, but I’m too deep. On the outside, Bri tries to go for the last wave of the set but scratches out. I paddle up to her and say, “There’s a couple good waves here.” And wouldn’t you know . . . like clockwork, the wind dies, and it’s glassy again. To the south, all I can see is blinding light, black dots of surfers, white wash, sand, and green water. At this very moment I know . . . it’s gonna be a good fucking session.

     Since the tide is high, there’s a lot of backwash refracting from the inside, colliding into the incoming waves. It’s an odd spectacle. What should be a two-to-three foot peak becomes a bouncy, fast, four-foot wall, but the cobblestones hold the shape, lining the waves up all the way to the sand until the water’s inches deep. We manage to negotiate around the crowd. Bri catches her first wave, dropping in on one of the guys, but he’s too deep anyway. We only sit here for about a half hour, but within that time I get a good handful of rides.

     Left after left rolls through. The rides are short, but the backwash makes them fast and fun, critical on the take-offs. Once I’m on my feet Zippy shoots me fast down the line. I get a couple two turn rides, turning the twin-fins loose on the finishing turns. One of my rides is long, and I catch the wave as the Amtrak streaks along the railroad tracks in front of me. While going down the line I turn towards the train and salute, unaware if any passengers are watching or not, but if one is . . . maybe for that one moment in time, we might share something.

     Three guys from the sand start suiting up. Once they make their way out towards us, it gets a little too crowded for my taste. I watch Bri take a late drop on one of these backwashed peaks. It sends her down the line unexpectedly. She’s trying to recover from her knees, but she’s thrown off after a couple bounces.

The Renowned Battle Position:

     Bri catches a couple at North Churches, but they are fast, and some guys are in the way. We’ve been watching Middles the whole time, and there are about five surfers near the cliffs. “We’re going over there,” I say. I paddle, and Bri follows. I imagine her shoulders are burning, but . . . she’ll manage.

     We’re not even at the BP yet, and a walled set comes in. We let them pass for the lack of shape, but I’m surprised that anything is even breaking here. The southernmost surfer is right by the BP, so we stop just short of it. Nothing’s happening at first. It’s inconsistent. Then, a line forms on the outside. It’s classic. Probably about three-feet, but tapered at the shoulder, giving a good, long right for any surfing who can bottom-turn and hold a line. Another guy gets the first wave, and I get the second. Again, I’m having backhand issues. I dig deep on the bottom turn and keep getting caught on the rail at the top. I guess it’s my fault for only going for lefts lately. Lucky for me, some peaks are swinging wide to the south, giving left-hand shoulders as well. Once I get these, I open up, making the sections. Even though my backhand surfing looks like shit, my forehand is looking better than ever on this Zippy. I hold the arcing line, carving until I pivot off the tail and redirect. I easily get two-turns on the lefts, even ending some rides with a check off the lip.

Progression:

     On the way back to the line, I hear Bri yell from the inside. I turn around. “Yeahhh!” I yell back. She’s surfing, but she’s not going straight. It’s undeniable from the way her body is angled and from how she’s facing the wave to the right; SHE’S GOING DOWN THE LINE . . . OFFICIALLY.

     She falls off of her board at the end of the ride. After some whitewash rolls over her, she resurfaces with a wet smile from ear to ear.

     Her hair is so wet and slicked back that she looks like a seal. I throwh her a thumbs up, and when she gets back to the line, I congratulate her on her triumph.

     “That was the longest wave I’ve ever had,” she says.

     “Yeah, but Trestles is mostly rights. Now you gotta make sure you can do it going the other direction.”

#

     Middles is working. I haven’t surfed here in so long. It used to be my favorite spot; I’d skip Old Mans and Churches in the past, coming straight here to paddle out. In the last year Middles has disappointed, but for this small day, it’s working how it used it; it’s classic Middles.

     The north wind picks up a little bit, and so does the crowd. I tell Briana that we’re gonna paddle just outside of Lowers to see if anything swings wide. We get close. Lowers is a solid, consistent 3-4 feet. Guys are ripping it. “What do you think?” I ask.

     “I think . . . any one of these kids can out-surf me.”

     I smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

     Nothing does swing wide, but we’re tired. It’s 1045, and we’re looking for our last waves. I make it a point not to do the paddle of shame. We work our way back to North Middles and catch a small crumbler in together.

#

     There’s a feeling of exhaustion and stoke as we make our walk back. It’s been so long since I ended a morning session from this perspective, the famed walk. I love the path, the loose rocks and dirt under my feet. Bushes block our ocean view, but every once in a while we hit that clearing, still seeing peaks rolling through, now with just a little more texture on them. Our path curves alongside the railroad tracks. The wind on the ocean doesn’t seem to touch us as we walk. I remember how many times I’ve made this walk by myself, the feeling of stoke encased in my silence after a good session. On this morning, I’m glad I’m not on this walk alone and that I have someone special to share it with. 

AT LEAST IT’S OFFSHORE, SUN 21OCT2012 MOR

Crew: Khang, KK, and Mellie-Mel

Time: 0730-0930

Conditions: 2-3 FT, offshore, inconsistent, walled with occasional shoulders, overcast, semi crowded.

     I stayed up until 0100 doing homework. I was so tired that I had a hard time sleeping. My mind was asleep but my body was awake. Caught in a bed-press, I couldn’t shake myself out of a terrible nightmare: I was forced to accompany three people in a car to kill someone in his home. It was pitch-black dark. I was told if I left the vehicle I’d be shot. As soon as the gunshots started, I bolted out of the vehicle, but I was so slow and sluggish in my tracks. I woke up when I was discovered.

     After that I had some stress dreams, where I was surfing in my hometown of Napili, but I couldn’t remember all the facts for my blog. I spent the rest of the night in and out of sleep, pondering over the details: what happened first? how many waves did I get? who was I surfing with?

SNOOZE:

     My alarm was set for 0600, but I slap that snooze tab until 0700. “I need to get up,” I say to myself. I drink some Carnation Instant Breakfast, grab my gear, avoid Smokey’s dog shit that he had laid all over the driveway, and head to the 405N where I’ll exit Rosecrans. Once I’m on Highland Ave., I see some flags blowing offshore, slightly from the south.

     I curse the fact that there’s no free parking. And then again . . . I curse myself because I should’ve gotten up early enough for free parking. The ocean doesn’t seem to be doing much. The waves are breaking a little close to shore and it’s overcast, but the surface conditions look clean with just a little offshore ripple. I spot Khang in the upper lot. I honk, he waves, and I circle around once more for free parking. Nada.

THREE:

     I park next to Khang, step out, and give him a hug. He has a huge booger hanging out of his nose. I give him my undivided attention while he speaks, but I really just want to reach in there and snatch it out. I figure we’ve known each other that long, but it’s one of those slimy, sticky boogers, where it’s not really hard; it’s just gooey. Even though I’m about to paddle out, I’d rather not deal with his manhesive on my fingers.

     I grab the Tokoro, and we head to the water to look for Klaude. I’m ashamed to write the entire transcript of the Barney conversation that Khang and I have on the way to the sand, but we talk about our goals for this winter. “I talked to my homeboy Sans,” says Khang. “You gotta surf reckless if you want to get barreled, you gotta surf out of your comfort zone.”

#

     Khang spots Klaude first, and then we both make our way out towards him.

     Klaude introduces us to this chick named Jayme who’s riding a purple fish. She’s not bad looking: tan; long, dark brown hair; she’s maybe a little older.

     It’s a gorgeous silver scene. There’s no sun, but in between the thick, gray clouds are thinner ones, even some patches of blue. The filtered light gives the water a bluish-gray tint, reflecting shiny, rough cut gems in the ocean’s surface. The water’s cool but not cold, and the offshore breeze gives the feeling of fall before the winter numbness freezes our balls in the months to come. It doesn’t feel like winter, but it definitely feels like Thanksgiving.

     “Khang, you remember last Thanksgiving?” I ask.

     He smiles and says, “Pff! Hell yeah.”

     “It was raining.”

     “Yeah, and we were like,” he holds out his hands, “what the fuck?”

     Indeed, last Thanksgiving was . . . I hate to throw this term around loosely, but it was pretty epic. I mean, torrential rain, five-foot swell, consistent, crowded but enough rides for everyone, and the whole DRC was out, even Rick and his WHC boys. I surfed until the sun came out and the wind changed. ::sigh:: Memories.

    

RECKLESS:

     It’s a little inconsistent this morning, and even though it’s not super crowded, there are more surfers than there are waves. KK gets a wave that gives him some good distance, pumping all the way down the line. Khang catches a wave, jumping over the lip before it closes out. They’re breaking close to shore.

     Jayme on her purple fish is clowning us all. She makes the initial section and gets ahead to the open face, gliding down the line, cool as a cucumber. Good for her.

     On the walled sets, we all paddle for them. Fuck it, why not. Most of the waves are walled, and getting a good shoulder isn’t easy this morning. I go for a dump rider special, holding the highline and seeing the lip throw over me in barely a second—a fun wipeout.

WQS:

     Khang paddles for a wave, but some other guy is scratching hard, as if catching the wave depends on his life. For a morning like this, I don’t know if putting off that kind of energy is worth it. They guy gets the wave and Khang is left behind. When I paddle up to him he says, “Fuck, I didn’t know this was the fuckin’ QS and shit.”

     That guy’s in a red and gray wetsuit. Even though the three of us struggle to get good rides, QS and one of his buddies are fucking ripping. Khang and I talk about board volume, wondering how much board selection tailored for Manhattan Beach make a difference. At the same time I look at myself. Am I not the fault of my own lack of performance, not just my board?

     Further south there’s some guy busting airs. He does a three-sixty and lands it. I used to ponder the thought of busting an air myself at the sight of such feats, but realistically . . . I’m happy if I can get good carves and cutbacks going both ways. Yes, this is the truth, this is where my surfing is right now.

     I’m in position for a right, but Jayme’s on my inside. I back out. The QS guy goes for it. Jayme gives him a glare, and he backs off. The QS guys’ buddies give him shit about letting a girl take a wave that he could’ve snaked her on. I’m actually a little offended hearing this. How greedy can you be? It was Jayme’s wave all the way.

     I get a left that has some size, but some other fucking guy drops in on me. He’s one of the local regulars. His face doesn’t strike me as familiar, but he’s dark as I am and looks like he’s from the islands, so he fits the 26^th St. profile. When the ride ends, I make sure we get eye contact on the inside to let him know: you fucked me.

#

     I hump it back up the hill to put some change in the meter, meeting Khang half way back. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I got you.”

     It’s nice surfing with Khang. I haven’t surfed with him in over two weeks. We catch up on everything. He has family who just moved here; he’s looking for a new place; and he’s not allowed to fraternize with his coworkers.

     We paddle out next to Roy in front of the tower. I see KK to our north surfing with Melanie. I’d wave him down, but he’s blind as a gimp with an open-mouth hood. On the next wave, Khang and I split the peak. I go right and look up from the base of the wave. I bottom turn and try to hit the lip, but get pitched. It was too critical but still fun. At the lineup, Khang tells me he got a couple pumps.

     I get another right, this time tagging the lip, backhand, before it closes out.

     I paddle over to Klaude because he has that look on his face that says he’s going to leave soon. We chat it up with Mellie-Mel too.

     A bomb set comes, about four-feet and dumpy. I’m a little deep so I pull out, but Khang paddles into it. I expect him to wash up somewhere on shore, but he somehow jumps over the back of the wave. He gets the next bomb again, it’s another wave that I pull out on.

     The guy that snaked me earlier is on my inside while I’m paddling for a right. Wave-justice says I have the right to snake him, but I don’t. I see him catch a nice shoulder all the way to the inside, falling on his finishing maneuver, still getting some spray.

     “Daaaaamn,” says Khang, “that wave you almost had was sick!”

     “Yeah, that was the guy I was talking about who snaked me earlier.”

     “Oh . . . sorry to bring back bad memories.”

#

     Klaude and Mel scrape for their last waves, but nothing good is rolling through. They both catch a wave close to shore and wave goodbye.

     I look at my watch. “Hey, we gotta catch one in too,” I say to Khang.

     Right at that moment, a fuckin’ bump starts to form. This is it, my one ticket out. I lower my chin, kick, and paddle as hard as I can. I gotta catch this one. When I pop up, I see that the sub three-foot wave is actually lining up. I know it’s a single shot / one hitter quitter, so I get two pumps, climb the face, and get a nice, arcing carve. I reenter, pump, and skim over the whitewash from the depleted wave.

     We all shoot for that “last one,” the exclamation point for the session. We usually don’t get it and settle for whatever pushes us to shore, but this morning . . . my last one was good.

#

     Back at the car, I realize I forgot my towel. Klaude lets me use his. I’m careful not to pat down my penis too hard with it since it’s not mine. We say our goodbyes and plan to meet up again next weekend.

ANOTHER GAMBLE, SAT 20OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Huntington

Crew: Solo

Time: 0745-0945

Conditions: 3 FT, overcast, drizzling, onshore, choppy, manageable peaks.

Pre-Blog:

     Khang called me yesterday, telling me how I missed out on Wednesday. According to him, the South Bay was “all time” that day. He said he surfed in the morning and evening and that the peaks were just going off. It made me sad to hear this. I knew it was good. I asked where he was surfing on Saturday, and he said he had to surf local because of work.

     According to the forecast, El Porto isn’t supposed to be good. In actuality, nowhere is supposed to be good. There is a chance of rain with inevitable onshore flow in the forecast, but the South Bay is predicted to be 1-2 FT while North OC supposed to be 2-3. I know it’s just a matter of “one foot,” but I’m hoping that the forecast will be off. Besides, it was off yesterday, and today can be another exception. I put out the word that I’m traveling down south, but everyone has to stay local.

DARKNESS:

     It’s 0530 when my alarm goes off, but I snooze until 0556. Since I have everything prepacked, all I need to do is fill up my hot water jugs. I grab both of my thrusters, pat Smokey on the head, and jump in the surfmobile.

     When I glance at the clock on the instrument panel, I see that it’s already 0645, but looking outside, it’s hard to tell that this is the early morning. Combined with the overcast and the shorter days as we near the winter solstice, it’s hard to imagine that there used to be light out at this time.

     Once I hit Torrance, rain drops start hitting my windshield. It’s sporadic, off and on, mostly on the light side. Despite the rain, from what I can tell, there isn’t much wind yet. As I drive down Bolsa Ave., I’m thinking that I might score. The wind report is off again, and I’m hoping for at least a solid hour before the conditions change. I look to a building on the left hand side of the road. It has an American flag mounted at the top floor . . . and the stars and stripes are blowing hard onshore.

     Driving past Bolsa Chica, my fears are confirmed. The RVs parked in the lot all have flags indicating the wind. I look right to see what the waves are doing. Bolsa Chica is small. Dog Beach doesn’t look much better, but Magnolia has some peaks. My optimism comes back when I see Huntington Pier. The water doesn’t look that choppy yet, so there’s a chance that things aren’t totally blown out.

     I pull up to my parking spot and head towards the sand for a look. I see an old guy who was leaving when Bri and I showed up yesterday. “Paddling out?” I ask.

     “Yeah. Looks like it!”

     There’s another guy on the sand watching it. As soon as I’m close enough to see the waves, he leaves. Being alone, I whip out my wiener and piss right there on the spot. As usual, there are a couple guys to my north, three guys to my south, and then a small crowd at River Jetties. A set rolls in. It's three-feet plus but walled. Even the shoulders at the end are breaking section-into-section. I wait it out a little longer, hoping to see at least one random peak like yesterday. Compared to yesterday, the waves are a hair smaller and the water is much choppier. I debate on calling Klaude to see if I can get a report from him. Maybe I should just head back local. Right then, one of the guys just south of me catches a left. He gets one turn before the wave closes out. Sold!

#

     There’s no debate on what to wear this morning; it’s wetsuit all the way. I glance at the sky to see if the sun has a chance at peeking out, but the overcast is too thick. It’s already looking like it’s gonna be a gloomy day. I imagine what my brother would do if he saw this choppy, onshore, overcast sight. He’d say, “Damn,” shiver in his sweater, give a look of disdain, turn around, and go home. But fuck it. I can only hope for the best. Sometimes the conditions look better in the ocean.

     I have a spot all to myself. The old-timer from the parking lot and his two buddies are a little off to my left. No one is to my right. There’s that peak just north of River Jetties that looks like it’s working, but I know it’s gonna get packed soon, so I try to see if I can score where I’m at in No Man’s Land.

     I’m caught in a lull, wondering if I should venture south, but I don’t want to get too close to those other guys next to me. From experience, a set will come by the time I make it there, and I’ll be competing with the very guys that have been sitting and waiting well before me. Patience. The wind isn’t a factor in the lineup. On the shore I felt the gusts against my face, but right now . . . the wind seems to have backed off a bit. The water’s choppy but still manageable. All I need . . . is a wave.

     When the set comes it’s walled. There’s a shoulder at the end, but I’m too deep for it. Then like a miracle, a classic HB peak sprouts up. Since the swell is smaller today, it’s no more than three feet, but still, I have to appreciate this. Even with the wind, chop, and weather suitable for a suicide, the sand bars are still working. This little peak is pushing through the agents of skunk, still forming, still breaking. I pop-up going left. The wind is still knocking it down fast, but I have some face to work with. I get caught behind the section, and by the time I get to the shoulder the ride is over, but I’m not bummed. There’s potential.

     The first hour’s pretty consistent. There aren’t many lulls, and I’m not stagnant for long between waves. The shape is still messy, but there are lefts to be had. They’re racy, but I pop-up fast and make it to the open faces. The rides are short, but they’re single shots, good for finishing turns or maneuvers if you’ve got them. I take a look towards River Jetties, and that peak to the north of it is now crowded with at least ten people. Good, good for them . . . just don’t come over here.

     I take advantage of the oncoming sections, climbing the face of the shoulders approaching, floating on the lips, maintaining my balance as they crash, riding them out. No, these aren’t legit floaters, but I’m just stoked to not eat shit on them. Back in the day, I wouldn’t even try doing this.

     The rest of my waves are series of pumps followed by fun, single-shot turns to finish the rides. It’s hard to put English on my finishing carves because the waves aren’t clean (and because I’m a novice), but even though my turns don’t wrap around, I still get enough arc to make it fun. I get one turn on the Tokoro where I sink my weight down into the turn and pivot sharply off of the tail. The end section is only two-feet, but I throw-out a little toss of water. There’s just something about the Tokoro; it’s such a good board, fun to turn; I love it.

     To my surprise, I get the break to myself, and the consistent, random peaks make the trek to HB worth it.

     Things slow down into the second hour, and waves within my last twenty minutes are hard to come by. The wind picks up again, making the water choppier. It’s messing with the shape even more. I wonder how the scene must look from the shore. No one would want to paddle out now.

#

     When I’m done changing it’s exactly 0905. My engine’s running. I want to call Klaude and ask him how local was, but I don’t bother. I contemplate breakfast when I’m on the freeway, but I don’t want to eat alone. Just then, Klaude texts me. He says it was 2-3 FT on the face, and it’s still offshore. Son of a bitch, I’m thinking. Looks like I missed out on a good day for a local sesh, but I don’t regret anything. I still had fun on the HB gamble. 

     We meet in El Segundo and kaukau at The Blue Butterfly. I spot him for breakfast since he and his dad hooked me up with some Ahi Poki on Monday night. This breakfast meeting was meant to be because a woman that he hasn’t seen in ten years recognizes him and gets his number. She’s wearing a tight blue skirt, naughty for a cold, wet day. Even though we didn’t surf together, we still get to enjoy each other’s company. 

     The sky is overcast here too with a light sheet of moisture in the air. We sit at a table outside and hover over our bagels, stoked on the surf that nature provides.

Empty?