October 20, 2013
¡
Qué Buenåsa la vida! What a great life! It's like the song that just played on our little pink portable speaker when the chorus is a deep voice that says, "Everyday I see my Dream, Everyday I see my Dream." Kind of cheesy to quote LMFAO, but who doesn't like a good chunka' cheese? Why, just a few days ago we were gifted three half-blocks from our Israeli friends that would be leaving Mexico for Costa Rica the following evening. What a bonus it was to receive local goat cheese (thinking of you Jess & Vivi), Eden (imported from the heavens?), and some tasty aged cheddar. I bought a poblano pepper the size of a grown man's foot for the equivalent of 25 cents to make chile relleno, but that decadent merienda will have to wait until we build an oven out of the abandoned firepit. For now we cut the cheese into small slices in our morning mashup of eggs and leftover frijoles y arroz. But you have amazing cheeses at home, no? Why bother talking about queso all day, when only a short stumble to the
refri (pronounced REE-FREE) will satisfy your new hunger?
Ah yes, it was because of my cornball line above^^^ that I got off track already!! I'll try to make sure not to type unless I'm trying to get at something; but anyone who knows me knows that in any given story, I will start seven others, and probably close half of those, while forgetting the basis of the original tale. "Yes but you aren't speaking Nico, you're typing bro," you might say? "Touché," I respond. I guess I'll actually proofread this letter, unlike the previous. Especially because I'm writing from the comfort of my hammock, and not from a stuffy room full of old PCs with sticky, sugar-stuck keyboards and funny symbols in place of the apostrophes and dashes where I'm used to finding them. So no excuses for rambling dude!
Alrighty then, since it's Sunday afternoon I believe I should write about the week's events (or lackthereof). The ups-and-downs have continued, with me going from zero-to-hero in the course of the last few suns.
Pause for waterbreak. When I say waterbreak, I mean I have to go look for one of the trucks driving around with five gallon jugs of water that won't make me piss out my hind-end. They pull into our dead end road almost everyday and hollar "AGUA!" to the other two households that live in this little tropical culdasack, but never at a set hour. *The first week or two they always arrived just as we had layed into our hammocks for the afternoon's plight from the sun's ferocious rays.*
Phew. I'm Back. I say "phew'' because of that final hill ride coming back home. It's the 50 meter hill climb from hell, and it's not even that steep! I think the sun stretches the hill a full football field longer than it appears, like a mirage penetrating the body's sore limbs.. Or maybe I say "phew" because Mackenzie has changed the music during my 15 minute bike ride around the pueblo, and is now doing Shaun T's Insanity workout again. Having experienced the "insanity'' workout myself, I swear I break into a sweat each time I hear his intro spiel. . . Even if it's recovery day.
But no, I reckon (Aussie-talk) my phewness can be attributed to the fact that I have come up empty on my search for one of the water trucks. I should have asked the neighbors if they drive around on Sundays, before disrupting my writing and heading down the hill in search of someone that couldn't be found working on their only day off. That's how it is on Sundays here. We usually plan accordingly and buy everything we need on Saturdays to prevent a situation like this, but it was only the evening before last that we purchased a jug ( at 13 or 14 pesos, just barely over a buck. * Quite a bargain when compared to the liter or liter and a half bottles coca cola sells disguised as a local company.) I guess when we're princesses and insist on boiling already pure water for coffee and tea, we'll go through more.. It just taste so much better that waaaayyy. - this was my whiney voice if you mistook it for me teasing Mackenzie.
We know the pena of waiting too long to buy water. Remember when I said I've gone from zero-to-hero in a matter of days? Well Friday was rough. I went to bed Thursday excited to surf the following morning, now that my magic carpet was repaired and I'd been off for three long days, but when I awoke, a gigantic gas bubble was lurking about in my mid-section. "No big deal," I thought. "Just my normal morning chore". OOOOHHH but NOOOO. Absolutamente No. In the course of the first half hour I would drain all the liquid from my body, and quite possibly some intestines that aren't so necessary. By the third sprint to the toilet, I counted myself out of the day's activities. I cursed the spirits of Mescal, and cursed my stomach for being so weak. It was only two margaritas! (Homemade from our own lemon and lime trees, and with the most natural brick of brown sugar you've ever never had.)
So another day of laying around in the hammocks: reading books, bird watching, and hiding from the sun. It wasn't so bad, but after I shat my brains out for what I prayed would be the last time, I was left feeling like a sack of rocks. Or a bag of cement left out in the rain. Stiff and sore as I've ever felt, all I wanted was rest. Rest and water. We were down to our final quart and a half in the fridge (we have three reusable bottles we brought from home (would be four but I forgot my eldest bottle in my padre's car) when Mackenzie made me a cup of ginger and honey tea to help settle mi panza enojada, or furious belly. This would be the only thing I could stomach for the morning and afternoon combined, although I sincerely wished for more fresh water.
I did manage to take my second nap of the trip on this miserable Friday morning, and I woke up feeling a bit better: still like an empty casket, but at least I no longer felt like using the insurance puke pot that lay below my hammock. *On the napping note, I wonder why I haven't been able to sleep during the de-energizing afternoon hours. ? In Puerto Rico I caught zzz's like it was mandatory (between the late morning surf and afternoon bike ride to work). My only two naps here have come at the hands of aweful sickness, (which doesn't feel like any hangover I swear), and on our first afternoon in PE, after a couple long days and nights in transit.* Anyway after the two hours of unconcious bliss, I come-to slowly, hoping that I slept through the water truck transaction. One look to the cabaña tells me "No". The empty bottle still sits on the cement wall, silently beckoning to the neighbors or any other people of good will, "WE NEED WATER! STOP THE WATER TRUCK!"
I come from a man who comes from a man with scarcity issues. My grandpa (if I was proper I'd say grandfather, eh?) was a boy during the Great Depression, so he's got good reason and conditioning to attribute this to. My dad's excuse?.., well it's handed down I think. So now I have it. Whenever we get a fresh water jug, I unseal the lid and fill up all the bottles we have, watching it empty about a third to half of the way. You might be doing the quick math and question how I get half of five gallons when filling up our three reusable water bottles from home? Well I haven't yet told you that we bought a liter bottle the day we arrived, and a liter and a half bottle later that same day. That cost us 20something pesos, when five gallons is barely a buck! So we've managed to reuse those two bottles everyday, and only once had to buy another liter and a half when we were at Playa Zicatela longer than expected one insane morning/afternoon. Add those and the two pint size gatorades we use for ice blocks and we're looking at somewhere around two and a half gallons, right Ms. Hulbert?
Point is I start to freak a little when I see the jug two-thirds empty (not being cynnical here, just trying to take care of Mackenzie and me). I should have gone for water the evening before when we had just half a gallon left! Now we're left sucking water out of our ice cube trays! And Mackenzie is attempting to climb the coconut trees! Sheesh, all I can do as man of the cabaña is offer meager advice like , "that one's the shortest of our lot," or "be careful babe". Her attempt to bring in the electrolytes and my distrust of the freezer-burnt precipitation lying on top of the ice cubes fuels me just enough to leave my yard of confinement. By now it is late afternoon and the two or three trucks will be scouring the streets looking to unload the last of their cargo. As I pull myself out of the shade and head for my bike, I swear I see the flash of blue bottles zip by the road a block away. Why wouldn't he stop and check our road? I don't think I'm hallucinating yet, but if I don't come back with the truck behind me, I may be soon.
I jump on the old white & teal nishiki ten speed we had fixed up for $28 *property of the homeowner's* and start on my quest. A quick hop through the gate and a few lackluster peddles takes me to the main road where I may have seen the water truck. I turn right down the hill and see that , "SI, HAY!" , Yes there is! It takes a left at the second corner, so I quickly make chase, and cruise down the hill. When I get to the first intersection, I slow down because I know that as bad as I feel now, I could feel a lot worse if I kiss someone's windshield. For some reason I glance to the left as I'm almost through the intersection. THERE IT IS! My delirium has me unable to count corners! I flip a U'y and as I pull onto the road it was last seen, I catch the tail end of the truck turning left, bottles gleaming in the sun like a lephrocon's gold. I kick it into high gear and stand up as I peddle, adrenaline now catching on to the chase. I keep my eye on the truck, hoping he has no success on this block, knowing he could be down to his last jug at this hour. As I appoached the corner last taken, I was anticipating his next turn. Sure enough he doubled back on me, taking another left-hand turn and back towards the hillside he went. I wasn't going to follow this guy very long, my adrenaline would only take me so far, and I still had the 150 yard hillclimb. So I made for the corner where I was hesitant to speed through the first time, feeling like Mrs. Pacman when she eats a button and is going to intercept a yummy ghost at the corner just behind her.
Sure enough, as I make my right to head up the hill, the water-guy makes his left, right towards me. Rather than weap with joy, scream "AGUA," or ask for a ride to the top of the hill, I act like I've flagged down a truck before, and hold my pointer finger parallel with the cement, pointing to the other side of the road, while not pointing at all. His face is unfamiliar, and he's working alone. No wonder he didn't stop by our road. He must deliver to the other parts of town, and may be trying to pawn the last bottles of the night off on someone elses' customers. As we pass eachother, my dry-mouth is able to choke out the words, "arriba la loma". Up the hill. And I continue up the hill, maybe happier than the driver. *Maybe not, he had three bottles left to sell, and took the hill in reverse. The whole way. *
So that's the happy ending to my feeling like a zero, but nooo , I'm still not a hero, not in my own mind yet. The hero story comes from this morning's surf session, but first, let me tell you that when I came back to the property after my five minute chase, Mackenzie had used her Noggin and created a tool to capture cocos. She hadn't quite muscled any free yet, but the system was in place and after a quart or two of rehydration I would be able to get a couple down for the following day.
Alright so moving past the days of rest when my board was being fixed, and onto the two great surf sessions that have transpired. Let's start with yesterday morning, because that's what came first. And because if I were to tell you about this morning's waves before telling you about the goods and the bads of yesterday's, you'd lose interest or wonder why I even bother with stories of failure and disappointment. But that's what this is all about right? Being strong and holding your head up high when you've got a bad taste in your mouth, so that your success is that much sweeter. Order comes from Chaos; so in surf, it takes trial and error before getting to the sweet spot.
As I've mentioned before, the sweet spot for the wonderful world of surf is underneath the curl of the wave, tucked into the barrel. Even better yet, the sweetest spot is when a person is under the hood, and sees the light at the end of the tunnel. Yesterday morning, I had a tough time finding the light to guide me safely out of any barrels. The waves were small though, and finding the right wave that would allow anyone to escape its' pounding was quite a challenge. It didn't help that the lineup was packed, with around 30 people at each of the four peaks. I barely stretched since we had risen slow, and I wanted some barrel opportunities before the wind switched to onshore *clearing the water out in MINUTES*. I paddled out at the west end where the peak of the swell always hits, usually 2-3 times the size of the furthest east peak. Today that meant overhead tubes on the small inside waves, and overhead and a half on the set waves, with a few 10 ft waves to be had at best.
In a playing field three to four hundred yards long, I know that it doesn't matter too much where I sit and wait for waves. They'll come. So when the crowds shift one direction during a set, I find the opening they just left. After a few minutes of being in the water, I'm able to assess where a peak may come, when others are looking for the huge wave that just occurred over there. This is my approach. I don't sit on people (meaning i don't paddle under them and sit two arm lengths away, paddling when they paddle, and in the same direction all the time), and I'm usually happy with taking the scrap waves. To establish oneself in a lineup and gain better position than a seasoned local oftentimes takes years. I only have weeks. So I take what I can get, I stick to myself (i say Buenas to anyone I make eye contact with), and I give my girlfriend a big hug and a kiss when I'm back on the beach. La vida buenåsa.
*I can't seem to find the accent mark over the "a" or "o" .
Anyway I surfed yesterday , sin leash. Sin is without, and pronounced SEEN. At first, it was liberating! Compared to taking off the booties after a long winter in Washington, and surfing with barefeet touching the board! Ah, to minimalize. . . The waves felt good too. I snuck a few gems in over on the edge, before some young locals about my age or a bit younger came over and sat on me. Everytime the wave closed out and swallowed me, I'd appear on the surface, surprised to see my board waiting safely an arms length away. This went on for a bit, until I finally had to swim into the beach to grab my board. I paddled back out, got the next good wave that was closing out, and had to swim in again. Rats! The second time wasn't as fun, and the board floated down the beach with the current, so I had to track it down 40 yards away.
Now the session has drug itself along, and many of the early morning surfers were on their way to breakfast, so the crowd thinned out quite a bit. More barrel chances! After duckdiving another half dozen- ten waves, I make it to the lineup that has drifted to where I just sat. I choose to switch them spots, and paddle to the open space where I know a left breaking wave will appear if I just have patience. Sure enough, as soon as two guys paddle down to join me, the wave comes. A perfect peak, and I'm in the takeoff spot. I paddle, and in the back of my mind wonder if one of these guys will drop in on me, ruining my barrel chance. Well this wonder might have been in the front of my mind, because something effected my drop and I absolutely blew it. Rather than drop into a beautiful barrel, I dig my nose into the water and faceplant on the takeoff. What a disgrace. To make matters worse, my board has disappeared, and I can already see a group of gaggling older gringos taking pictures of the board and kindly waving to me that they have it. All I could do was slap water and use swear words in my native language. *Not sure this counts as keeping my head high, but I was where nobody could hear me.*
The Germans handed me the board back, and said they could tell I was mad, all while laughing and smiling the day away. A couple times they said "Scheitza" or however you spell it, and I repeated it back to them with a smile, much to their agrin. After this third trip back into the shore, and too many blown waves in a 30 minute period, I went back to see my beautiful girlfriend who was now surrounded by seven dogs. I thought she had some food in her bag they smelled, but she informed me that a female dog in heat had chosen her as a sitting partner, and all the other dogs would hang around as well. Before my drink of water and kiss was up, the female dog decided to move on. I grabbed the leash from the backpack and strapped it on, silently admitting failure for the session.
The rest of the session is nothing to brag about. At all. In fact, I'm going to end it now by saying this: people that drop in on others are low-life scum bags who don't respect themselves, others, or the beach they surf at. Maybe we are all like the dogs on the beach, fighting for the One.
Greener pastures, brighter days, juicier fruits, bigger barrels. Almost synonymous right? Yesss, this is what I'm here for. I set a goal and start to vision my journey toward this achievement. The flights that would be taken, the taxi ride to the bus station, the long 20 hours by bus endured (the road from Acapulco was washed out from the monsoons, forcing us to take a much longer route via the south), all to arrive at our set destination. But just because I've made it here safely does not mean I can easily plug right into a deep tube, like the charging of an Ipod or camera battery. Oh no, I've got to earn that prize. Nearly three weeks of battling the crowds, currents, sun, and my worst enemy- myself, have left me with more blown barrels than I've successfully ridden out of. I've had some awesome rides, not to take anything away from those, but they've all been stepping stones for what lies ahead. Every air-drop, wipeout, nose-dive, and mini-tuberide have set me up for el éxito (success in spanish) that I can taste just a few adjustments away.
With this wonderful taste on the tip of my tongue, I make the prediction to Mackenzie yesterday afternoon that I would be exiting a barrel today. And a good deep one. Not just the quick cover-up kind, or the one that I described last week when the Long Brothers where out. That one was good, but someone on the beach watching straight ahead would be able to see my board the whole ride. . . I want to disappear and be written off by any lucky bystanders, only to reappear in the closing seconds of the wave, screaming out of the barrel with the spit, at mach speeds baby. That's what I want.
So this morning I woke up and made a light breakfast for the two of us: 3 fried eggs to share, with a little bit of bread and guacamole (Kenzi made the Guac), and a very unsuccessful coffee that took more time than the eggs. *We were really excited about the insane quality of cocoa we're lucky enough to buy since we're here in Oaxaca (pronounced Wu-hah-kuh) for only $4 a pound.* The only reason it was unsuccessful is that the end of our milk box was sour. But a little bit of sour milk goes a long way.
I thought it was going to be another crowded small day at the best shorebreak in the world, but when our $2 taxi ride dropped us off, my mind was blown. The surf forecast had it wrong, or at least didn't take into account the lightening storm that had passed a day or two earlier and gone offshore, creating a really sizeable windswell. The waves resembled our PNW's rough wind-chopped waves more today than any other day I've seen them here, and to me were quite inviting. I could tell it may be unpredictable to time the paddle out today, with waves crashing every six to eight seconds at best. *For all non-surfers, the longer the period between waves in a set, means the further they are coming from, and generally with more power. 6-8 seconds is practically nothing* But I was not complaining. The crowd was much less, since the new day brought waves of consequence, and there were tubes to be ridden! I definitely wasn't taking the camera out on my wrist like I thought I was going to do for the first time!
I warmed up slower today, so I could watch the peaks and analyze where they broke best, worst, and most round. I watched the currents of the water on the inside and found where the channel swept back to the outside, taking surfers and boogers safely to the lineup in between sets. I noticed the wind coming out of the north-east today, a bit different than the direct offshore that this beach is used to in the morning. The hint of east wind shaped the waves to have little steps on the face, an added difficulty when dropping into and trying to navigate the bumpy wall, but nothing out of the ordinary for a kid who learned how to surf in gnarly wind-skewed conditions. It actually was a bit inviting, looking like another really good day at the cove, but 40 degrees warmer.
After giving Mackenzie un beso, I tightened the blue hay bale string I Jimmi-rigged as a belt to my oversize but comfortable board shorts, and was on my way. I barely had time to say my paddle-out-prayers before the current landed me right into the action, and presented me with a good inside wave that would have been at least overhead and a half, had I gone for it. I let the next one go by as well, thinking that I was in the channel and not in the lineup I wanted to be in. As it turns out, I should have gone for either one; to establish myself in the ocean and create a rythm for my session.
Since I didn't go for one of the two smaller waves that came my way, Mother Ocean threw beast after beast at me, laughing as I pulled out of a Monster that I was in prime position for(it was such a thick wave and when I was looking over the edge I could see it starting to break at least 30 yards down. Maybe this would have been a ginormous backdoor barrel, or maybe it would have snapped my board like a twig.) I didn't feel so bad about this, even though I chickened-out in the face of the rest of the guys duckdiving, because the roar of her laughter was deafening as the rest of the lineup paddled over the tops of every other bomb she sent our way. Only once in the first half hour did anyone try to tame this angry mamå. It was a local boogie-boarder taking a 15 ft drop (maybe more), dragging his kahunas down the face as he disappeared under the curtain.
Passing up the first few big opportunities for glory had its' cost. The lineup was swept down by the current to a sandbar known as Carmelita's, and no one wanted to sit here today. It took 10-15 minutes of non-stop paddling to get back into position for the left breaking wave that lines up with the lifeguard tower, and a body would need at least a hundred seconds to rest before attempting another wave. That's about how long I waited before a set came, my position being perfect for the second wave. I started remando tan duro (paddling so hard) and was in a super deep position for this beautiful baby. Unfortunately my lack of kahunas during the first half hour had given a guy to the left of me enough sense to size me up, and think I might pull out at the last second again. So I understood this and wanted him to have the wave if I was going to wuss-out again. I didn't have the confidence that I needed, so I didn't whistle him off. I ended up making the steep drop to the bottom, while he cut me off and stood tall in the tube. *not sure if he made it out, I was more concerned about the ocean behind me, exploding on the shallow sandbar and sending whitewater nearly two stories in the air (seriously).*
Sweet, I can do this. I just did. Now I've just gotta get back out there and call off the other guys if they look like they're gonna shoulder-drop somewhere down the line. I duckdive the whitewater to a few big waves, and the underwater current helps pull me right out, and I'm back in the channel-with renewed confidence :). A boogie-boarder does a celebratory spin on the curl of a wave, after exiting the tube (success in spanish is éxito remember?) and I tell him "good wave" in English. Aussies almost never speak a lick of Spanish, so why bother making them uncomfortable? We're both stoked, so we chat for a bit about our trips, and he informs me he and his girlfriend will be heading to the Yucatan soon. I share my fear with him, and he says he understands. I pull out a line one of the locals said to me in broken English back in Montañita, Ecuador, "It's only water bro". *I'd snap my board 10 minutes later.! Water and REEF!* ... The Aussie's response is similar to my thoughts then, " yeah, and a super shallow sandbar!"
But now my confidence is high, and I'm determined to get pitted. We both make our way to the left peak where I'd been before, and where he caught his gem just moments ago. I was just getting settled into position when a little nugget made its' way to me. I kept paddling until I was lying vertical on the wave, suspended like a lizard or ant on a wall. The millisecond after I felt this oddity, I pushed the board down and slid to my feet, still in freefall. I shifted the weight to my back foot and toes (I ride goofy foot and that means my toes point left, in the direction of this wave) and feel the glide of Her Love underneath. From here, she does the work. The wave stands up even taller as it runs down the line, throwing large drops of its' oceanic body over my shoulder, protecting me from the sun. I'm caught by surprise and I duck after-the-fact. No need to duck into any barrels today, these are the green rooms we've been waiting for boys! WOOOOP! I glide the fingers of my left hand along the wall and feel God. She is Lovely. I enjoy every second and millisecond I get to be in the Temple, surrounded by Her Natural Glory. I see this moment coming to an end so I release my fingers acting as brakes and hit the accelerator by leaning the weight to my front foot and give it one highline pump. An exit opens up for me and I take it, just as the wave connects with the "right breaking wave" and they fold over in unison. *not the clean exit out the end with the spit I know, but also not through the doggy-door*
*Well, kind of a doggy-door exit*
Organized Chaos, and it's here for the taking. Perfect tubos pealing down the same shallow sandbar, takeoff spot shifting 10-30 yards in any direction, depending on the size and direction of the swell that hits. There's only one thing to do, and sometimes I need a friend to remind me of this: ¡Dale dale dale! GO GO GO! (not pronounced like the name of one of the chipmunks, but rather dah-ley)
But not today! I'm now my own best friend, and I've got my own voice in my head for encouragement. "I've got to get another! But I want to be deeper on the next! " So I endure the turbulance of the paddle out and sit next to a different Aussie bruh whose hanging out in the channel, claiming that the bonus nugs coming in are where-it's-at. I like that there's nobody else with us, so I have a gander. A small left peak heads my way with purpose, and I paddle hard to the inside to see what's in store... The wave doesn't let me in early or easy, and I was at the top of a small cliff when I had the decision to pull out or late drop in. I chose the latter and it was a good decision. The air drop in was something like vertigo; my mind taking a break and allowing muscle reflexes to take over. It was one big swooping drop, where as soon as I felt my feet on the board I had to carve sideways and head down the line if I wanted any chance of exiting this thing. Almost instantly the lip threw over as far as I could see. I recognized this as another Mexipipe closeout, but it was bliss. I took the moment in and enjoyed the glow of the sun shining through curl. The overhead and a half tube (so like 7-8 ft) was about to go dark, so I dove off the board in the direction my instincts told me to take. I resurfaced on the inside, watching as the Aussie pulled out of the next three waves, each closing out violently. Yes, I made the right decision.
Ah man, so that's three waves today with one éxito! But they all feel like success to me. ¡Qué una vida! I can't end on that insider, so I paddle back out, this time not stopping in the channel. I head straight to the left peak at "middles" and line myself up with the lifeguards (salvavidas, or literally "saves lives"). I don't see anyone I recognize besides the guy in green that cut me off on my first wave. I offer a friendly "buénas" to a latino boogy boarder and park my ride 10 yards outside him and his two other amigos on their sponges. My 6'8'' is going to get me into the next big peak nice and early, I can feel it.
Not three minutes pass, and a set approaches. The first one isn't big enough to break where I'm sitting, and one of the spongers snags it amidst the encouragement of whistles and coyote calls from his mates. While they're focusing on the first wave I'm getting into position for the second, my stomach lurching up into my chest with obvious nerves. "What're you doing bro?! You're not paddling for the shoulder! If you don't make this drop I won't get a breath for quite awhile!" , the stomach contests from its' hiding spot. My confidence is peaking and I ignore this fear, paddling as hard as ever for the bottom. As soon as I feel the lift from the swell, I counter with a kick down the face and push the board under my feet. I'm on top of the peak looking down the line at 30 yards of waveface ready to throw over, just being delayed for a brief moment by the wind. I can tell I stood up at the exact time needed for this beast, and I engage the toeside rail of my board and find my balance with the watermountain. This has the nose of my board pointing straight down the line, due west.
The offshores did their job long enough and in a second I find myself standing the deepest darkest waterpit I've ever been in. The lip was so thick with water that no sun rays were going to get through the curtain, and I was left to search out the light at the end of the tunnel. Holy Smokes where is it?! For a few long moments I thought I would get slammed onto the ocean floor, but then I felt a bump under my feet and a second drop took place, lowering me in the barrel instantly. Alas! There's the outrance (like entrance, but , you know, the opposite) and the lip way out in front of me throwing some more water for an even longer tube!!! MUHUHAHAHAA I CAN TASTE IT!! ¡´Exito! .. But I can tell She wants me here in Her Temple for another few moments, so i put my hand in and feel Her power, slowing me down and keeping me in the shade. Then i get the message to get a move on, and I let go, flying out with the excess air that was in the tube. The firehose spray I've been waiting for. 10/20/2013. A historic day for me.
I am eternally grateful to be alive. When I exit, I raise both arms to the sky and look up dramatically at the clouds, as if the God of my childhood had gifted me this opportunity. But that's not really why I threw my arms in the air, I don't have a reason. It was instincts. An appreciation for all things on Earth and in the Skies. A gratuity towards the incredible Pacific Ocean behind me. This is Heaven on Earth, and all that I know, so I intend to live as if it's the only Kingdom of Heaven we get. One shot to do WTF we want, and leave it all behind us.
Thanks for listening friends. Enjoy your momentitos. Your precious little moments.
Take care of yourselves and others,
Nicolas Reese
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