At the Edge

Islands of life in this watery decomposition

Shards of light penetrating the layers of death

I stand in the flowing water

My feet sinking into memories of mountains, the remainders of forests, the ideas of rocks

I stumble though the brush and brambles and saplings to escape 

the wet wonder of my soul

I stumble right to the water's edge

where the darkness sings me in

Fiction: Storied rocks

In case you have been wondering, the whistle I carved out of a willow branch has yellowed and dried into a stiff carcass of what was the notion of a tree. I keep it on the mantle next to the heart rocks and autumn leaves and smooth river stones that you I we collected on this journey. 

I am weighed down with the heaviness of hearts broken out of granite and shale. 

You are my heart and I hold your weight in my hand, craggy and cold, warming to my touch. 

If I could skip these stones over water, over the bay where we sat, feet in the sand, faces shining up to the full moon overhead, would the rocks sink to the bottom? 

Would they find a firm place in the muck and seagrass or would they toss along with the broken beer bottles and baby shoes and lost wedding rings? 

Would they become sand? 

The stories they could tell of warm pockets and well lined hands, of being witness to lovemaking in tents under the stars, of hawks screeching overhead and tiny ants crawling over imagined backbones.

All these stories crumbling into fragments, each grain a word, a sigh, the flip of a hand as you walked away. At the bottom of the ocean, all our stories mix and mingle, our worn heart rocks become a shifting solid ground. 

A home for Others in the darkness. 

Finally home.

We are made of Water

The ocean curved and crashed into the shore. From my perch on the cliff the surfers looked like tiny colorful bits of kelp tumbling in the froth or long winged seagulls riding the breeze into the shallows. I took another bite of my carne asada and guac burrito, breathed in the salty air between savory chews, wiped the hot sauce from my face, and sighed. 

It was good to be home.

San Diego! 

I took another bite of heaven and recounted my years spent shuffling through this sand, drinking at bonfires below these cliffs, baking my skin under these cloudless skies. 

Yet a feeling of agitation slowly rumbled to the surface.

I heard it before I saw it. A sound that made me uneasy before I could even identify the source. The sound of water hitting pavement. I looked down over the bluff.  At the base of the swirling stairs leading to the beach were two outside showers, bits of wood and metal, one of which was running full power- with no one there. A deep gouge had formed at the base of the shower. 

A delta of wasted water soaking into the sand, seeping back to the sea. 

Water water everywhere… but nearly 90% comes from somewhere else so really we each may only have a drop to drink and certainly not enough to let run into the sand. 

I wrapped up my burrito, ready to descend to shut off the faucet when a surfer approached the shower and washed off his board. 

Please please please turn it off, I telepathically willed him, then watched in fascination mingled with disgust as he walked away from the spewing showerhead. 

Really, dude? I mean, brah? Maybe he’s from the East Coast, I reasoned, where they don’t know that water is scarce in these parts. But then I thought of my family at home- running the shower for five minutes to “warm it up” or letting the kitchen sink shoot water directly into the drain while washing dishes off to the side. It kills me! 

I cannot leave a tap running and I drive my Mom crazy when I instinctively swoop in and switch off the water. 

“Jennifer! Stop being such a fanatic!” 

To which I calmly (or sarcastically, depending on the day) reply, “We live in a desert, remember?” 

Maybe I am a fanatic, I think as I stare off at the boats on the horizon, the sound of crashing waves intermingling with the hiss of water of that sticky handled shower.

Maybe because I’ve lived on a boat for so many years where water is surrounding the damn thing but you either have to make your own and hope that the expensive and finicky reverse osmosis watermaker works, or you must ration the water in your 400 (or 40) gallon tank so that it will last for weeks. And that’s not just drinking water. It’s for washing dishes and showering (or sponge bathing) too.

Maybe it is because I have actually been in situations where the ability to procure water has been life or death. On my 32 ft sailboat my (former)partner and I once went for three weeks without the ability to fill our 40 gallon tank. We had a few five gallon jugs to supplement the stock and we funneled rain into extra containers when we could, but we made that total of 60 gallons last. 

For three weeks! 

60 gallons is less than ¾ of what the typical San Diegan uses in a day. 
One. 
Day. 
88 gallons! 
On my boat, we had no choice but to conserve. We held our lives in our own hands. Or rather, in our waterbottles and sink basins. 

So I think of water differently, for sure. Yet I think that San Diegans are in the same dire situation (or you could say the same boat) but the majority just don’t know it. Or won't admit it. 

Where are the mandatory water restrictions? Where are the public service announcements? Why aren’t there planes skywriting, “If it’s yellow, let it mellow!” Oh wait, carbon emissions- never mind the plane. Why aren’t we shouting from the corners of the Gaslamp, “If it’s brown, flush it down!”  Why aren’t all the lawns dead or better yet ripped out? Why doesn’t anyone seem to give a fuck? 

What is it about many San Diegans, transplants or natives, that breeds this apathy? Sure the weather is perfect year round (read: no rain), but don't you think that comes with trade-offs? Is it the laid back, live for today attitude that many bring with them to the bars and beaches that dissuades them (us) from thinking too far into the future that may include an even more severe drought and possibly even systemic collapse? Or is it the same fear of truth that forces them into denial, just like it does with the seemingly worldwide denial of fishery collapse? The forever shifting baseline changing our perception of "normal." If you can't see it or feel the crisis in this moment, does it not exist? Might as well eat all the fish you can get your hands on now before they are all gone. Keep using the water as you always have to wash down that driveway at noon and cross your fingers it will still come out of the tap tomorrow...

I stand up to take matters into my own hands. I start down the sandy stairs but then another surfer comes along, rinses off his board, dunks his head, and wiggles the handle. 

It’s off! 

Thank god, another caring soul. Or another someone with a touch of OCD. But it’s off, that’s all I care about. Until the guy after him uses it and walks away, leaving the constant stream to dig deeper rivulets into the surrounding sand. 

Jesus Christ buddy! See this crumbling red earth? Do you remember the last time it rained? Sure, I’ve been gone for four months, but I know we haven’t “caught up” on rain. Yup, according to the government, we’ve received about three inches of rain this year. San Diego’s yearly average is around 10 inches which we haven't reached since 2011. And even with an “average” rainfall, we still import almost all of our water!

My frustration mounts once more as water drains into earth until yet another surfer rinses and wiggles (the faucet, that is) and the stream is halted.

At least some people seem to care.
And my mom just gave me a dozen or so adorable succulent plants.

Maybe there is hope. 

What can we do about it? The best course of action is probably to move back where you came from.  There is most likely a hell of a lot more water there. But I know I’ve got to share my hometown with you people “from away” and I happen to love a lot of you, so, actually, I’m glad you’re here to help get the word out. Until, of course, I get fed up and move out of town to greener, lusher, wetter pastures myself- but maybe you'll join me?

In the meantime here is a list of obvious and not so obvious things we can do to save water if we’re going to stay in this desert. And notice I say WE. It has to be a community effort.  Voluntary, Mandatory, or For the Love of San Diego and Mother Earth: Let’s go!

The Basics: 

Limit your showering time.

Turn off tap when brushing your pearly whites (or coffee stained yellows).

If you want to take a bath, make it a shallow one. And scoop out the (minimally soapy) water to feed plants when you’re done. 

Don’t wash your car on the sidewalk (pick a carwash place that recycles water) if you’re that kind of car hygiene person. 

Water your veggie or native plant garden (NOT LAWN! RIP IT OUT!) in the morning (preferable) or evening.

Turn off the kitchen sink when you’re soaping up dishes. 

If you absolutely must use your dishwasher, make sure its full. 

Same goes for laundry.

Get low-flow everything: toilets, showerheads, etc

Fix leaky shit. Duh.

Even Better: 

Get a small tub for your kitchen sink. Soak and rinse dishes in the tub, using minimal soap. Or two tubs if you have the room. Remember how they used to talk about Dishpan Hands? Lets bring em back in style, hey!

Throw out the dishwater in nearby bushes or trees if you can.

Use greywater (the used water from your laundry, kitchen and shower) in your garden. Hook up a system yourself or use the amazing talent of someone like Brook Sarson at H2OME.

Install water-harvesting tanks if you have a house. We may only be getting a few inches right now, but may as well make the most of it.

When waiting for the shower water to heat up, place a bucket to catch the cold water. Use that to water plants or flush the toilet.

Speaking of toilets- “If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down.” For someone who drinks a lot of water like me, I can save a dozen or more gallons a day by following this rule. It’s just pee, get over it, even if it’s somebody else’s in your household. Geesh.

Weird, and perhaps not necessarily local, but stay with me:

Eat grass fed beef if you’re a meat eater (perhaps with the exception of the ocassional  kickass La Posta carne asada burrito?). Growing grains, which aren’t good for cows anyway, uses up a shit ton of water. One pound of beef requires thousands of gallons of water (mostly going to mono-crop production). Grass fed tastes better, is better for you, and you can get it from local farms. Have you ever been up The 5 freeway and seen all those unhappy, smelly, CAFO cows? They eat grain instead of grass and seem very sad. Stop the Sadness. 

Use a refillable water bottle. It takes water to make plastic bottles. But you already know plastic is wasteful anyway, right?

Turn off those lights, turn off the air conditioning. Electricity production requires water to cool those huge power plants. Capeesh? 

Ok, enough from me. Google “water conservation” if you want more ideas. Or go to this site for more desert friendly water conservation tips.

And if you have more tips, ideas, rants, use the Comment section to your hearts delight.

Just Float

I am.

Waterlogged.

I cling to scratchy branches, seeping wounds in bark, splintered trunks, attempting to stay afloat. 

I thrash and gasp and scramble atop my unwilling (unneeded?) raft.

I was the one who cut down these trees.

I lose my grasp and go under time and again, fighting for breath, fighting for words, fighting to know Why. 

The river is winning. 

I kick my legs and flail my arms and add to the (self generated?) turbulence, white wash, din.

The sky is blue and calm above the chaos. 

There is water in my eyes and I look down, trying to find the stones in my path.

I don't see above.

When I decide to let go of these trees and float down this river, 

(surrender?)

I will see that infinite calm clearly.

I will see the land on either side.

I will swim to shore and set up my tent and roast a marshmallow (crispy burnt!) and smile.

I will wonder what all the fighting was for as I wring out my jeans, pull silvery fish from jacket pockets.

I will dance naked under the flickering stars, wet hair slithering down my back to remind me of the struggle (until the fight evaporates from my skull). 

I will lay with the water rushing by my toes, the land singing me to sleep.

The logs will keep moving until...(I stop cutting them down)

Perspective

.

There is a tug in my belly to go up, out.

Sometimes I forget there is an outside (this stove, fridge, bunk).   

I emerge from the galley into the blackness of night. The boat heaves and rolls as each swell barrels past the invisible reef and sways the hull, the mast swinging the anchor light like a pendulous comet. 

I climb onto teak and peeling rubber, glass and metal. I feel my way forward, steel guidelines in my hands, salt crusting on my fingertips as I go. At the bow I sit near the anchor chain, where it has disgorged itself from the boat and leads forward into murky water. The chain speaks with the passing of every wave, every gust of wind pulling it taut against rope and metal. I speak to the anchor, that little lump holding us in the middle of this dark bay, off the reefs, off the island. How much we depend on something so small and fierce! Dig in deep little one! 

My eyes adjust to the surrounding black, to the pinpoints of light overhead. I still don’t understand the Milky Way: how can we see it so clearly up there if we are a part of it down here? How can it be a sprinkled band across the sky if we are encompassed by it? Where does it begin and end? The stars don’t answer my questions, the Milky Way blushes at my ignorance and throws a worn stream of light my way. I make a wish, tear at my ribcage to open it to courage and love. 

I sway with the swells, the mast, the comets in all their forms. The darkness embraces me, the wind lustily kisses my neck, the water flashes silver with mystery. I want to capture this feeling, to jar it for the next day when the heat and this relentless cough and oftentimes meaningless work overwhelm my spirit. 

The wind shifts and the southern swells are less noticeable as they approach the bow and we ride into them. They are still there, still stroking the hull with salty memories of deeper water, but I cannot feel their influence in this moment and forget (exactly) how it felt to sway and heave in the past. 

It is all about perspective. 

I jar that thought, full of gratitude, and head down below to sleep.

Silvery thoughts

Wind whispers over the water
Moonlight flutters toward me
The rush of silver in my ears
I see patterns in the ripples

I am 7 splashing in a pool all day, every day, all summer
I am 18 floating on a longboard, letting the swells push by, the sun setting into grey and orange
I am 21 falling in love under sails, making love on teak planks
I am 29 and yearning to sink my hands into soil yet not able to tear myself away from the ebb and flow of salt and seaweed
I am 33 finding solace in each ocean wave as my course weaves and wavers
I am 36 and now dipping my feet into water at the base of islands that know me, welcome me back with dolphin sighs and the tears of squalls

The wind sings over the century plants and careens through swaying masts
It brings the moonlight into my waiting lap
The crickets recite love poems to the whales
And I listen for the stars
I am all these ages, all these people, all the in between

Armored and Floating

 

This armor is heavy. I struggle to stay afloat. The salt tarnishes the brilliant metal, the hinges rust and seize. I have trouble navigating the deep waters immersed in this heaviness. The sharks circle beneath- they know I am inside trying to breath, speak, dream. They push at my feet, buoying me when I begin to sink. My legs are heavy with the thick barrier and my toes are numb. My arms want to reach beyond my confines and embrace all in sight and in mind but they are stuck straight out and only pivot to keep Others away- defense defense defense! My thoughts are floating at the surface- the edge of two worlds colliding in Hs and Os. I want to open my mouth and scream into the water and wind but my voice is trapped behind an armored smile.

Good morning how did you sleep can I get you anything how would you like your coffee are you finished with this plate would you like lunch after your swim another Pellegrino is it time for cocktails boys will you be dining in the cockpit tonight would anybody like tea with desert can I get you anything else this evening?

The sun is setting and my skin seeps into the saltwater. For a moment my suit of armor dissolves. The ocean absorbs me and breathes me in, each wave inspiration. I reach out tired arms to embrace the water and the wind and I end up holding myself, whispering love to the elements, to my own heart. The sharks nibble at my wriggling toes and are patient, waiting for the future feast.

The sun melts green into the sea.
I know that with each rung up the ladder onto the boat into the job, the armor will return and the sharks will go hungry for one more day. But with each stroke of my legs through the water, each breath thick with the scent of seaweed, a chink in the defenses lets the universe in. It is only a matter of time before the armor naturally corrodes and returns as dust into the depths, to swirl among the vortexes of sharks, to become the soft bed for a ray.

But how can I unpeel this shell I’ve cast around myself in this moment?
How to be open and genuinely smile amidst the would you like another Pellegrinos and anything else this evenings?
How to love in every breath even when the atmosphere is far from hospitable?
How do I nourish and serve without looking for anything in return (praise, gratitude, respect, safety) on this boat, in life?

My hair dries salty and I remember the sea in my veins.
I name my anxieties and face the blank ones who receive my volley of questions sunrise to sunset.
I don’t try to smile all the time, but I do laugh loudly when it bubbles from the depths.
I do try to peel off layers when I can, when I sense I won’t damage the tender wildness nestled within.
Slowly slowly I undress and reveal emotions and humanness that I have tried to shield.
I seek to glimpse the wounded animal hiding inside each Others manipulation.
I practice giving (open heart, help, kind words) when I am feeling threatened. It doesn’t always work as the anger roils through and the armor expands to mask my growl. I breathe into my belly and vow to try again the next time a gift of expansion is presented (and hope that I don't strangle someone in the meantime).

And the sharks circle…