Immersed in Bumdom

[buhm-duh m]

noun

• the class or entire body of bums; bums as a whole.
• the outlook or behavior of bums, especially those rigidly adhering to shiftlessness.

When I attained the adventurous age of 10, I was cut loose from the ever-present, protective eyes of my parents. Regularly, I would toss my homemade, steel-wheeled skateboard underfoot and rattle my way down to Buccaneer Beach. The freedom granted to me, an exploratory kid by nature, elevated my parents to near perfect status and made this man’s growing up years the envy of his peers. However, my mom and dad did have one particularly stubborn, blind spot. (Hence, the “near” perfect.)

I clearly remember them sternly informing me in no uncertain terms, “NO, you cannot surf. Only bums surf!”

Please understand. Seen through the eyes of my parents, surfers were nothing more than long-haired, shiftless, marijuana smoking drop-outs. However, to a 10-year-old, the iconic bronze-skinned, blond-haired surfer was the pinnacle of everything cool. I tried debating with them, and when that failed, negotiations ensued, (also to no avail), which subsequently led to the humiliating stage of begging. Dang. Even that singular, tender teardrop that I worked so hard to perfect did nothing to dissuade them!

Dude, let’s be honest. Could you have blamed a prepubescent boy for over-romanticizing the life of a barefoot surf-bum? I mean, think about it. Which seems more appealing? Having a waxed stick tucked under shirtless, tanned shoulders, strutting carefree onto the squishy, warm sand, and straddling one’s board, gazing over the hazy horizon, naked toes dangling in the clear, blue, salty sea? Or, being shod, compelled to dutifully trudge to grade school, dull pencils and boring books in hand, only to have one’s squirmy butt forced, feet and eyes forward, onto a cold, hard seat? A fair-minded person would be rather hard-pressed not to agree that being a beach bum would have a powerfully fanciful draw.

Despite my diligent efforts at refining the sad puppy-eye look, my parents never relented on their entrenched stance. I had to wait until I was in my 20’s before my first awkward goofy-footed step onto a board. Ahhhh, the feel, the undulation of the float, the grace of sliding across the wave’s face in search of that elusive, perfect curl was intoxicating. I was addicted. However, by then, I had different priorities, and transforming into a darkening, dreadlocked surf-bum wasn’t one of them. Life stepped in, and I had to hang up my damp, slightly sandy towel.

“Surfers are bums!” “Surfers are bums!!” “S U R F E R S A R E B U M S ! ! !”

Even though my parents’ voices are silent to me now, my mom and dad’s dire warnings still reverberate intensely, wrapping around my thoughts, stinging my conscience like a Blue Bottle jelly fish. For there is no denying it – I am jobless, and I surf nearly every day, often twice a day and, in the interest of full disclosure, if the curl is just right, sometimes I can be spied sneaking away from the condo for a final sunset ride. Without question, I’m brandishing a killer tan. Furthermore, more often than not, I can be found hanging loose on the playas, south of Canoa, Ecuador, alongside my fellow “unemployed” surf buddies with our sticks tucked under our brown shoulders while sporting carefree, silly grins just before we paddle to the outside sets, straddling our boards, naked toes dangling, eyes searching, awaiting that perfect barrel.

So…..dare I ask? Am I destined to finish out my life as nothing more than a balding beach bum, sucked in daily by the lure of the ocean’s tides? And, as my parents feared, finally to be found indolent and fully immersed in bumdom?……..I hope so.

Fetch!

I am often asked about medical healthcare access in Ecuador. This query frequently comes, oddly enough, on the heels of my sharing with others the enjoyment of strolling Ecuador’s isolated beaches or surfing in her secluded, South American warm waters. Far too few inquire about what truly excites me – our Canoa condo at Playa del Sol, the quality of surf, beachcombing, the year-round warm weather, the low cost of living or the thrill of learning about a new, colorful and diverse culture.

My enthusiasm is often momentarily defused by this concern for my health and welfare, but I nonetheless drudge up a pat response and explain that there is, in metropolitan areas such as Quito or Cuenca, world class healthcare at extraordinarily low prices. However, in fairness, I go on to explain that where Jan and I live, if I were to have a sudden heart attack or stroke while in the barrel of a wave, (and if I ever caught that elusive barrel I probably would), the most likely result would be both unpleasant and permanent.

Whether intended or not, often the listeners’ eyes betray their dismay or even that of slight disapproval. Few, whether out of kindness or discomfort, come right out and state that they think I’m foolish. Typically, their concerns are neatly tucked within the blank spaces between the words of their follow-up questions. And, admittedly, those subsequent and legitimate inquiries that have come (and undoubtedly will again come my way) give me pause. You know – the “What if’s…..” in life.

I have trouble coming up with a valid justification as to why I choose to take the risk of possibly living a shorter, more adventurous life in trade for a safer, “more responsible” life. Then one day, while back in the states, I was listening to my son and daughter-in-law discuss the new rules for playing ball with their sweet but very energetic dog. Now, this is no ordinary boxer/pit bull mix. He is our only grand-dog which makes his place in our family unit very special. Sadly, “Ryan” has been diagnosed with a bad ticker and a shortened lifespan. The veterinarian has warned that vigorous play with Ryan runs the risk of having him collapse and die. Unfortunately though, it is clear that Ryan still has the will and desire to race through the sagebrush attacking a thrown ball even though he no longer has the support of a healthy heart.

Ryan is clearly loved by his mom and dad, and, like many good parents, they want to protect Ryan and keep him alive as long as possible. So it is understandable that they have chosen to restrict all strenuous activities even though this must leave Ryan, who is blissfully unaware of his precarious condition, unquestionably confused.

I have no quarrel with their decision. It is a wise and loving one, and yet their situation brings me back to the underlying choices behind the questions posed to me about my life in Ecuador. Ryan’s medical issues have helped me to think through and solidify an internal and extremely personal conclusion for myself and one I need my loved ones to understand. Simply put, it is this:

Pitch the ball as hard and fast as you can and let me chase it to the end!

Prickly Paradise

Let me get straight to the point. There are not too many things as satisfying to me as the sea – its warmth, the salty taste that lays heavily upon the tongue while the glow of the sun toasts the skin golden. I believe these are a few of the many earthly elements that add divinity to life. This said, I think it is important to clarify that the sea, or specifically surfing, has not completely monopolized my existence. It is, however, one eloquent expression of how I choose to enjoy living while on this planet.

There is no question that straddling my stick with the Pacific swells passing underneath is heavenly. Nonetheless, it is only fair that I admit, not all in paradise is painless and perfect.

I would be remiss if I failed to mention that there are thousands of “Blue Bottles” (aka the Portuguese man-of-war) that mercilessly wrap their lengthy, blue, bubbly strands around one’s arms, legs and across the back, causing numerous bands of stinging welts which leave the surfer looking flogged.

And yes, I can tell you with all candor, there have been several times now that the sting rays that lay in the shallows also have had a “point” to make, causing a few surfers to limp back to shore with leashes trailing behind, dragging in the sand.

And if my new purlieu were not prickly enough, just when you think you are safe, you step on one of the hundreds of 2 inch long, spike-covered shells that bespeckle Canoa’s playas. Pretty, but I can tell you from my first-hand experience, painfully piercing!

And yet, when slicing on the edge, feeling the weightlessness delivered by the power beneath, I am reminded that no sting, strike or impaling shall dissuade nor discourage me from life.

And that’s a point worth making.

Underwear Days

I have discovered that cold, drippy days in Canoa, Ecuador (70 to 75 degrees) are “underwear days”. I hate being forced out of my daily attire (a rather large selection of swim trunks) into two layers of clothing. Simply put, it sucks!

Living on the playa has surpassed my pre-arrival grandiose expectations. I love, love, love that there is no time wasted in color coordinating my whitie-tighties with pants, shirts, belts, shoes and socks. Nope – just snatch up a somewhat dry bathing suit (T-shirt optional) then track down the ever evasive, sand layered flip flops and voilà!  – you’re dressed for the day’s activities. Now, that’s my idea of beach living in the wintertime!

Over the past three years while preparing for our move to South America I, in previous posts, have kept no secret about the dream of returning to my long given up sport of surfing. I romanticized and fantasized about the idea. Others (my wife) daringly suggested that I became rather obsessive about the whole thing, the claim to which I now must concede does admittedly have a strong ring of truth.  I must also confess I was a bit concerned that the reality of Ecuador, when paired up with my fantasy of life on the playas, would prove to be disappointing.

Nothing, I mean not one dang thing, has been less than I had imagined! Are there problems with the internet speed and power outages? Of course, and such challenges (if one were to succumb to his or her lesser self) could compel a person to throw his computer into the sea. And yes, the craziness of going to the market and having the sluggish checker screw in each and every light bulb you just purchased for your entire home (no return policy, so they actually check to make sure each bulb works) while behind you an ever growing line of bunched up people who are shifting from one foot to another as they jockey for position is extremely embarrassing. However, as I sit in the rain straddling my surf board, waiting for an outside set, I realize that none of the inconveniences of living here have dampened my love for my new home. And there’s no need to get my panties in a bunch. After all, they’re rarely required here.

Mercury Rising

Mercury Rising

Setting a goal has never been my way of achieving one. It is not that I don’t arrive at my destination or desired result – I just accomplish it by the more exciting method of “winging it!”

My wife, however, is a planner, and to my bewilderment, finds security in establishing and sticking to a goal. Personally, I bristle at the concept, perceiving it more as setting a trap or robbing oneself of the adventure of figuring things out on the fly.

Back in October of 2011, shortly after deciding that living abroad was how we wished to start our retirement escapade, Jan posted above her desk a colorful thermometer chart. The graph laid out in $5000 laddered increments our goal of saving $200,000 by the end of 2014. This was the amount we concluded we would need to finance our move to South America, which included purchasing in full a home on the coast of Ecuador, furnishing it, paying for two trips there to set up our new beach home, setting aside enough money to carry our home here for a year if it doesn’t sell, and most importantly, buying the two surf boards I plan to use every day.

Sitting at my desk, I studied Jan’s new thermometer gauge which sported a thick pink line rising up the middle that ran out of ink at just above the $5,000 line. All I could see was a lot of discouraging white between the top of the pink mark and our desired final goal. Jan, on the other-hand, found sweet comfort in the fact that we had any pink at all. (I guess it’s the old adage “Is the glass half empty or half full?” But let’s be fair. That philosophical expression would be far more poignant if the pink was hovering at the $100,000 mark.)

It’s not that I don’t have my own charts to study and stay current with. Oh no! In truth, for the past 1 ½ years, with my head deeply buried in the sands of dream-filled, illusionary fancy, I have stared daily at a thermometer gauge that sits on my desktop showing Canoa’s current temperature and with longing, studied the surf reports.

I must confess I haven’t kept current with Jan’s single-minded savings chart. Honestly, how can I be faulted for not paying proper attention to her monthly shading, her methodical coloring within the lines as she adds a little more height to her goal indicator when the Ecuadorean surf is regularly cresting at 3 to 6 feet every day?

But, one recent afternoon, as I sat at my desk daydreaming of lying in the salty, warm surf on my 7’6” swallow-tailed, custom-shaped surfboard, Jan shrieked with excitement startling me back to reality. Filled with a sense of accomplishment, she updated me on our financial goal. With only seven months remaining before the move to Ecuador becomes our retirement reality, the money mercury had crept up to a steamy $175,000, leaving just a small colorless gap at the top.

Oh how glorious it is to have my quixotic nature supported by a pragmatist.

“It’s Not As Bad As It Looks”

We have all heard the consoling line:

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Most likely we ourselves have used this non-persuasive sentence only to have our opinion rebuffed by the equally familiar phrase:

“If you say so.”

Please allow me to start this story first by moving backwards in time in order to color in some details and then I shall return you to where the story is headed.

Yesterday morning, Jan and I hopped on the bus to Canoa for a surf trip. I use the two words “surf trip” in the most optimistic way possible. Here is how that adventure played out:

I rented, for $5.00, a surfboard from an Ecuadorian waiter at an American-style restaurant called the Surf Shak. (It seems nearly all businesses and individuals here in Ecuador have multi-functions, many times in ways that, to me, don’t make sense.) Oddly, they didn’t sell surfboard wax. I was instructed (in Spanish – requiring much hand waving) to walk back up five blocks from the Malecon to an internet café where wax is sold – go figure. Plus, the sticky stuff cost me $4.00, nearly as much as the rental. What’s up with that?

Wax and board in hand, we headed to the beach. Jan settled down under a rented bright blue canopy (negotiated to $3.00/day) to escape the sun, quite amusing as the sun itself was completely hidden behind darkening clouds. No matter – it was helping out Canoa’s economy and it gave her a comfy, plastic seat.

My anticipation was running high, for the Googled surf report (researched by Jan) had stated that the waves were to be two meters plus with a five star rating – the highest possible. I became a bit perplexed when I scanned the cresting waves and could find no bobbing heads. Ecuador has some extremely talented surfers, and Canoa boasts a number of their own, but not one was riding the left- and right-breaking curls.

Undaunted by these empty crashing waves and undeterred by the six (yes, I said six) sets of individual breaks with no measurable quiet time between them, I valiantly snatched up my newly waxed board and headed out.

Jan, camera in hand, watched with baited breath as she saw off her brave, tanned, surfer boy. (Yes, yes. I know I’m sixty, so “boy” doesn’t exactly fit, nor does, even less so, the surfer adjective, but I do sport one hell of a dark tan. Oh, and as I soon found out – I was not brave. I was just dumb.) Anyway, back to the off-subject topic so I can eventually return us to the subject of the post. I paddled and ducked dived. I paddled and turtled dived. I even head-butted the relentless, white, foaming barricades ….. Well, since there are no photos immortalizing my athletic prowess you may well deduct that I never made it out. Jan quietly put away the camera and waited for my humbled return whereupon she sweetly attempted to resuscitate my drowned ego.

But, back to the real subject of this post.

Afterward, Jan and I were inside our rented condo on the sofa enjoying ourselves. With my head in her lap, her hand gently caressing my forehead, she was reading Dreamers of the Day to me from her Kindle. Thinking I had fallen asleep, she closed her page-less book. My floating imagination was pulled away from 1920’s Cairo and back to present-day Canoa. I stood up and stared out at the surf, my mind not fully returned from the story Jan had been reading.  Suddenly, as my eyes focused in on the moment, I found myself stunned by what I saw. Completely bewildered, I exclaimed,

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT???”

 Jan and I walked out near the shore’s edge and sat on the dry sand, not daring to touch anything wet, and we found ourselves stating and restating in disbelief:

“What is that?”

With noses scrunched and mouths turned down, we repeated the question in barely audible tones while dreading the answer. Deep within the recesses of my darkening thoughts I began to fear that this was why the locals, back in Canoa, were not ripping up the waves. Yuck! I was in a daze, worrying about what I had exposed myself to and what exotic disease might be in my future. Jan, meanwhile, sought out the condominium’s groundskeeper/guard (Luis) and asked him what it was that was turning the waves to baby poo. He replied, without hesitation, “It’s not as bad as it looks.” He went on to inform us that what we were seeing was “tierra” (earth/soil) from the Chone River, and he assured us that it was not dangerous.

My silent response? “If you say so.”

(Note: Jan, feeling equally dubious, decided to do some Googling to research Luis’s claims.  Apparently, this muddy surf is laden with “suspended sediment” and is reportedly a common occurrence in coastal areas where large river mouths merge with the ocean.)

Whatever! Determining that my body was not going anywhere near THAT, Jan and I opted to hunt for seashells.