On my way for my weekend surf via Topanga Canyon to its intersection with the Pacific Coast Hwy – I was reminded of why I live in California – and why I pay for the sunshine: it seemed to be heaven-on-earth.
The view from the top-of-the-canyon was drenched in a warm (but not too warm) sun – and the landscape glowed with post-rain California Green. The winding drive through the canyon in my recently acquired 1990 Vanagon was made all-the-better with the London Philharmonic’s rendition of some GENESIS classics: I was reminded of some foghat Michigan journeys – but in a most sober state of mind — with nothing but my coffee to steer me on.
Perhaps I was so happy because Neighbor Donald (who I have since nicknamed to ‘Donald the Shredder [because he is such an incredibly good surfer]) – said that he would take care of me and run interference with the Topanga Locals – as he had grown up surfing Topanga and pretty much knew everyone who frequented the spot. And for those who are under-educated RE: the importance of being a surfing “local”– well, let me say – it’s pretty important to establish yourself as One – otherwise strange things can happen…to your board…to your body…or, to your vehicle: this is how strong the territorialism is along the California Coast.
I’ve established myself as a “local” at Ventura’s C-Street, where Charlie and Tony call me Big Daddy – but I still haven’t done so for the year-and-a-half that I’ve been trying to handle the Topanga break. Donald the Shredder reported never having seen me at Topanga, as I don’t yet attempt picking up my wave in the sweet spot – where the competition for the “choice waves” can be fierce. Instead, I hang out on the outside shoulder of the sweet spot – hoping for a wave that breaks differently, or, for someone to wipeout and allow me to pick up the wave. I told Donald the Shredder that I still haven’t got my surf legs under me with my new board (it’s not really that new – I just don’t get to surf it that much [being a Weekend Warrior and all]). But when I saw The Shredder carving up those waves, and no one daring to drop in on him, I knew that my association with Donald would give me some perks down-the-road. His very cool wife, Caroline, also surfs – and they are training young Tristan (7 months) to be a Beach Dude as well.
But perhaps my joy this particular morning also stemmed from the realization that California may have a gubernatorial savior on the horizon – in the form of candidate Meg Whitman – multi-millionaire founder and former CEO of E-bay. Ja, Ja…she’s a Republican – but she also seems to have her shit very together! I think Jerry Brown is too old to handle the challenge that Arnold has left us, and this Steve Poizner character (whom I once thought would make a good governor) – is sounding a bit paranoid.
So, I was in that State of Mind where “it was all good”; unlike poet Matthew Arnold’s concerns about “ignorant armies clashing at night” and our lives on “the darkling plain” – I had no cares on this particular California Morn: I was like a child – believing that some huge external power was taking care of me and that each-and-every-day would unfold from this one, and, carry-on-for-ever…