Seasons

I surfed Malibu Colony this morning. It was a 3 to 4 ft swell with light onshore winds and peaky but lumpy lefts and rights. I got four decent waves in about 40 minutes, caught a nice set wave all the way to the beach – and got out of the water. I wanted more waves obviously; always more, more, more, right – but now I seem to instinctively know when my ole’ body has had enough. Getting out wanting more is better than staying in so long that everything goes awry and I wish I had taken less. I suppose I will be working on that solution to serenity until the end of my days – with everything I do - but today - D the dude abided and remained serene.

I went for a slow hike up Leo Carrillo afterwards with S, greeting the remainder of wild flowers that haven’t dried up for the season – as the vivid spring colors will all fade to parched brown under the heat of the summer sun - until the winter rains return, replenish and nature’s wild wonders bloom again. Such is their life cycle. I dared to ask:

Can I die with you guys and live again- over and over and over season after season after season?

D! Don’t get too heavy with your poetic eternity fantasies. We greet you and love you and bless you today –

And today is all I have. Thanks for reminding me –

I felt all of nature hug me as I continued up to the precipice where I spread my arms in unison with a red-tailed hawk soaring overhead. The wind had picked up and the pacific was dotted with foamy whitecaps, which made me grateful I got a surf in earlier.

I am appreciating all my downtime from last weeks’ Texas madness to the gonzo private jet flight back to the desert where my, six sheets to the wind, Client leaned into me, grinning, loaded with heavy blood shot eyes and said – “I love being rich…”

“Good for you,” was all I could say when I was thinking - then why you are killing yourself?

There was one day where he cut back and I really thought I saw a window opening to bring him into the light again – but the window shut and it was black, black, black, with multiple margaritas and martinis and three plus bottles of wine per day.

“I need to do this and I need you here to make me feel safe,” he said like he was on a mission to die. I told him he was basically lobotomizing himself and it made me so, so, so sad.

“Don’t use that word, lobotomize, it scares me,” he said.

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” I said. “You are embalming your brain and you need to stop…before it’s too late…”

“No! No! No! Don’t say that! I will stop…I will, D….”

But he didn’t. I told him it was too painful to see him destroying himself. I told him I would go see S for a couple of days and come back when he might be ready, ready to surrender – again. What a fucking heartbreak. I thought he might have even died while I was catching a wave…and felt guilty and awful and all those paid al-anon feelings then low and behold he sent me a text this afternoon: “D! I met this hot chick. She is sober. She is helping me! She showed me her tits! I’m going back to AA with her. I miss you and will keep you informed of my progress.” This was followed by a forwarded Instagram photo of this, well not a chick but a woman in her 50’s with bleached blonde hair and sculpted button nose, lips full of filler and boobs full of silicone; who combines her hotness with her – soberness. She slipped into his dm’s – yesterday and is already hanging out with him today.

I will not judge. If it takes thick lips and big boobs to get him off the sauce, I’m all for that miracle. Whatever it takes to keep him above ground – because unlike the wild flowers and even unlike me who will live to appreciate perhaps twenty or more seasons, his season of life will most definitely be over if he keeps on drinking.