Tuesday, July 17, 2007

I Know a 12 Inch Pizza Sir...

That pepperoni pizza was not bad Manchester Grand Hyatt in San Diego. But it was not a 12 inch pizza. That was easily a 16 inch pizza. Admittedly, you never claimed it was 12 inches, but the guy on the other end of room service who called me "Mr. Dillon" did, and he was way off.

I feel much better now about letting my work pay $22 for that. Not great, mind you, though I would have eaten calamari and that new Miller Green Beer if I hadn't run into familiar faces earlier, which would have cost about the same.

By getting room service at 10 to 11, I was able to drink the last of my three Acme beers I brought and charge the pizza to my room. It was pretty tasty. I was surprised. If I didn't have breakfast plans for tomorrow morning, I'd kill off the second half of you for breakfast without doubt.

But don't worry $22 16 inch pizza: I'll eat you. Luckily I have a whole fridge in my huge kitchen that I can store you in, otherwise, I'd have to crank the AC to keep the whole room cold enough to preserve you.

Monday, July 9, 2007

Everybody's Learning How

I'm sore. My hands and forearms mostly. Also my neck, from lying on my stomach and looking up for so long. My arms are also sore and the sides of my ribs. Yesterday my calves were sore too.

While jumping over the waves, making my way out to the sea, I found myself drinking a bit of salt water. After my hour lesson was up, I had another hour to use the equipment but I had to take a break. I lugged my board up the beach to wear Kate lay, reading and enjoying the (mostly obscured by clouds) sun. I told her that it felt like I'd just eaten a whole bag of sunflower seeds. Which was true. I went back out at about 2:45 but the tide was coming in, and it was hard to make it more than 20 feet from the water line. The waves were bigger then, and closer together so after jumping over or through a dozen waves, I was still only in waist-deep calm water. I'd see a big wave coming and would jump on my board, not out of excitement to catch the wave, but out of a self-preservation instinct of not wanting to jump through it. My last two runs I couldn't bring myself to drag my already rubbed-raw knees across the sand-covered board, which made it more of a nine-foot body board than a surf board. I should have tried the second method of getting up he showed us, but I was so good at the first and too tired to experiment.

With my first wave, I got to my knees, but couldn't get on my feet in time. I'd misjudged how quick I needed to move. The second time I try, I wait for the other four in my group to get their first time over with. Freddy, my Brazilian instructor, came over, said OK, now, and pushed me when the wave came. I jumped up, spread my arms like Styles on the roof of his van and rode the wave in to the shore before jumping off in ankle deep water.
I was a surfer. I am a surfer.

After my first time up, it was about 20 minutes until Freddy and I were near each other again but he'd seen me catch a lot of waves. He said, let’s do a big one, so we waited. He pushed me again as he yelled, paddle paddle paddle, then up up up. It was a big one and I tried to steer like I was snowboarding, but it’s much harder because you’re on top of a wave and trying to move what is essentially a nine-foot boat with your undertoned abs. I mostly went straight to the beach, but I swung it a little to the right.

The one thing that sucked, other than the sting of salt water in your eyes and the puckering dryness of it in your mouth, was the kelp and seaweed. My leash kept catching it, which meant that when I rolled onto the board, I would be dragging an anchor with me. I’m sure that once you stop walking the board out and do the paddle-out-then-sit-on-the-board-waiting thing it’s no longer a problem.

Freddy high-fived me several times after the lesson, and I told him to buy himself a couple of beers (though with the casah, he could only get one at LA prices).