I'm in Hawaii. I've just wrapped up a 2 day conference sitting in an auditorium....inside. It's 5 PM on a Friday and I fly out back to the mainland early in the morning. I've been in meetings all week and have yet to enjoy any of the sensory pleasures that one enjoys when they are in Hawaii.
I feel the regret begin to seep through my capillaries. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!?" my body screams. "YOU'RE IN HAWAII, BUT YOU COULD JUST AS EASILY BE IN BETHESDA. EXPERIENCE YOUR ENVIRONMENT!! THERE WILL BE TIME TO SIT IN ANOTHER CONFERENCE ROOM WHEN YOU GET HOME!!"
I power down my laptop, pack my notepad away filled with forecasts, trends, and a handful of interesting numbers I will soon forget and I fully accept my new mission of immersion. Flee the scene, shirts get untucked, and I am back in my hotel room with a sense of purpose.
Seconds after the door closes behind me, clothes are gone. I can no longer be encumbered by buttons, belts, deadlines. Primal caveman mode has kicked in. I grab the essentials (cash, my ID), begrudgingly put on my swim trunks and make my way through the lobby shirtless, shoeless and on my way to the closest surf shop.
I exchange paper with a merchant and he agrees to let me borrow his finest apparatus for 2 hours. I walk through the tourist-trap that is Waikiki with a sense of "look at these corporate drones" and I'm in the water in less than 6 minutes (or 1.8 Jack Johnson songs.)
I've never surfed before, but that doesn't seem to concern me as much as it probably should. I can snowboard and wakeboard and am filled with the arrogance of a typical American male. I'm resigned to the fact that I may fall a couple times, but I'm sure I'll be a pro by wave 5.
Mother Nature and Experience are a humbling combination.
The waves aren't particularly "epic" this evening, but don't let me convince you that was the only thing holding me back. I discovered pretty quickly that my balance was nowhere near where I thought it was. After paddling out to the waves, most people calmly straddle their boards, relax and wait for a wave to approach that they think will be worth pursuing. My approach is more of a sloppily slap my way out to a spot I think looks about right and try to look graceful as I convulse back and forth like I've got the only board that is possessed by an despotic, mechanical bull. While everyone else enjoys their quiet, self-reflecting, zen moments, I'm flailing around like a panicked hen.
When the occasional cease-fire between my cerebellum and surf board takes place and I'm able to serenely sit on my board like a sane person, I wait for waves to come at me and lift me into surfing folklore. "There was this guy, right. He was this surfing prodigy that couldn't stay on his board when it was still, but when he got up on a wave.... oh bruddah, watch out. That mainlander could carve!"
"Wave" I've discovered is its own separate language. And I don't know how to read it. It is truly an art to know where to position yourself and be able to sense with your soul when a wave is going to grow into something worth pursuing. As I paddled around like an idiot chasing inconsequential swells down with maximum effort, the locals just sit and calmly wait. I spend the next 90 minutes misjudging my reads and marveling at those around me that seem to be making something out of nothing. People are popping up all around me riding the water with ease. If the winner is the chef that makes the best dish with the same ingredients, then I'm in trouble...
I spend the last 20 minutes on the water trying to appreciate the moment for what it was, reflecting on how this experience could be an allegory for my own life, and worrying that with all the splashing around I'm doing a shark would obviously pick me as the fattest, slowest, most vulnerable seal.
I decide to paddle in and find myself lingering 20 yards from shore where a paid instructor is giving his pupils some basic tips. I make a pact with myself that next time the $30 investment for a lesson will be worth the price. He flashes me a quick, "You going to pay for this brah?" look. I continue my paddle to shore.
I come out of the water humbled by the ass-kicking, but grateful for the opportunity. I take a couple steps and put my chin up. I realize something. No matter how pathetic my attempts were out there in the surf, everyone looks the same walking out of the water to the people that are stationed safely on the beach. I'm wet and I have a surfboard under my arm, who the hell knows how well I did out there beside me? I went out there and gave it a shot, the people on land watched. We are all bound by the same limits of ability, our willingness to test those limits is what differentiates us.
I catch the eye of a cute tourist. She smiles.
"How was your day?" the shop owner asks as I return my board.
"No regrets," I grin in reply.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Monday, March 11, 2013
Two Different Ways
Most people are lucky to have a strong female influence in their childhood. I was lucky enough to have two. One was my mother, a single woman running her own business, living on a farm with a myriad of animals and taking care of a human son. The second was my great aunt, Mona, in Los Angeles. She never had any children of her own, but spoiled me like a mo-fo. She would use any holiday as an excuse to ship boxes of presents up my way. She would write letters to me as herself, her pets, and other random characters so I always felt like I had an army of love behind me. This gift of confidence was invaluable to the shortest kid throughout his school years, the weirdo that came to school with patches on his jeans before they were cool. My favorite athlete growing up was Joe Montana. She got me a signed, framed Joe Montana picture for my 10th birthday. She finally came clean a couple years ago that it was forged, by then I appreciated the gesture more than the resale value.
Both have now passed on. My mother 5 weeks ago and my aunt just over a week ago. I just got the call about my aunt today. With both happening so closely to each other, it definitely gets a person thinking about all kinds of things. One of the questions that comes up is which type of departure is easier to deal with: a quick, unexpected death or a drawn out, bed-ridden ordeal?
After you accept that there is nothing you can do or say to the person anymore, you can only make sure you did the best with the moments/interactions you had. Without being able to ask the person posthumously on how they would rate their moments/interactions with you, you are left to your own imagination. This can open the door for uncontrollable waves of guilt to smash you to the floor. Without the person there to shut the door, your mind can conjure all sorts of "If I had only..." scenarios. This can be crippling.
In answering this "which is worse" question, I recognize how lucky I have been in both of my female influences. The last note that my mother sent me in the mail was, "Joseph Michael Mangan you are a good person/kid. I love you, Mom." She also left a note for me to find if I ever had to go through her things telling me how proud she was of me. One was a lucky coincidence, a small expression of love. The other was a planned, planted note that would have otherworldly powers to dispel any shrouds of doubt or guilt. These are both great individually, but to have both of these gifts is something I know many people do not get to experience.
My aunt was strong until the end, she has been bed-ridden for the last 3 years. She was able to hang onto her mind the entire time and even wrote down family history accounts about my grandmother, etc. that would have gone extinct with her. Transferring this tribal knowledge was something I would not have thought of, but I am grateful she had the foresight to put pen to paper. She was always blunt with me during our conversations, letting me know that she was ready to go. In her words, it could not come soon enough. She never let me worry about her. She did not want her health to impact my life in any way. Even at the end, she wanted to protect me. I learned today that even as her health was failing, she would not let anyone reach out to me because she did not want to cause any additional stress in my life.
In the end all you can hope for is closure. Whether it is a random freak accident or a 3 year battle in a bed, I think either scenario has equal potential for everlasting heartache and years of regret. In my situation, with my separate cases coming to a end so closely together, I cannot help but feel fortunate. Soaking it all in, I cannot help but look at things through this perspective. When you know you are loved despite your sporadic call record, you becoming your own person, your spotty visiting schedule, what else do you need?
Why let people wonder if you love them when you can tell them?
Both have now passed on. My mother 5 weeks ago and my aunt just over a week ago. I just got the call about my aunt today. With both happening so closely to each other, it definitely gets a person thinking about all kinds of things. One of the questions that comes up is which type of departure is easier to deal with: a quick, unexpected death or a drawn out, bed-ridden ordeal?
After you accept that there is nothing you can do or say to the person anymore, you can only make sure you did the best with the moments/interactions you had. Without being able to ask the person posthumously on how they would rate their moments/interactions with you, you are left to your own imagination. This can open the door for uncontrollable waves of guilt to smash you to the floor. Without the person there to shut the door, your mind can conjure all sorts of "If I had only..." scenarios. This can be crippling.
In answering this "which is worse" question, I recognize how lucky I have been in both of my female influences. The last note that my mother sent me in the mail was, "Joseph Michael Mangan you are a good person/kid. I love you, Mom." She also left a note for me to find if I ever had to go through her things telling me how proud she was of me. One was a lucky coincidence, a small expression of love. The other was a planned, planted note that would have otherworldly powers to dispel any shrouds of doubt or guilt. These are both great individually, but to have both of these gifts is something I know many people do not get to experience.
My aunt was strong until the end, she has been bed-ridden for the last 3 years. She was able to hang onto her mind the entire time and even wrote down family history accounts about my grandmother, etc. that would have gone extinct with her. Transferring this tribal knowledge was something I would not have thought of, but I am grateful she had the foresight to put pen to paper. She was always blunt with me during our conversations, letting me know that she was ready to go. In her words, it could not come soon enough. She never let me worry about her. She did not want her health to impact my life in any way. Even at the end, she wanted to protect me. I learned today that even as her health was failing, she would not let anyone reach out to me because she did not want to cause any additional stress in my life.
In the end all you can hope for is closure. Whether it is a random freak accident or a 3 year battle in a bed, I think either scenario has equal potential for everlasting heartache and years of regret. In my situation, with my separate cases coming to a end so closely together, I cannot help but feel fortunate. Soaking it all in, I cannot help but look at things through this perspective. When you know you are loved despite your sporadic call record, you becoming your own person, your spotty visiting schedule, what else do you need?
Why let people wonder if you love them when you can tell them?
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