Bowl sessions together forever
We vow.
The first day of fall began like any other. Wake in the dark, move in the dark, bring life back to our bodies. Then, sort out coffee.
We weren’t home so we traded making pour overs and reading while the sun comes up for walks to the lighthouse at dawn, with a stop by Verve, our favorite East Side roaster, on the way.
We sat in our spot, talked, watched the bay come to life as the marine layer burned away while we sipped notes of citrus and chocolate from our cups.
This was our clock.
Empty cups and more glow in the sky meant the kids should be stirring back at the house.
Proof of a good yesterday.
There were signs of life when we arrived: bathroom doors open with the lights left on, random explosions of Tik-Tok audio coming from the loft, and new dishes on the kitchen counter, but everyone was still in their beds.
After a quick check-in with mom about the day, they were moving and we were rolling down the street to the skatepark for a few late morning laps.
Our last doubles run as bachelors together.
An empty skatepark is a dream most days.
The two of us, maybe a few friends, or even couple strangers there to rip–anytime the skatepark hasn’t morphed into a daycare-that’s the best.
Lucky us, an empty Mike Fox park awaited our arrival.
This day could’ve been chaos. The 50th anniversary jam for Santa Cruz Skateboards was going down in a few hours, but the park was empty, mellow, and the air was a cool breeze with warm light.
Ramp sessions were scarce leading up to the trip so we avoided the temptation to ride everything, opting instead to groove in the same lines again and again, going faster, higher, leaning more each turn—to get barreled, pitted, etc.
Tires over body is ideal. Acceptable.
Sweaty and happy, we called it before the crowd showed up, scooped up the kids, and headed to a cave in the ocean to tie the knot.
lucky us
Grand ditches and tiny, tarnished stars. The best days start in the dark.
We plunged zombie-armed through the fabric of night, a homogeneous, untouchable, lightless velvet that cloaked the pines. We groped for a spot to pee, fingers extended, ready to touch god or be obliterated against blackjack trunks.
We felt our way back to bed with cautious steps until we jammed our digits into steel and slid them along the truck's body, feeling for the door.
A last look at the sky through the window revealed towering silhouettes, pine shaped cut outs in the stars. So many stars. None of them ours.
The sun is a black pinhole.
Half that, actually.
Betelgeuse floats in the night sky. It’s Orion’s shoulder, and from where we’re standing the Sun looks 40,000 times larger. And compared to Sirius, the brightest star we can see, the Sun shines 10 billion times brighter. Both are illusions.
Betelgeuse is at least 700 times the size of the Sun, and Sirius is nearly twice as bright. And if the Sun eclipsed the biggest, brightest stars it would vanish in a solar system sized sea of blue LED light. Not even a low watt speck of amber incandescence would remain. Like the prick end of a sewing needle transiting a beach ball. And if that pin pricked the ball and let out a single red blood cell, that would be Earth. And that lost, pin prick, mote of orange would be a black hole that could swallow about a million Earths. That’s our star, and it was rising soon.
Meanwhile, 60 miles north, the Grand Canyon sprawled silently in the dark. A wonder of Earth, a shelter, a grave, an ecosystem, a ditch carved by weather and time. But, it’s our ditch, over a mile deep and twice the height of any building we’ve ever built. And we weren’t going to miss the chance to watch the orange speck rise above it. We rolled out of the Coconino under twilight and headed north to catch the show properly from the South Rim.
After the solar rim ritual our pilgrimage took us to another ditch. Man made. An overlooked feat of civil engineering that quietly spares the city from snow melt and monsoon floods. A heroin den or wayward home for some. A bordello, prophet’s tablet or canvas for others. For us, the megalith beneath the street was a shrine to the carve, where we paid tribute in turns, offering sweat for joy until lunch.
