everyone hits the pothole, for the love of clam strips, killer close outs, gramps gets the parking space, dog eats dog

swell: 5-7

wetsuit: 4.3

booties and gloves (first time wearing them of the season)

air temp: 

sunny/partly sunny

light wind

board: sasha, 8’0

checked the surf report and the swell still looked solid—5-7 feet, big for us around here, so it was on.

we remembered dan was missing a fin about five minutes before we hopped in the car, so we visited our friends at surfari, grabbed some fins, and took advantage of their columbus day weekend sale.

as soon as we hit the beach, we saw three surfers getting out of the water; always a questionable sign, but there were still a few SUPs and surfers out so we paddled in. 

and then we waited.

and waited. 

and waited. 

monstrous mountains kept rolling through but close outs were serious so ya. 

a couple guys next to us got on a few waves but everything was closing out hard and the smaller rollers I was aiming for had no push and I stalled out every time.  

I tried to move some to the right, after dan and i wondered if it might be a little more chill further right and got shit-slammed and experienced the joys of a three wave hold down. but i learned if i got really low right before a monster wave hit, i could just let go of my board and miss the washing machine. not safe if other surfers are around, but fine in my case since there weren’t.

i spent most of the day in the washing machine, punching myself over the waves, barely turtling or just calling uncle and getting as low as i could as the big waves crashed over me. 

when i nearly broke my neck on a killer close out, i thanked patcha mama and poseidon for sparing me and got out. all the dogs in town were on the beach—a goony great dane, a hundred labs, springer spaniels. they love running up and down the beach.   

when dan got out, we decided to hit cape ann brewery but i didn’t want to leave our new boards on the top, so we tetris’ed it up and finagled them into the car. dan couldn’t see anything as we pulled out but we made it to the pub, where the clam strips were glorious as were the beers. with the return of cape ann’s imperial pumpkin stout, what more could you want? 

 

where to surf according to the guy on the beach from jersey: who’s surfed everywhere  

costa rica

santa teresa

malpais


ecuador

montanita

nova scotia


Curse of the Reverse Thermostat

in

​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.