Surfing Localism

Last week I drove down to Palos Verdes in hopes of catching a few waves. There was a nice northwest swell running and conditions were ideal, with light offshore Santa Ana winds and a medium tide. I made my way down the steep cliff side and took in the beauty around me. After about a ten minute hike, I dropped my gear, suited up and paddled out into the cold, not so blue Pacific. I had set my sights on the outside peak where the set waves were running about 3-4ft overhead with only 2 guys surfing. As I was paddling by the 4 or 5 guys surfing the inside corner, I gave a "howzit" to one of the guys. Not surprisingly, he scowled at me. The reason I wasn't terribly surprised by this behavior is because Palos Verdes (for those of you non-surfers) is known to be quite localized.

I couldn't help but think, "here I am on this beautiful, stellar day. Minimal crowd and a consistent swell with beautiful conditions. How lucky am I! Perfect vision, health, job, food, warm bed at night." All these things came to mind. And this guy has the nerve to try and vibe me because he doesn't know who I am. I guess I should have been thankful that no one slashed my tires or threw rocks at me, something that has certainly happened at some of the most localized breaks. I can understand and in fact support local stewardship of A class surf spots. But the idea that an individual can lay claim to a piece of the ocean is ridiculous. At places like New Break in San Diego, Palos Verdes in LA, Hazards in San Louis Obispo and of course Fullers in Big Sur you can regularly see grown men act like a spoiled two year-old who can only focus on the toy they don't want to share..." Mine!" It's a very bizarre and also sad thing to witness. These are fit, healthy individuals who are fortunate enough to be spending time doing what they love. They are fortunate beyond belief. Yet, they're emotional maturity hasn't developed beyond their childhood years.

Check out the following link and read the comments posted by local and non-locals alike in regards to localism at Fullers.

http://www.wannasurf.com/spot/North_America/USA/California/Monterey/fullers/index.html

If I paddle out at a localized spot, don't show up with a crowd, follow the rules of etiquette and know how to surf then these self-proclaimed locals should show the respect they expect shown to them. If someone paddles out and does not adhere to the unwritten rules of surfing etiquette then they by all means should send that person packing. But no one has the right to claim ownership of a particular piece of ocean.

Rules for surfing an A class surf break-

1- Respect the locals.
2- Don't show up with a group of people.
3- Don't paddle right to the peak. Hang wide or inside and wait for the leftovers.
4- Don't jockey or back paddle for waves.
5- If caught inside and someone is dropping down the face of the wave that's breaking in front of you, don't attempt to paddle for the shoulder, paddle inside the surfer and take the wave on the head.

My monthly politcal rant (frequency subject to change)

Remember the saying, "don't believe everything you read?" There seems to be a lot of that going on in this country lately. At least amongst those who subscribe to the 1% of news that's not a part of the liberal media conspiracy (dripping with sarcasm). What I'm talking about in short are right wing propaganda chain emails. You know the ones. Obama is a Muslim, doesn't wear a flag pin, wasn't born here, wants to move "In God we trust" from the face of the new $1 coins to the edge. (That was already approved long before he was in office during the Bush admin.)

I'm regularly forwarded such emails, and they are passed along almost as if they were the word of God. During the elections I was swamped with such letters, all of which were refuted on Snopes or FactCheck.org in about 2 minutes. I responded to such emails by saying that I'd prefer to hear about how great the candidate these people support is and why, and that I didn't appreciate bullshit propaganda smearing any candidate in any party. Tell me something good. Don't make up something bad. Funny thing is, I didn't receive one email utilizing these tactics from the liberal left. The the "liberal media conspiracy" I mean the mainstream media has taken care of it ... I'm sure.

That's my monthly political rant (frequency subject to change)for now. Thanks for reading. This is Jason Brock sighning out... Good night.

Perfume River (Song Huong) Vietnam

Just before the Perfume River/Song Huong (named for the fragrant shrub growing along its banks) spills into the South China Sea, it snakes its way through the old imperial capital city of, Hue. After touring the impressive Citadel my travel partner Rick and I made our way to the river bank in search of a dragon boat to take us up river to see some of the tombs of the Emperors of the Nguyen dynasty.

There are six tombs as well as the Thien Mu pagoda; of which we visited the tombs of Tu' Duc', Ming Mang, and the Thien Mu pagoda. Although the tombs we visited were triumphs of architecture and design, it's not the tombs that made the trip special, at least for myself. At one of the stops some of us chose not to visit the nearby tomb but instead mill about the small local village. I split from the group and let my sense of adventure guide me in the direction of some music. It sounded like the neighbor kid's garage band. Out of tune, off tempo and too loud.

I walked down the lane and soon came upon an open-aired establishment that looked like a bar or restaurant. I stepped inside to investigate and it immediately became evident that this wasn't a public house, this was someone's backyard patio! I froze as all eyes turned toward me. The guitarist, drummer and bass player stopped playing. A couple seated at the table nearest the band stood up. She was in a white flowing dress. He was in a suit. "oh shit" I thought, this is a wedding party.

A mustached man approached and smiled. He directed me to sit down. The band continued to play and before I knew what was happening, a glass of cold beer was handed to me and dishes of food were spread out before me. The people sitting at my table all seemed eager for me to enjoy, so bottoms up! Before I knew it I felt like part of the family.

I couldn't help but think that most of the people around my age and older had lived through the war and one of its most deadly battles. In fact, 80% of Hue was left in ruins and the Northern communists massacred as many as 6000 unarmed Hue civilians during the Tet Offensive. Millions died. No family was untouched by the ravages of war. And all that any of them had truly wanted was to tend to their farms, raise their children and be left alone. It's funny, but most of my exposure to the country had been from films, all of which were about the Vietnam war which incidentally we learned is called the "American War" over there.

From the little I had studied about the inner-workings of the politics involved in the war, I felt humbled that these people would take so kindly to a strange American, or French, Chinese, Japanese, or Brit for that matter; considering that these 5 nations had left indelible scars of sorts on "their" country. And it wasn't like they were being nice to try and sell me a souvenir or something. They were just good people, like most of the local people I tend to meet on my travels.

Perhaps they already knew the credo I would later profess when traveling outside the U.S. during our last political administration. When many American backpackers would don Maple leaf patches on their packs... "Don't judge me by my governments actions!"

The (Budapest) Spa That Was'nt so Relaxing

We crossed the Erzsebet (Elizabeth) Bridge to the Buda side of the Danube ready to experience one of Budapest's most famous attractions, The Gellert Baths. I remember the guide book mentioning that Gellert was the more touristy of the baths in Budapest. The grand foyer welcomed us, Built between 1912 and 1918 in the Art Nouveau style, the building was truly elegant and screamed "you're about to be pampered my friend." Brandon and I entered the spa, ready for massage, mineral baths and some relaxation.

As we were about to enter the men's spa, I realized I'd forgotten to put my camera in the locker, so Brandon went ahead while I dropped off the camera. I soon returned and entered the spa. I was directed by a man to grab one of the loin cloths and put it on. Hmmm...? I did and he directed me to the steam baths. He explained that I should begin in the first room and work my way to the last and that each room increased in temperature. I thought to myself, "does this guy work here?" I sat on one of the chairs. He sat in the chair opposite me. Hmmm...? At that instant it occurred to me that he probably did not work there. I decided to sit back and relax and ignore. I closed my eyes and let my mind drift... A few minuets later my instincts told me that something wasn't quite right. I quickly opened my eyes. The man was still there across from me, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. I did my best to relax again but soon got the feeling that something wasn't kosher. I opened my eyes and caught the perpetrator in the act of perpetrating, so to speak. "Uh yeah, nice dude", I said and bolted. Upon exiting I ran into Brandon who had just come from the massage room. "How was the massage?" When he hesitated for a moment I should've known. "Uh, good", he said. "How was the steam bath?" "Uh, good", I said.

When I entered the massage room and saw the large Hungarian man holding a hose with running mineral water in one had and pointing to massage table with the other, that should have been my second clue. The stainless steel table was cold and industrial, save for some cushy foam padding on top. I laid down and hoped for the best. I was guessing that the masseuse' name was Boris. He looked like a Boris, even though the name is of Russian origin. The thought of someone named Boris giving me a massage wasn't helping to relax me. The large Hungarian went to work, and I held on for dear life. My thoughts began to run wild. "What's he gonna do with that hose?, why the hell didn't we go to Thailand! don't the girls give you a happy ending there. Oh shit, I hope they don't give them here." Boris worked his magic, kneading the muscles in my back like cookie dough. I gripped the table like an abalone to an undersea rock. This was not f$&%ing relaxing at all. Boris finished his handy work. I got up and walked deliberately out of the room. Holy f@$#%ing crap what the hell was that?! This was supposed to be the touristy spa, not a circa '70's Castro bathhouse!

We walked outside to what was supposed to be a wave pool and ordered two beers. The waves were more like boat wakes, but we took a jaunt anyway, and did our best to body surf the ankle slappers. "What the f@#k just happened", I spouted. Brandon just laughed, almost like he was in on it. "I'm about twenty times more tense than before we got here", I told him. "How come you look so relaxed?" We drank our beers, laughed and made plans for our next trip... Pamplona, the Whisky Trail in the Scottish highlands or perhaps... Thailand.

A Day to Remember

When my friend Tyler and I scurried onto the wood planks of the boardwalk and into the sun, I was in disbelief at what I saw. A crystal blue sky was the backdrop for the crisp four to six foot hurricane swell. The light northeast winds were grooming the peaks like a snow cat on fresh powder. It was a good a morning as I’ve seen anywhere in my travels. We couldn’t suit up and wax our boards fast enough. When we entered the water that morning, just after sunrise, the Gulf Stream waters were about 70f. We entered wearing only our board shorts, without so much as a chill. Considering it snows on that same beach in the winter, it was really impressive. On the beach, setting up their equipment, was a crew from New York’s Channel One news, apparently getting a shot for the morning weather segment. Maybe we’d even be recorded ripping up the waves!

After 2 hours of pure joy, Tyler and I jumped the LIRR back towards the city. Tyler was heading to a class in Manhattan and I was jumping off at Kew Gardens in Queens. Not the typical morning surf for this San Diego boy, but typical became a long lost word once I became a flight attendant for United Airlines.

As we left Long Beach behind and crawled into Metropolis, I felt like I do after any good surf. Salty skin... Anticipating a nice hot shower... Belly empty and ready for warm yummy meal... Post surf smiles and laughter. The joke was on all those poor fools taking the train into the depths of the city; their noses to the grindstone in order to pay for the huge spread in the Hamptons, the wife and all her upkeep and private schooling for the brats. So out of touch... The awakening would come too soon.

Jamaica station had just been called as the next stop when a cell phone rang. The man next to me took that call. He was quiet for only a moment and then he shared what the voice on the line had said. “A plane just hit one of the Trade towers.” “What was it a small plane like a Cessna,” I asked? The man relayed my question. “No, he says it was big, like a DC-10.” The implications of this didn’t immediately register. “I guess I won’t be going to work today,” the man said insouciantly. He was one of the lucky ones who were going to the office late that day. I wondered if my 1p.m. flight to Los Angeles would be delayed, still hoping to surf Malibu that afternoon on my layover. Incidentally, we all kind of joked it off, until Jamaica station came into view and in the distance a flaming monolith. It was approximately 8:50am, and the first 767 had hit Tower 1 just a few minutes earlier. We saw a ball of fire blazing from the tower roughly 15 miles away and instantly knew how serious the situation was.

When we reached Kew Gardens the train stopped. I said bye to Tyler and went for the door, but it didn’t open. I realized I was in car #5 and you had to be in the first four cars to exit at that station. As the train began to pull from the station, I ran for the next car forward. That’s when a minor miracle occurred. The train stopped, and I was allowed to exit (if you’ve ever spent time in NYC, then you understand). When I jumped onto the platform and headed back to my commuter pad, the gravity of the situation enveloped me. My knees felt weak, my head went spacey, and I began to sweat profusely.

When I arrived at my crash pad, I found no respite. Everyone was focused on the television set. The newscaster confirmed that a 767 had hit the tower and it was believed to be an American or United airliner. Another plane was also suspected of being hijacked. It was believed to be a United Airlines 767. It was heartbreaking news. I immediately called my parents but got the answering machine and tried to leave a message. I could not speak coherently. I called my sister and let her know I was OK. She hadn’t seen or heard the news, and barely understood what I was telling her. She contacted my parents and they got through to me before all circuits went busy. I tried to speak, but only incomprehensible sobs bellowed from my mouth. I told my parents I loved them, got off the phone and went back to the T.V. just in time to see United flight175 hit the second tower at 9:02:54 a.m.

Not knowing which of our friends was up there is a feeling I’ll never forget. A thousand knots wrenched my gut. Those of you early risers on the west coast watched in horror with us. And by the time the towers fell, most of the world was watching.

The weeks following September11th were lugubrious. The air felt heavy and colors were less vibrant. I swear I’m not being melodramatic. The whole of New York mourned. But amidst the gloom, I saw things happen in New York that I never thought possible. Complete strangers spoke to one another on the train and on the bus. They consoled one another, and cared about their fellow man. It was unfathomable!

When I finally got home, two weeks later, I can’t tell you how good it felt to see my family. I missed home so damn much. It also felt good to see how 3000 miles away, Californians were feeling it too. American flags, American flags, and still more American flags. Ok, at first it felt good, but then it got kind of creepy. It was as though “We” had developed a sense of Nationalism that could only be orchestrated by “der Furher.” I knew I was wrong though. I knew that we all had changed for the better and would never forget what had happened. We had grown closer as a nation and as a world. This brings me to the point of this reflection. What the f^@k happened?

I’m not pointing the proverbial finger. I’ve been just as guilty as the rest. Yelling at the moron in front of me to stop driving like a ninny, bitching because the line at the post office is too damn slow, and most of all taking the little things for granted, like health, friends, and family. The little things of course are different for each of us (I know people who can’t stand their family, or don’t have any friends), but life is so much sweeter when we focus on the positive. Anyway, the next time you’re in line at the grocery store and some old lady is counting her pennies and digging through her double coupons, remember just how bad “bad” can be, and think of all the good. Have a happy and healthy day, and thanks for letting me get this off my chest.

The Value of Parenthood

When I was growing up, my father (a firefighter) was able to buy a home and support us on his (at the time) lower middle class income, while my mother was able to stay home and raise my sister and I. Today, in most families, both parents have to work just to make ends meet. The Feminist movement made incredible strives in achieving equality for women in society. From Politics to the boardroom, women have done some amazing things. Unfortunately the most important woman of all was left to the way side... The housewife/mom. How many times have you heard the term housewife used with an unspoken yet implied "she's just a" lingering in the air? Not to mention stay-at-home dads. I think most people don't want to be defined with any sort of "he or she's just a..." title. This of course is understandable and is the one of the reasons we have to make a pivotal shift in how we define and label what's really important in our society.

Many parents are forced to drop their kids off at day care for 10 hrs/day 5 days a week. During the week they only see their kids when they're getting them ready and out the door in the morning and in the evening when they feed, bathe and put them to sleep. Basically, they only spend about 40-45 waking hours per week with their child, while the child spends 50 waking hours under the influence of the daycare provider. This is preposterous! Families should not have to chose between economic prosperity and having the ability to raise their own children.

Ann Crittenden, in her book "The Price of Motherhood", say's

"Despite the overall advancement of women, mothers' work remains unappreciated in an economic sense, even though moms are cultivating "human capital." Raising productive citizens, the author argues, directly contributes to the overall health of the economy and wealth of the society."

Check out this interview with Ann Crittenden about her book "The Price of Motherhood"

http://life.familyeducation.com/working-parents/family-time/36305.html

In May 2007, just before Mother's Day, Salary.com Inc. gave an annual estimate of market value of mothers' work. They determined that a stay-at-home mother deserves an annual salary of $138,095.00

Check out the article on the Wall Street Journal blog

http://blogs.wsj.com/numbersguy/putting-a-price-on-mom-102/

The truth is if we put the true value on engaged parenting that it deserves and made it possible for at least one parent to have the opportunity to stay at home to raise a child, our society would be incalculably better for it. We should not only have the opportunity to be there for our kids, we should be encouraged to.

Traveling solo

Traveling Solo

By: Jason R. Brock

It was three a.m. and I was drunk and alone. My self-imposed threshold hadn’t been crossed, but I had one foot on each side of the line. It’s one thing to have drunk twenty bucks worth of liquor at Pac Shores with a crew of your best pals, but when you’re eight thousand miles from your own bed, in the third world, and you’re without back up, it can be intimidating.

My wingman Lou left the previous day to get back to work. With all that Indonesia had to offer, it should have made my decision to stay and travel solo an easy one, but I must admit, I was quite apprehensive. My plan was to stay local, in the familiar zone for the rest of my holiday. Kuta beach was easy to get around in, cheap, the surf was fantastic, and the nightlife was rocking. There was no need to go further.

As I warily made my way through the maze-like streets of Kuta Beach, my fears quickly waned, when I heard something familiar... something that brought me back to my childhood... John Denver! Rocky Mountain High was escaping from the windpipes of one of the local kids wielding a beat up six string. I was transported from equatorial Southeast Asia, to my family’s powder blue, Ford Econoline van, on the road to the Sierra Nevada, circa ’79. Eight track technology of course.

As I crossed the road, a group of smiling faces, huddled in the light of the storefront greeted me. I was invited to join them and was soon playing percussion on an empty two- liter bottle of Coca-Cola. We sang a few more John Denver tunes before the young Indonesian offered me his guitar. I asked if they had heard of a band called Nirvana. They hadn’t. I guess I shouldn’t have been so surprised. I took the guitar and played “Where did you sleep last night?” I’ve never had a voice, but I passed it off, the way Dillon does with his own songs. When I finished playing, I handed back the guitar, and thanked my friends for the fun. At the time I didn’t realize that I should thank them for much more.

Next day, as I stepped from my room, shielding my bloodshot eyes from the piercing tropical sunlight, I was approached by one of the local vendors on my way to breakfast. He was selling spots on the next surf charter to Nusa Lembongan, Lombok, and Sumbawa. Impulsively, I said OK! At the time, I wasn’t sure what prompted this impulse, but in retrospect, I thank my experience from the previous night. For such a brief encounter, it had a profound impact.

Two Aussies, three South Africans and myself, loaded our gear into a dodgy old “spider boat.” These locally built boats were rickety, to say the least. No GPS, no life preservers, and no back up motor. For sustenance, we had a generator powered “refer”, full of warm Bintangs and some live chickens, which were held captive in hand-woven reed baskets. The details of this sojourn aren’t important. It was a great adventure and I made some new friends. The reason I mention, it is that I did it. I went for it, and in doing so I developed my sense of “individual spirit” even more than if I had just planted myself in Bali.

Since we are born without an “Owners Manual”, we have only our perceptions and experiences to teach us about who we are. It has been said, that you can learn more by traveling the world than in any classroom. This takes on a whole new meaning when you are traveling alone, because you aren’t bound by an identity. As fun as it can be to have someone with you on your holiday, it can also be a set back. The reason for this, is that you have an identity, which has been characterized through your relationship (however small it may be) with that person. This identity in some ways can be inhibiting and in a sense, it can confine your actions, whether it’s on a conscious or subconscious level. Spontaneity is most assuredly stripped from the equation too. A less enthusiastic travel partner can veto a great spontaneous idea, as fast as it was sparked.

Most people enjoy sharing the experience of travel with a good friend or loved one because by nature, we are social beings. But take it from me, and those “many people” who do occasionally travel solo, try it, at least once in your lifetime. You’ll be surprised at how many people you’ll meet, how much fun you’ll have and the volumes you’ll learn, about your world, as well as yourself.

Indonesia- May 1996