I woke up at dawn ready to make the most of the day Sleepy anticipation filled my soul on the drive to Santa Cruise I arrived at Steamer Lane with walnuts, raspberries, and espresso in my belly The sun was rising and bathed the fat, crumbling waves in a welcoming golden glow The surf was no good and I wished I was still sleeping But then I watched a large seal eat And accepted the ocean's offering I put on a damp wetsuit, waxed my board, and traversed down the slippery rocks I entered the water safely, which was better than yesterday 90 minutes and 3 unremarkable waves later I exited the water shivering but with no injuries, dings, or angry water mates A success by surfing standards I undressed and nearly headed home to make something of this fine day But a coffee and a short read called me What harm could a little puttering do? I sipped a sweet Turkish coffee and picked at a blueberry-banana muffin while reading Bukowski's Ham on Rye on a dirty bench and in an intensifying morning sun Young mothers congregated with their babies and enjoyed another morning in paradise A young couple quibbled about their young dog and I finished my muffin Two policemen arrived and began speaking to a trembling man who stood in front of my car I tried not to watch but had a clear view through a window in the swaying trees "Hands above your head, sir" A dozen small bags were pulled from his shirt, pants, shoes, and groin The handcuffs arrived and clicked shut I wondered what Bukowski would have thought "Leave the bastard alone", he would say "A jail cell won't save him or anyone else" A plump stranger said as much and was shooed away My insides began rumbling and I headed to a church with a cafe down the road A chipper teen prepared my chai latte and I headed for the bathroom I sipped my chai and read more Bukowski He recounted his miserable childhood, which was filled with nasty boils, abuse, and poverty No wonder the bastard drank so much I considered buying a bible But today was not the day that I would find the comforts of religion That day would come later It was time to go home I still had a good chance to stop puttering But on the short walk to the car, old surfers talked about surfing A short, tanned Brazilian held a board and said his new fins made all the difference The old suffers agreed heartily and I smiled These fools suffered from my same addiction Surfing, while intoxicating, is a pointless exercise of dancing with nature and following its rhythms, always feeling that the perfect wave, the perfect dance, is just around the corner I drove away thinking about fins and waves and old surfers and made a wrong turn I was headed toward Four Mile, an unfamiliar break What harm could 15 more minutes of puttering do? I arrived at Four Mile and talked to an older man "How was it," I asked He said I would need some volume and patience and it would be just fine I admitted I was from out of town and he grimaced until I said I used to live in Encinitas He knew Beacons, Swamis, and the charms of Leucadia Santa Cruise was not all that different and now neither was I I walked the dusty path to the ocean and ran into a young surfer who had exited the water His was tense and said it was madness out there Guys were yelling and coming to blows I watched the waves and considered going out A French lad with a boogie board walked by and I asked him if it was any fun He said it was a grand time A squat man with a mustache came from the beach He said it was too crowded and crummy to surf I agreed and he told me about the break and swells and wind and a deep-water canyon surfable in Big Sur I had enough new knowledge to fill a novel or a poem and decided that I would not surf Better to drive home without dancing on crummy waves and risking a bloody nose I cruised back with a close eye on the ocean Maybe I could find a time and place for another session But the wind had already done too much damage and I needed to write that novel or poem The drive up 101 had many cliffs and farms with strawberries, pumpkins, and nuts I wanted to stop and meet the farmers but the day was slipping away But then I saw the sunflowers Big, yellow, and dancing in the wind I stopped at a farm and gathered 6 sunflowers, 3 pumpkins, and a bouquet of bright flowers I would give this harvest to my wife She was not puttering and deserved it more than me Perhaps she would enjoy a small glimpse into all that I had done on this fine day I avoided any more stops and arrived home at two in the afternoon Nine hours after my dawn departure Not too bad for a Thursday I wanted to write about this adventure, but the sun and puttering had made me thirsty I bought a bottle of Italian orange wine and cut the sunflowers while sipping a heavy pour I prepared a small lunch of lamb, cheese, olives, popcorn, dark chocolate, and a vanilla cupcake that tasted good with the orange wine I would need a small nap before writing Now I sit here at a 1945 Smith-Corona typewriter The sun has set and I'm clanking these keys, telling my tale and listening to classical tunes Just like Bukowski said he did I can't say that I've done much today But I feel alive, satisfied, buzzed I lived and lived as well as I could And for now, that seems like enough | 
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