Some friends have been in touch, asking about the silence of the blog. Am I okay?
It’s called writer’s block. Trying to write anything these days is like clawing through granite with my fingernails.
I’ve been surfing, going prone on the bigger days on my longer board and stand-up paddling on the smaller days, but my post-surgery shoulders twinge and I have inflammation of the toe bones of my feet, so either way it aches and session times are limited.
Writer’s Block. Another name for it is Life. I’ve been writing a series of blog posts on the Toast Surf Trip, a nostalgic boat cruise through Eastern Islands, a bunch of old Bali hands in our advanced middle age. We all commented, in our various ways, that at this point in our lives things should be getting easier as we head toward the golden sunset of our years, content in the saddle or on the surfboard or dangling from a kite or reeling in the fish, but in truth? Such is not the case. Problems keep coming, toil and trouble. It’s almost like the saying, life’s a bitch and then you die.
Almost, I said. Because an old Sunday School song comes to mind: “Count your blessings, name them one by one…” I had five such blessings on the Surf Toast Trip, and I count them one by one: Robert Wilson, Mike McHugh, Clayton Barr, Tim Watts, Murray Bourton, Steve Palmer.
And there are other friends I count as well, naming them one by one. For a hermit like me, why, far more than I deserve.
Okay. Silence the maudlin violins. Cue the trombones of the Marching Band.