The Glamour of Surfing

The beach, the waves, the wax, the boards—it’s all glorious and sexy—but last year, the glamour of surfing really hit me on one particularly big day in York.

No one was surfing just north of the restaurant and I couldn’t figure out why. The waves looked fabulous and long, and areas north of there were starting to get crowded with fellow surfers, so I paddled south from where I was and popped up on a bomb of a right.

I rode it far in and my error of judgement became apparent quickly: as the wave ended, I was stuck in a swampy seaweed salad. The seaweed had taken over the beach that summer—the marine plants stank in the sun, leaving the tourists with nauseous delirium.

And here it was, clumped on my leash, in my hair, and clawing at me from all around, squishy like some life-sized tactile Halloween exhibit.

Somehow—and not gracefully—I was able to paddle back out, after unclumping the seaweed from around my neck and leash, feeling faint and somewhat claustrophobic. When I got beyond the break, I went about unclumping the last of the tangled mess of seaweed that had tied bowknots on the leash.

The next waves I rode, I ducked off early, managing to avoid the sloppy mess. When I finally rode one in, upon landing on the beach, I saw amidst the debris, a baby seal, dead, and some sort of fatty tissue from her body nearby.

It was a pickling moment, and I still grimace even now, remembering I’d just been swimming in the foul mess.

When I hopped in my car, I took one look at my hair and for the first time ever felt that Sinead O’Connor had been on to something. Every lock of hair was throttled by the red seaweed

How the hell am I going to get this out, I wondered.

The answer was: Patiently, with a wide tooth comb and lots of deep conditioner. Three hours later, I began to recognize myself in the mirror. I feared for the state of the pipes.

My car has never fully recovered from shuttling me home that day. There is still an eau de mer that won’t be quelled with the strongest essential oil blend, coffee grounds and baking soda. And occasionally, when I swing my hair too fast, I catch a whiff of ancient crustaceans, kelp and the ghost lives of baby seals and I am reminded once more of the glamour of surfing.

Facial expression: Concern, general malaise and a confidence that I’d be bowing out of any plans that afternoon, in order to work with this hair. (C) Sara Dyer

10 Days in AZ: My Favorite Cactus Names

The day before Dan’s marathon, we stopped by the Desert Botanical Garden to walk around for a few hours and make sure his legs were extra tired before he had to run the 26.2 miles. Beyond the stunning array of cactus they offer, I was impressed by this: The at-times, at-times strange layman’s names for the plants.

In no particular order, here are my favorites:

Organ pipe
Desert spoon
Chuparosa
Palo verde
Fish hook barrel
Compass barrel

And not to be forgotten, the best of them all, for reasons that should be obvious:
Old Man Cactus, who poses for his own photo.

The illustrious, sagacious Old Man Cactus (C) Sara Dyer

Curse of the Reverse Thermostat

​Dan was away last weekend.

It was very hot.

He texted me and said, “Hey—don’t forget to put on the AC if you’re hot.”

“Will do!” I texted.

“Let me know if you need help with it.” Damn he knows me, I thought, but I was determined. 

“I just press Cool, Down dial and then Set, right?” I asked.

“Yep!"

“Then I think I got it,” I said. “Have fun in Cooperstown!”

I walked over to the thermostat next to the TV. I looked at it. There were buttons — set, hold and some third option. There were dials—On, Off, Cool, Hot, Auto.

“Huh,” I thought.

I felt a sense of de ja vu.

This thermostat undos me. All thermostats do. This happens at work too.

“No, no, Sara,” my custodian Richie tells me. “Remember, yours is a reverse thermostat. You spin the dial to a higher number, it gets cooler. You spin it to a lower number, it gets hotter. Reverse thermostat.” Richie has ruined me and thermostats forever. At work, there’s no science. I put it up higher, it either gets hotter, colder, or stays the same. Then David comes in with his little laser reader and points it at the vent, shows me a reading that means nothing to me, and then I sit back down at my desk and chime in when all my coworkers are mourning the [insert heat, arctic cold, stickiness, etc]. I chalk it all up to the reverse thermostat  

Now at home, with Dan in Cooperstown and heat bugs buzzing in the sky, I’m staring at the little white box that could have been writing in Arabic.

I press Cool.

Ok. I think. That went ok.

Then I press Set. The screen starts to dance—the words “6am Tuesday 81 degrees” ​flash. I press Set again. Now “Monday through Friday 11pm, 65 degrees”. 

Oh god, I think. ​

I’m pressing down and up and set and all sorts of buttons, none of which seem to be doing anything I want which is simply: Cool. Now. ​

I look at my phone. Not gonna call him, I think. I turn back to the thermostat, fiddle a bit more, and give up, praying that ​none of the settings that popped up have actually been agreed to in my confused state. 

During the weekend, I take naps, because I’m sick, and wake up with rivers running down my face. Rather than inquire about how to use the thermostat, I pick up coconut water to replenish my electrolytes. I open the windows, which doesn’t do much to begin with, but I close them at night, and wake up with wet hair in the morning. 

I survive. ​

Dan comes home Sunday night and says “What in the world? It’s ten times hotter in here than outside!”​

He looks ​at me. I avert my eyes and continue to chop lettuce.

”Did you try the thermostat?”​

”Um,” I say. “Ya, but, I couldn’t do it.”​

I put the knife down. ​”Let me show you what I did—I really don’t understand how everything went wrong so quickly.”

He follows me to the thermostat. I say, here I did this, I did that, what gives?!​

”Well, your first problem is that’s not the right thermostat,” he says.​

”What?!” I say.​

”Ya,” he says. He walks out of the room we’re in. I follow. “It’s here.” He is pointing to a box that’s right behind the other thermostat, only in another room. It dawns on me this is kind of another reverse thermostat situation in that sense.​ With Dan at the helm, in three clicks, the air is on and the sweat is drying off my neck.

The second problem is that you’ve seen me configure this thermostat a hundred times,” he says, shaking his head.

I smile. “It’s kind of funny though, isn’t it?” 

He doesn’t think so, but he mildly agrees. I however continue to laugh through dinner whenever I think of it.

I sleep like a baby all through the night.