Think of a 70-foot wave.
It rises out of the water like a possessed mountain. If you close your eyes to it, your mind still sees it because of the ferocious sound. It curls, creating a perfect temporary barrel that plunges towards the shore with the weight of the ocean behind it.
There’s a tiny dot on top of this giant wave.
The dot glides gracefully over the top and down into the barrel, a little white trail following.
That dot is Laird Hamilton.
Part madman, part dolphin and part Achilles, big wave surfer Laird Hamilton was literally born into the environment that he spends most of his time in. His mother gave birth to him on March 2nd, 1964 at UCSF Medical Centre into an experimental salt-water tank that was designed to ease the pain of labour.
His watery entrance into the world was but the beginning of a life spent in the ocean. Growing up in Oahu, Hawaii, Laird took to surfing at a young age, with his stepfather, former pro surfer Bill Hamilton, teaching him the ropes. He was always an excellent surfer, but despite his obvious skill and natural talent, Laird never wanted to be on the professional surfing circuit.
Instead, he invented his own shtick.
In the early 90’s, Hamilton, along with friends like fellow big wave surfer Dave Kalama, frequently surfed the North Shore of the Island of Maui. Pe’hai, also known as Jaws, boasts some of the biggest and most powerful waves in the world. Spurred on by a longing to ride the massive breaks that they could see in the distance, but couldn’t paddle to with just their boards, Hamilton and Kalama began using a Jet Ski and a towrope to get onto those mammoth waves. This method, known as tow in surfing, would revolutionize big wave surfing.
What does it take to ride a wave bigger than your house? A blatant disregard for, or a superior understanding of, fear? Yes. But it also takes brute strength. With a neck the size of a large bull’s and a muscly physique built to take on waves that could literally wipe out cities, Hamilton, save for his blonde Ken doll mane, is a scary looking dude.
He’s a scary looking dude who has ridden the world’s biggest wave.
Here’s a video from the movie Riding Giants of Laird riding Teahupoo, an insane break off the coast of Tahiti. (The money shot starts about 4:20 into the vid)
Most of us will never even see a wave that large in person, let alone be in the water when it breaks, so lucky for us, Laird’s there.
Another technique made popular by Laird, and one more accessible to us regular folk, is stand up paddle (SUP) surfing. It’s an ancient Hawaiian sport called Hoe he’e nalu in Hawaiian. Instead of lying tummy-down on the board to paddle out, the surfer stands up, balancing with his or her core strength and a long paddle. The paddle is used to propel the board forward on the water and later to balance as you ride the wave.
SUP surfing is fun because you can see everything in front of you as you paddle out to the waves. You can also do it in calm waters and lakes as a more tranquil water activity. If you take out the surfing bit, it’s basically canoeing for those who can’t sit down.
I think Laird Hamilton is the greatest, but he isn’t without his haters. Some people say tow in surfing pollutes the ocean and has corrupted the sport of big wave surfing. A lot of surfers are also bothered by Laird’s promotion of SUP surfing, mainly because it has turned into a trend of yogaesque proportions and is now a flavor of the week activity for rich businessmen and their spoiled kids to try while on vacation in Maui.
The “Blame Laird” movement was started by purest surfers as a way to accuse him of mainstreaming surfing and selling out.
He wasn’t opposed to being accused, though. Being the maverick that he is, Hamilton turned “Blame Laird” into his personal catchphrase (and business venture, as you can purchase Blame Laird merch from his website: www.lairdhamilton.com).
You surfed all day and forgot to call your wife? Blame Laird. You want to sell off all of your assets and move to a surfing village in Costa Rica? Blame Laird. You’re going to trade in the Armani suit for a wetsuit? Blame Laird. Go try your best to live the life you want, and if you get into trouble along the way, just Blame Laird
By branding Blame Laird onto stickers, T-Shirts, coffee mugs and the like, Laird’s giving us all permission to have fun at his expense.
My favourite part of the Laird video above is when he cries on his surfboard after riding that monster wave. Surfing is a sport where your strongest teammate is also your biggest opponent. Trusting yourself on waves that could kill you in an instant requires a zen-like understanding of both yourself and nature.
We’ve all had moments of this. I’ve cried while looking out at Rocky Mountains on a sunny day. I once had a spiritual moment with a goat farmer in the hills of Tuscany. I’ve felt totally embraced by and at peace with the ocean while swimming in it. I’m not totally a part of that world, though. To really be a part of it, you sort of have to live it and be it, full-bore.
This is why Laird Hamilton isn’t just a big wave surfer. He’s also a big wave.
I just watched the film Blue Valentine starring Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams. A terribly stark look at the sun-kissed glow of love at the beginning of a relationship contrasted with the souring stench of a love gone bad in that same relationship years later.
It was a sad, uncomfortable movie to watch, but one that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since it finished. So please excuse me while I get a little philosophical on you. Actually, let’s invite 19th century German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche into the conversation.
He was famous for his “God is dead” theory, but Nietzsche also said: “There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.”
We hunger for love, look for it, maybe even need it, and have the ability to feel it so profoundly. To intensely connect with another human on that level might be the most beautiful, fulfilling thing in life, and yet equally as great as our ability to love is our ability to hurt and devastate those same people we loved. No one wants to cause someone they once loved so purely pain (well, usually not), but it happens. We take advantage of each other, we stop appreciating each other, we cheat on each other, we fall out of love with each other, we ruin each other.
Since we do this to each other over and over again knowing what we’re getting into, we’re all a little mad, no? Anyone who has ever had his or her heart broken knows full well the terrifying pain and torment it is to go through that loss, and yet, many of us can hide the scars of past hurt and jump right back in when the opportunity for love presents itself again. To me, this is a brave, courageous thing to do, and one I’m trying to be better at.
Dr. Maya Angelou says: “Have enough courage to trust love one more time. And always one more time.”
In honor of that, and living through love gone bad, here’s Arcade Fire’s Crown of Love:
Back when I was in high school, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and before digital cameras took over the world, I worked in a photo shop. I worked mostly at the front, helping customers who dropped off their film and then collected their pictures.
Sometimes, though, my developing room coworkers would let me help them develop the photos, and I got to use all of the cool machinery, and touch the film and be in the dark room. It’s a process I’ve always found fascinating and romantic, so I was in heaven every time I would do it.
Anyway, one day I was working at the front counter, and a girl I went to school with came in to pick up a some pictures she had dropped off the week before. It was a batch I had personally helped develop, so I knew they had turned out and I flitted off happily to get them for her.
Only . . . I couldn’t find them.
I looked everywhere. In the back, in the black and white bin, in the special orders bin, in the developing room. They were nowhere to be found.
I sheepishly came back to the front counter and told her that I couldn’t find her pictures.
“I can’t believe this Carla, where are they? You lost them?” she said sternly – like she was scolding a child.
“Well, I didn’t lose them,” I said. “A lot of people work here, not just me. I don’t know where they are. I’m so sorry. I’ll keep looking!”
“You better find them. I’ll be back later,” she said.
I understood her frustration and spent my lunch break looking for her photos in a fit of panicked guilt. I even took to moving the large photo machinery, interviewing the other staff at length about where on earth the pictures could have gone, and crawling into a small cupboard to see if they had fallen behind a loose slat at the back of it. I never found them, and my coworkers thought I had gone insane.
After lunch, I nervously waited for the girl to come back. I was in a pathetic state. I looked around skittishly, paced the store, rearranged things that didn’t need to be rearranged. Confrontation is not my strong suit.
As I tried to calm myself by alphabetizing the pictures in the ready for pick-up bin, an older man walked up to the counter.
He had white hair, clear, kind blue eyes, and he wore a poppy on the left lapel of his grey jacket, even though it was June. (In Canada, we usually wear poppies in November in celebration of Remembrance Day, which honors our soldiers).
“Excuse me, my dear,” the older gentleman said.
“Hello, how can I help you? Do you have film to drop off?” I replied, rapid-fire.
“No, no,” he said, “I just wanted to give you this.”
He reached into a little white box he was holding and produced a beautiful pink and orange hibiscus flower, and placed it in my hands.
“My wife died five years ago,” he said. “She was the loveliest, most wonderful woman I’ve ever known. She laughed a lot, and she had an energy made people feel warm and happy.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said as I delicately held the flower in my palms of my hands.
“That there was her favorite flower. Every year, on her birthday, I buy one and give it to a woman who reminds me of her.”
I smiled at him.
“You’re not a woman yet, but you will be soon,” he said.
“Put it in water, ok?” he said as he squeezed my hand. “My dear, I hope that one day you will be loved and adored as much as my wife was.”
And with that, he let go, turned around and walked out of the store.
I watched him leave and then looked down at the flower in my hand. It seemed to be radiating happiness.
I felt like I had just witnessed some sort of miracle. That nervousness that had eaten at me all day was replaced by a light, still calm. Like I was on a beach in Maui, where these flowers grow so freely, on a perfect, sunny day. Tranquil.
When the girl came back later that day, I decided that if she had calmed down about the situation, I’d give her the gorgeous hibiscus flower the old man gave me and maybe it would brighten her day, too. Pay it forward, so to speak.
As she walked up, I told her that I had looked everywhere I could have looked and that I was very sorry, but her pictures weren’t here.
“You threw my pictures out on purpose, didn’t you?” she said.
“What? No, of course not!” I said. “This happens sometimes, it was just a mistake.”
“I’m going to come back when you’re not here and talk to you manager,” she said.
“Ok, fine, whatever you want,” I said.
“”You’re a bitch!” she snapped.
I looked down at the lovely flower under the counter, and then looked into her eyes.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said as she shot daggers at me with her eyes.
Later that day, I gave the flower to the loveliest woman I know – and one I’m sure the gentleman would approve of – my mom.
Last night, I dreamt that I was sleeping and then woke up (waking up in a dream while still dreaming is always trippy, no?). I woke up in my dream to find a mosquito resting on my breast while I was laying in bed.
It was one of those very large, talking mosquitoes that you sometimes meet in dreams. So, I started talking to the little fella, who said his name was Fred.
“I’m finished with your country and I’m leaving,” Fred said to me in a very deep, raspy voice with a hint of an accent. It sounded like Javier Bardem meets Tom Waits. Save for the fact that it was coming from a mosquito, the voice was actually pretty sexy.
As I lay there listening, Fred, that little bastard, proceeded to sting me before flying out of my window, leaving behind an itchy red bite on my right boob.
Now if this dream were really about a mosquito, we’d be good. Weird dreams that you can remember when you wake up make for quirky, entertaining stories you can tell to your friends and laugh about.
But this dream was not just about mosquitoes. Apparently my unconscious mind has created a hybrid of mosquito and man for me to dream about and made it an actual metaphor for my experiences this summer. Clever little unconscious, isn’t it?
Actual mosquitos have feasted on my flesh all summer to a ridiculous degree. They have stung me everywhere, repeatedly.
And men. Well, the experiences I’ve had with them over the summer have been about as annoying and as gratifying as mosquito bites.
I think Fred the Mosquito man was trying to tell me something. You see, while some girls have a “bad boy” problem, lately, I have a “project” problem. I seem drawn to those men who are lacking something within themselves and haven’t realized their full potential. Unfortunately, most of them don’t even have a full potential. These blood-sucking selfish specimens need constant ego stroking, pep talks and tending to and usually, when they’ve got what they needed, they sting me. I’m sure this habit of falling for ‘not quite right’ men says something about my masochistic personality, but that’s a whole other issue.
I’m not using stinging as an analogy for sex, either, because that would be a pretty awful way to describe sex. By “sting me” I mean they tend to do damage, emotionally.
I am now taking full responsibility for this. I have been too nice, too accommodating, too understanding. Too stupid. I’ve let those damn mosquitoes sting me over and over again.
There was a (literal) mosquito hiding in my room for the entire month of August. He was hungry for blood and when he got tired of dotting my body with his itchy red markings, he bit my forehead while I was sleeping, which is just bad manners. When I finally killed that fucker with my Breakfast at Tiffany’s novel, the mess its squashed carcass left behind was thrillingly disgusting. A huge bright red splatter of my own blood strewn across the wall. Never have I felt such joy after killing an insect or at the sight of blood.
Unfortunately, in real life, men are not mosquitoes, and most don’t have Javier Bardem/Tom Waits voices. You can’t just swat them away and when they sting you, they leave behind real emotional pain, which is harder to get rid of and way worse than an annoying red bump that fades in a week or so.
Even if I wanted to, I can’t kill any real men using a classic novel as my weapon, as I did my mosquito, but if I were a superhero, that is totally what my weapon of choice would be. I’d be called the Lit Bitch or something like that. What I do want to do is make a conscious effort to stay away from those men who I already know are “mosquitoes.” Lets face it, girls, deep down, we ALWAYS know when we’ve met one.
I’m also going to be more open to dating Italians here in Rome, because so far, I have pretty much avoided it. They can’t all be Don Juan style mammas boys who dress better than me, right?
Lets take a minute to talk about bad boys, shall we?
How do you define a bad boy? He might cheat on you, he might make false promises, he might break plans regularly with lame excuses or none at all, he probably dates multiple women at once because he can. He is often scared of relationships and so seeks out meaningless encounters with easy women. He is tall, dark and handsome – or not. He probably smells nice and likes leather -or not. He’s cocky. He’s charming. Or not. He could just be the most unassuming, innocent seeming man out there. Are you picking up on a problem here?
The 1950s image of James Dean straddling a motorcycle, leather jacket unzipped and cigarette hanging out of his mouth with a face that says “I don’t give a damn, but I’m a damn good kisser,” no longer defines the bad boy. Parts of him, sure, but the game has changed since then.
The bad boy has grown up, or, more accurately, mutated into various species of men. This poses a problem because most of the time you can’t even recognise the badness until you get involved with him, and then it’s almost always too late.
Since this is a blog about my life in Italy, I admit that I haven’t done much dating in Rome. I hate dating. I hate it even more in a foreign country where the rules are a little different and I am even more clueless than I am normally.
This isn’t to say that I wont date, I just don’t seek it out.
Anyway, in my own experiences with Italian men, and in hearing the dating stories of my Roman and American friends here, I have to say that the bad boy is very much alive and well in Italy. He smells good, he looks good, his shoes are nicer than yours and he will probably either cheat on you or cheat on his girlfriend with you.
Cheating is common here.
Not that cheating doesn’t happen everywhere, but it seems to be a bit more out in the open, and maybe even a bit more socially accepted, in Rome. When cheaters (and to be fair – they’re not only men) hit on their accomplices here, they often do so by alluding to the fact that they have a girlfriend right away. They try to justify the cheating by being honest about it upfront. It’s an interesting angle.
“Bella, yes I have a girlfriend, but she’s not here. Right now, it’s just you and me”
Can’t blame a guy for trying, right? They do it with such charm and conviction that it’s not as easy as you would think to scoff in their faces and walk away.
The Italian lover with his sexy accent, Roman god-like face and smooth moves is your stereotypical latin bad boy type – but as I said before, they’re not all so obvious. In fact my friend Chris – a smooth talking, guitar playing ladies man in his own right – recently divulged to me that almost every man is “bad” until they meet the girl they’re willing to be good for. And even then, he says, the good usually doesn’t last forever.
Now I’d like to believe that this is bullshit. Call me Disney, but if experience and Gabriel Garcia Marquez or Paulo Coelho novels have taught me anything it’s that love is a world unoccupied by reason or science or bad boy theories. Love just is. It’s a lawless battlefield – and we can’t really place blame when things go wrong in love, because we enter into it knowing that there are no guarantees.
I have been bad in the past. I’ve unintentionally hurt people in love and I don’t feel good about it – but I think most of us have been on both sides of heartbreak.
We couple up, we ride waves together, we fall off, we get back up, we paddle out alone and look for another set to come in. We all try to find that person we can ride with, and even when we find them, part of the thrill is knowing that the wave won’t last forever.
I don’t know why I just used a surfing metaphor there, but it gets the point across.
I started this post wanting to give bad boys a piece of my mind, but I ended up changing my mind along the way. No one’s really bad unless we let them be. We can only control how we react to what happens to us.
Sometimes when I walk around Rome, I could swear that I feel the mighty pulse of the ancient Eternal City protecting and feeding my soul – but I know enough to know that even all the power of Rome can’t protect my heart. Nothing can protect the heart. And when you start trying to protect it, you miss out on life. That’s the beauty and the calamity of love.
Having said that, there are some men and women that are just bad. I’ve had the unfortunate experience of getting involved with more than one of them in my years on the dating market. It’s not fun.
These types should really come with doctor’s warnings à la cigarette packages. “Warning: this man is emotionally unavailable, makes false promises and snores.” “Warning: this girl is manipulative, controlling and yells a lot.” Or something along those lines.
In the end, aren’t bad boys and girls just missing out on love? Maybe we should all feel sorry for them and their unused, little, shriveled up black hearts.
Sometimes I get in the habit of not following a set schedule. This can mean I’m up when I should be down, and I’m down when I should be up. I stayed up much too late last night working on an article, and also getting distracted by the evil demon that is my adult ADD (which is the fancy medical name I’ve given to my short attention span coupled with the lure of the internet…). So I went to bed late. Like 3 a.m. late. When 8 a.m. rolled around, I turned my back to that bitch and kept right on sleeping. But 10 a.m. is a much more forgiving hour, and so when I woke up to find her staring me in the face, I figured, ok 10 a.m., I’ll get up.
Sometimes I wear cute PJ sets to bed. They come in fun colours, have animals on them, and are oh so cozy. Last night was not one of those times. Last night I decided to wear my old pink lamb covered PJ bottoms with an old hair dye stain on them with an oversized black t-shirt that says “soup feels good” across the chest. I also had my retainer in and my hair was a dirty, oily, tangled mess.
Too add a bit of streetcred to my ballin look, I also have a gross red scab across my cheek from a hot iron burn I gave myself a few days ago. This is why I don’t ever use the damn thing. Why does it get so hot?
Overall – I looked disheveled. A “rag-a-muffin,” my mom would say.
But I wasn’t concerned about that. Why would I be? I’d shower eventually. For now, I was going to be checking my emails and going about my business for the day.
Five minutes into my delayed morning routine: BAM, BAM, BAM!
My front door.
What kind of asshole would bang on a door that loudly? I thought to my thinking self. I got up and looked through the peep-hole, but there was no one there.
I opened the door to see if I could catch some pesky little kids playing Nicky Nicky nine doors. I used to do it too you little shits, don’t worry. As I stuck my head out of the doorway, I was not met with the scamper of children running down the hall. In fact, it was the opposite. Standing at my door, two on one side and one on the other were: 3 HOT COPS.
I’m not overstating their attractiveness. I’m fickle when it comes to hot cop fantasies. They were gorgeous – like if Charlie’s Angels were dudes.
THIS is the approximate hotness of the cops in question.
And I wasn’t wearing bra.
I also hadn’t brushed my teeth yet, and yet, there was a large toothpaste stain in the middle of t-shirt.
When they started talking to me, all “Sorry Miss” and “we’re responding to a call about your alarm,” I turned into an unresponsive and then babbling fool. I wanted to kick myself for my lack of recovery ability in the situation. I could not pull it together.
I then tried to pretend I was sick as they questioned me, but I couldn’t lie properly. Not to such hot cops. So they looked at me suspiciously and I looked back afraid.
As for why they were there, it wasn’t because I’m the next Nancy Botwin, although I sort of love her life. Apparently, an alarm signal from my apartment was sent to the cops. Hot Cop # 1 – the dark haired one – soon got a call confirming it was a false alarm and so after I assured them I was fine (although I was clearly having a panic attack) the three hottest men I’ve ever seen left my doorway.
False alarm for them, maybe. My ego is a divine mess. Never again will I sit around in my PJs thinking I’m safe working from home.
I’m living life Nonna Ciccone styles from now on. Just like when she tells you to wear clean underwear everyday (that she’ll iron for you if you let her), when God gives you the ability to wake up, you gotta get up, brush your goddamn teeth, shower if you have to, change your clothes, and do what you’ve got to do.
It was like showing up to prom in torn jeans and a hoodie.
I feel like I should pray the rosary or something.