Of Water, Wind and Waves (Part Two)

Remember that story of Samson and Delilah? Yeah, I don't really remember it either other than that in typical Biblical fashion it features a women who is a one dimensional hussy who screws things up for the menfolk. I also remember the part where Samson gets his hair cut and loses all of his strength. I know this sounds ridiculous but I'm ninety-nine percent sure the same thing would happen if you cut Fabio's hair. Anyway, I was feeling a bit like Samson except instead of losing strength I had kinda just lost momentum and instead of cutting hair on my head, I had just shaved my armpits. But, you know, details.
See, after cleaning up and deforesting myself I completely lost any will I had to keep moving around the South Island. It's as if no longer looking like a vagabond I no longer wanted to act like a vagabond. I guess appearances can really make a difference. It's like how putting on tall black heals makes you fantasize about being a dominatrix just for, you know, one night so you can stalk around a group of naked, kneeling men with a whip in one hand and force them to kiss your pedicured toes. Or something.
Though my newfound stasis maybe had less to do with the way I looked and more to do with the coastal town I found myself in just days after the big clean up.
The town was called Sumner and being just one letter off my favorite season I took as a good omen. Although it is only, say, twenty minutes from downtown Christchurch, it feels sufficiently remote cloistered between hills and ocean. Sumner beach is a reasonable popular surf break as is the beach just south of Sumner, delightfully known as Taylor's Mistake. I deliberately decided to not find out who Taylor was or what mistake he or she made because I loved the name as was having too much fun making up stories to go with it. The sinister undertones made me imagine Taylor was a mobster who had ratted out his buddies and in retaliation had been drowned off the shore and the beach renamed as a warning to any other potential rats. But the idea of a Kiwi mob seemed pretty laughable. I mean, what would they do? Run a black market in sheep? I also guessed that Taylor was an early sea captain who like Captain Cook met his end at the had of pissed off natives after making the mistake of assuming that just because they didn't have written titles to land they wouldn't try to defend it.
The business district of this small town was a two block strip that consisted of no less than four cafes, two surf shops, two Indian restaurants, and an independent cinema. And that was pretty much it. The second I arrived I realized all of my most basic needs would be catered for: coffee, surf, and entertainment.
It's a tough life I lead.
I made friends with the owner of one of the surf shops and soon secured myself ridiculously cheap board rental fees. I've learned that people feel bad charging their friends for things. This is why you should do your best to get on good terms with your local barista and video store worker -- even if the latter's got monumental acne and a slightly unhealthy attachment to anime. (Having breasts also helps in this endeavor.)
Florian came to join me a few days later after having spent a week working at a yoga retreat under the supervision of an emotionally volatile (read borderline psychotic) sexagenarian. We spent a few days surfing and rock climbing in Sumner and enjoyed sunny afternoons during one of New Zealand's hottest summers on record.
We decided that since it was Flo's last week in New Zealand we would both take kite boarding lessons. Kite surfing was a long held dream of mine. While living in Chicago just a few blocks from Lake Michigan I had often dreamed of harnessing Chicago's famous winds and going kite surfing in the shadow of Chicago's gorgeous skyline. Since surfing the lake was pretty much out of the question I figured kite surfing would provide a similar adrenaline rush. But I never managed to get the money together. Lessons weren't cheap and I was worried if I took them I'd fall in love with the sport but not be able to afford the pricey equipment. I also had fallen in love with and then been unceremoniously dumped by the captain of Northwestern's sailing team and I felt kite surfing would help me get revenge by immediately making me cooler than him. I'd cruise by on a board while those lazy fucking sailors sat in boats on their lazy fucking asses.
The dream of kite surfing persisted even once the sting of rejection had faded. So I jumped at the chance in Sumner.
Florian and I arrived at the kite surfing school one blustery morning to find a thirty-something guy with tousled brown hair sitting on a sofa staring into space. Even though there was no one else in the room, he seemed not to notice our presence but kept staring into the space in front of him. I purposely shuffled my feet a bit, hoping he would turn and greet us. Nada. I coughed. No response. Finally I addressed him directly and he slowly turned his head to look at me. His eyes were bloodshot and I immediately knew he was stoned. Off his ass. I've been there. I know what it looks like.
Now before I go on, I've got to let you know that kite surfing is a dangerous sport. Watch anyone proficient on an even mildly gusty day and you'll see them effortlessly get several feet or even several meters off the water. I've seen videos of people getting stuck in the air or being carried above rocks -- the last place you want to be when the gusts pass by.
And here was Mr. Stoner-on-the-couch greeting us for our lesson. But before any words were spoke a toll blond gentleman walked into the kite surf center. He was the antithesis of stoner: athletic, poised, lucid. He introduced himself as the owner of the shop and gave me a hearty, substance-free hand shake.
"So, are you going to be our teacher today?" I didn't even try to keep the desperate hope out of my voice.
"No, I'm going to entrust you to my capable colleague, Tim." He replied, heartily and substance-freely.
Tim gave a weak smile and squinted at us through bloodshot eyes.
He doesn't look that capable. I thought. But I kept my mouth shut.
We were presented with a release of liability form. Three pages. Eight point font. About ten times more comprehensive than any other liability form I had seem so far in New Zealand. Initial your life away here, sign away all rights to bodily integrity here, and trust your working limbs to Stoner.
This was going to be interesting.
Flo and I hopped into Stoner, I mean, Tim's van and he took us out to the estuary. On a grassy field by the water, we slipped into wetsuits clammy with the moisture of the ocean and other people's bodies. Tim handed us both harnesses to which the kite would eventually be attached and told us to put them on.
The harness he handed me looked exactly like S and M granny panties, if such a thing were to exist. And it might, who knows. In any case, it was a thick pair of black undies that came just above my belly button and a couple of inches below the curve of my ass. There were no mirrors around, but I guarantee you each ass cheek appeared to be about three feet long. My hot kite surfer chick fantasies were swiftly being replaced with weird fetish granny images. From the front of the harness a metal hook protruded out and down like a chrome Gonzo nose. A white helmet like an overturned colander completed the ensemble.
Tim pulled out two kites and showed us how to set up the rig. Four long kite lines had to be carefully untangled, spread on the ground, and attached to the kite in precisely the right way. Tim explained all this to us with as few words possible and a continued failure to quite make eye contact. In between the distracted mumbling I leaned that failure to set the kite up perfectly could lead to kite damage or even decapitation. For some reason, Tim seemed more concerned with the former possibility. Then the kite had to be inflated. An arced tube along the front edge and lateral ribs at intervals provided the structure for the kite. Before it was even fully inflated it became a horse chomping at the bit. The strong wind was picking up and we had to weight the kite down with gear.
Tim quickly walked us through the emergency procedure: a loop embroidered in red with the word EJECT that we were to yank it disaster struck. This would theoretically depower the kite if, say, we were being lifted uncontrollably through the air and over some rocks. Of course, I thought, this also meant we would then drop uncontrollably onto those rocks, but again I kept my observations to myself. I was already freaked out enough without having to vocalize my fears. Meanwhile Tim was casually running through all of the things we shouldn't do: put the kite straight overhead while on land, dive it too quickly, pull hard on the control bar. The list went on, but I was still trying to memorize the first few to take note of the whole list.
"Got all that? Good. Let's head into the water."
What? Huh? Already? I thought, but I didn't want to lose face in front of Florian.
Tim lofted the kite effortlessly and held it at 45 degrees to the ground. Leaning against the pull, he walked down the bank and into the waist deep water. Out feet squelched in the mud.
Tim's poise was solid, and I had to admit I was impressed. Either this sport wasn't as hard as I had thought or Tim was practiced at kite surfing stoned. Perhaps it was one of those things where someone has become so habituated to a substance they need it to function. I'm thinking like Hemingway and liquor, Mick Jagger and heroine, and Rush Limbaugh and prescription painkillers. Wait, scratch that last one. Rush Limbaugh isn't ever astute enough to be called functional, though I'm sure the painkillers help numb the burning from the constant shriveling of his black, black soul.
Anyway, Tim seemed to be a high functioning grasser as long as functioning didn't involve making eye contact or enunciating. Once in the water, he demonstrated the kite skill we were to practice: gliding the kite overhead and then touching it to the surface of the water on either side.
"The most important thing is keeping control of your kite." He mumbled. "So who's first?"
Florian immediately found interest in the straps of his harness so it was left to me to volunteer.
Tim attached the kite to the Gonzo hook on the harness and then stepped back. The loft of the kite caused me to instantly lose about half of my weight and I'm sure if I had jumped it would have looked exactly like those moonwalk videos. Perhaps that's how NASA faked them: by using kites to simulate low gravity.
Hanging there I felt like a fucking marionette. My feet were barely touching the mud and I was hanging from my bellybutton. I was nervous and grabbed the control bar, pulling it close to me. Of course, I remembered later, this is how you power up the kite to get speed on the water. Within half a second I was being dragged face first through the water, taking swimming pools up the nose. I felt like one of those poor suckers in an old spaghetti western who gets dragged behind the galloping stage coach. I couldn't remember the last time I had felt so much power. I honestly thought I was going to die.
I tried to stop myself and yanked the kite the other way. As the kite went vertical it lifted me almost completely out of the water and then as it plunged to my left it dragged me back the way I had come. All of this happened in about four seconds.
I lifted the kite slowly this time and managed to hold it vertical for a few seconds. Behind me I could hear Tim and Flo laughing loudly. I wanted to turn and give them a dirty look, but I too petrified to take my eyes off the kite. Eventually I managed to get the feel of the kite and move it in a somewhat controlled arc. Tim decided it was Florian's turn and disconnected the kite from my harness. I fell panting back into the water.
Florian was still laughing at me and if that wasn't enough added, "You looked zo funny. I was laughing zo hard at you."
"Yeah. Thanks. I think I got that." I grumbled. "It's harder than it looks you know." Then under my breath, "I hope you eat it."
He didn't. But still took some staggering steps under the pull of the kite and I had to take small comfort in that.
The next skill to learn was using the kite to drag us face first through the water. I lit up. I had already figured this whole dragging thing out. We spent the next half hour refining our technique, learning to move the kite in figure eights to create a steady momentum. At one point the wind picked up and the kite lifted me so only the tip of my big toe was touching the mud. Tim shouted at me to wade back towards them, but I couldn't create enough friction beneath my feet to move against the kite. I hung there, a puppet again, uselessly working my legs back and forth. Behind me Tim and Florian were laughing once more, leaving me struggling for their entertainment for several minutes before deigning to come and help me. I could have felt embarrassed, but I had kissed goodbye to dignity hours ago.
The sun was beginning to set and the changing tide was beginning to drain the estuary. Tim decided we were ready to try standing up on the board, so without any ceremony and no explanation other than a mumbled "keep your weight on your back foot" he slapped the board on my feet and told me to dive the kite.
I took a deep breath and went for it. I felt the sharp yanking in my stomach and then I was up, cruising with the rushing sound of the diving kite like the world's loudest zipper. I was grateful for the summers spent waterskiing and wakeboarding. The sensation was similar here only the lift of the kite made me feel lighter on the water -- almost like flying. It was the most profound sense of liberation -- liberation from gravity and the awkward plodding of human limbs.
And then I ate it.
I think a foot slipped out of the binding. I smacked my shin on the board and my face on the water. The kite landed with a thud.
Again I heard laughter across the water, but at this point I was so thrilled I joined in. I don't know if the face plant pulled some muscles, but there was a goofy grin on my face I couldn't get rid of for days. I also immediately warmed up to Tim. I realized in his nonchalant, stonerish way he had actually put me at ease.
Florian got up too and then also made a spectacular wipe out. I cracked up. "You looked so funny." I mimicked when he walked back over. "I was laughing so hard at you."
Florian scowled. We were even again.
The next day was Florian's last day in New Zealand. That morning we had another lesson. We both made progress and at the end I swore I was going to devote my life to kite surfing now that I had discovered the path to paradise.
That night I said a subdued farewell to my adventure buddy who was catching an airport bus before dawn the next day. We walked out to the ocean one last time. As I looked at the waves, I thought of all the friendships that had ebbed and flowed in my life. The winds that blow people together, the tides that pull us apart. I was momentarily exhausted by this change and just wanted to grab Florian and tell him not to go. That I was tired of making and losing friends. Then I realized this would be kinda creepy and definitely awkward, so I turned and walked back to the hostel.
I awoke the next morning and Florian was gone. I went out for a surf and paddled alone into the breaking waves. The ocean covers three-fourths of this planet. I felt relieved it would always be there.