Over the bridge(s) and through the snow
‘If this isn’t nice, what is?’
That’s what Kurt Vonnegut said out loud to himself, his uncle Alex Vonnegut’s immortal words echoing through him as he overlooked the clambake from the Ernest Hemingway Suite at the writer’s retreat Xanadu, Point Zion, Rhode Island in 2001. A fictitious event and place, the Hemingway Suite and Xanadu and Point Zion. Kurt Vonnegut and 2001 and Rhode Island were and are non- fictitious. Clambakes too. Not not real, much to my gormandizing pleasure .
But I am at this very moment, in December 2021 sitting at a place that could very well be Point Zion, Rhode Island.
There is no writer’s retreat called Xanadu that I know of unfortunately. Instead there’s a typically New England picturesque white and reddish brown brick lighthouse connected to a small compound of white buildings with red roofs making up a quaint Coast Guard station. The headland juts out sharply to the South East and invitingly caresses any decent swell over the cobblestone reef, down the point and away along the scenic coastline. In the summer there is a kaleidoscopic burst of colorful coastal flora, a magnet for like horny boho chic URI girls who wear small bikinis and flowers in their hair. In the winter the dead flowers are somehow even prettier.
I surfed twice today. It’s been a good while since I’ve surfed this spot at all but I’ve always loved it for some reason. I live on the other side of The Ocean State, two minutes from the beach and a consistently below mediocre shore break, but this morning I made the forty minute drive over two impressive bridges to get here. A mammoth task for most people in the nation’s smallest state, especially ‘Islanders’ like me who stick famously close to home. My local Second Beach was closed this morning because an early bird surfer down at first light discovered the dead body of a young lady on the sand and there were all varieties of officials scratching their balls as to what could have possibly happened to this poor young lady overnight. I was trying to guess as to what this had to do with us accessing the beach and going for a wave or not. Anyway…
Fuck my booties reek!
Barely decent waves this morning, nothing special. Definitely not worth the forty minute drive over two bridges, no matter how impressive. The tide was too high for this place and the waves were small and weak, waist to stomach high at best and kind of all over the place. I find there is more of a circus these days when the waves are 2-3ft than when they are 4-6ft and above (which is about as uncommon as a flasher in a school for the blind in this part of the world).
Through the hoards I spotted my buddy, van guy Keith, who is also out of place on this side of the state. A prominent fixture at 2nd Beach, like me, he had also taken the trip over the bridges to see what was on offer at the lighthouse this morning. Van guy Keith is a great surf buddy. We see eachother in the lineup any time there is a hint of swell and always exchange pleasantries but all I know about him is that he lives in his Ford E- something fifty van with his three legged beauty of a mutt, Bleu, and that he stylishly glides in all conditions on either his tiny mini- simmons or gorgeous sapphire blue 9ft Takayama. I guess he’s probably forty something, don’t know where he’s from or how we got here. I know he surfs more than me.
We surfed together for a couple hours, trading set waves amongst the great unwashed.
As we headed in and let the foam drift us gently over the boulders to begin the ever graceful cobble wobble Keith inquired as to my movements for the rest of the day. “It’s gonna be firing later when the tide drops out man. What time’s sunset, 4:30? It’s gonna be firing dude. You should stick around.”
I informed poor optimistic Keith that unfortunately when I checked both Magic Seaweed and Surfline this morning, both prophesied that the swell was diminishing throughout the day along with a switch in wind direction and so regrettably it was time to head home.
“Nah man, trust me. It’s gonna get epic later. There’s something sneaky cooking offshore, gonna come through right before dark.”
Long story short, with little else to do for the day I reluctantly agreed to hang with Keith and wait for his prediction to come to naught. We walked to the nearby dingy and dilapidated clam shack for piping hot chowder and clam cakes, served by an old lady who looks to have been here since the times when the proud Narragansett tribe ruled the land. Nowadays Narragansett is primarily known as a beer company. We took the hearty and steamy sustenance back to Bleu who was waiting patiently for us in the interior of Keith’s van which is nothing more than a pile of thin mattresses and pillows and cushions, not very Moroccan boho chic. The stench of mildew mixed with fake pina colada scent is palpable but not altogether unpleasant. It’s familiar. The three of us spent the afternoon holed up, protected from the harsh elements, swapping stories of scoring and getting skunked. Compiling lists of the greatest style masters of all time and those who are wildly underrated. Keith shared his story with me, the reasons he gave up drinking and replaced it with yoga and chose to live in a van with a dog.
At one point I began one of my usual cynical, pessimistic rants about transvestite hermaphrodites or God knows what when Keith interjected and dropped something along the lines of this on me: “You understand how important it is that we take this pointless, silly, ridiculously fun thing very seriously. Because let’s face it, in the words of Paul McCartney and John Lennon, ‘It’s getting better all the time, and it can’t get no worse’.”
At that, the wind stiffened directly offshore. The tide started draining and every set seemed to start pulsating and gaining in size and intensity. Keith gave me a knowing wink and Bleu barked and wagged her tail so furiously that she fell over, her three good legs unable to keep her standing upright. If you’re reading this, you know the anguish, the utter despair of clamoring into a cold wet wetsuit, especially a 5/4 with hood and 7 mil gloves and fuck my booties reek! But when you can see the evidence of very good surf through a grimy, foggy rear windscreen, how much easier and more pleasurable that process becomes.
We shared as close to perfect conditions as this place gets this afternoon with just a handful of knowledgeable, unfazed locals for two hours. Thank you Magic Seaweed and Surfline. So shallow and fast and hollow. By the time the rest of the world became wise as to what was going on and that all the forecasts had missed the sudden squall it was too late. We surfed until we had to time our cobble wobble with the rotating illumination of the lighthouse beam breaking the darkness every few seconds.
Back in the parking lot, I embraced Keith and thanked him for his shamanic prediction and we laughed and Bleu howled at the full moon which was already high in the cold night sky.
So here I am, maybe at Xanadu, Point Zion.
I fellate the little black court ordered robot which allows me to start or keep the car running and heat and music on for the forty minute drive back home in the dark. The little black robot chirps at me and seems satisfied with it’s blow job and convinced that I’m not even the slightest bit inebriated, not yet anyway. Just a fine, contented, slightly kind of high. ‘Stoked’, I think it’s called by those who know. It’s been a while but I remember it well. Like a whiff of perfume you haven’t smelt in years and takes you right back into the arms of the first girl you ever really loved, or at least thought you did, or in any case awkwardly lost your virginity to. And tonight I’ll get home surfed out and kiss the girl I really do love with salty lips and crack a cold beer in a hot shower and I’ll say out loud to myself, ‘If this isn’t nice, what is?’—Joel van Wyk
