70's Orange... Only Sexier

Mitch bought a new surfboard this week. By new, I mean new to him- though she is in mint condition and quite a stunner. Seventy’s orange never did corduroy justice, but slicing through waves on the glossy bronze has a vintage Farrah Fawcett-like sex appeal. The board is made by a company based out of So-Cal, which only makes me love her even more. When we drive the coast of Vancouver Island in my MINI Cooper that still boasts its Cali plates proud, I feel like we are one cohesive unit- ready for palm trees but kicking it in the pines.

I have yet to invest in a wetsuit and board (or a tiny house, a rescued mustang, and a food truck specializing in Hawaiian poke), but nonetheless, I enjoy tagging along seaside to a place that offers no cellular service, nor outlets for weak and overused batteries. Instead, this slice of paradise pie’s ingredients are unpredictable weather and a constant soothing rumble of water as it separates and reverberates into itself. As work gets more and more computer-driven, it is a luxury to come to a place where you have no access to emails, social media, and an eager boss’s text messages. I think I enjoy being perched on a wet log, journal or book in hand, bundled with as many layers as possible to keep my California blood from freezing mid-flow, just as much as Mitch likes surfing lefts off a point break.

Over the last two weeks on the island we have subtly shifted into winter’s grasp- the damp weather sits heavy on trees that used to bear almost infinite leaves. But possibly more important to a group of folks with roof racks loaded down, eager to ditch their morning class or call in sick on Friday, is a fresh swell as steady as two nerds in high school. Surfers cluster in the Pacific transitioning between moments of serenity and sheer anticipation. Boards are pushed under approaching waves, sending ice-cream sundae shocks to the temples, and bodies snug in wetsuits catapult themselves over crests, satisfied with a good ride. Few onlookers grace the shores here- pine laden treks and remote coves attract only pacing dogs expectantly waiting for their owners to re-emerge... and girlfriends... arguably doing much of the same.

Sneaking through these windy paths with Mitch is more valuable to my sanity than the California-doses of sugary Vitamin D gummies I have been sneaking. The daily grind asked us to be absorbed in our work. We are anchored to the slew of emails and beeps that fill our inboxes and living rooms long after we clock out, as long as we allow roughly sketched boundaries to continue blurring. However, I will argue being absorbed and being immersed in each moment, each footfall, each paddle, are entirely different. Sitting on a shore where waves keep coming, one after another, each drop carrying out the destiny of the ocean in its entirety, dissolves the power we give time. Though the rumble may continue, it is the only sound I hear now. And though that sexy board may sit dry tomorrow, right now she shreds.