For too long I have been away from the sea. For a while longer I will remain this way.
Yet, soon I will return to the ocean I love.
A new Romance begins, January 2011.
12.19.2010
Romance the Sea: Pacific
"What the ordinary landsman accepts as the common lot, the daily round of domestic ills, children, responsibilities, the ordinary seaman is apt to look upon as a disappointment of his hopes, an altogether exceptional trial, and an invasion of his liberty." Stephen Maturin, The Mauritius Command
For too long I have been away from the sea. For a while longer I will remain this way.
Yet, soon I will return to the ocean I love.
A new Romance begins, January 2011.
For too long I have been away from the sea. For a while longer I will remain this way.
Yet, soon I will return to the ocean I love.
A new Romance begins, January 2011.
12.06.2010
11.17.2010
11.03.2010
AI FOREVER
The world has lost a true warrior for the surfing world.
Rest in peace, Andy Irons. 3 time World Champion.
Rest in peace, Andy Irons. 3 time World Champion.
11.02.2010
She felt him trembling and she thought that this was the kind of cry she had wanted to tear from him - this surrender through the shreds of his tortured resistance. Yet she knew, at the same time, that the triumph was his, that her laughter was her tribute to him, that her defiance was submission, that the purpose of all her violent strength was only to make his victory greater - he was holding her body against his, as if stressing his wish to let her know that she was now only a tool for the satisfaction of his desire - and his victory, she knew, was her wish to let him reduce her to that. Whatever I am, she thought, whatever pride of person I may hold, the pride of my courage, of my work, of my mind and my freedom - that is what I offer you for the pleasure of your body, that is what I want you to use in your service - and that you want it to serve you is the greatest reward I can have.
There were lights burning in the two rooms behind them. He took her wrist and threw her inside his room, making the gesture tell her that he needed no sign of consent or resistance. He locked the door, watching her face. Standing straight, holding his glance, she extended her arm to the lamp on the table and turned out the light. He approached. He turned the light on again, with a single, contemptuous jerk of his wrist. She saw him smile for the first time, a slow, mocking, sensual smile that stressed the purpose of his action.
He was holding her half-stretched across the bed, he was tearing her clothes off, while her face pressed against him, her mouth moving down the line of his neck, down his shoulder. She knew that every gesture of her desire for him struck him like a blow, that there was some shudder of incredulous anger within him - yet no gesture would satisfy his greed for every evidence of her desire.
He stood looking down at her naked body, he leaned over, she heard his voice - it was more a statement of contemptuous triumph than a question: "You want it?" Her answer was more a gasp than a word, her eyes closed, her mouth open: "Yes."
She knew that what she felt with the skin of her arms was the cloth of his shirt, she knew the lips she felt on her mouth were his, but in the rest of her body there was no distinction between his being and her own, as there was no division between body and spirit. Through all the steps of years behind them, the steps down a course chosen in the courage of a single loyalty: their love of existence - chosen in the knowledge that nothing will be given, that one must make one's own desire and every shape of its fulfillment - through the steps of shaping metal, rails and motors - they had moved by the power of the thought that one remakes the earth for one's enjoyment, that man's spirit gives meaning to insentient matter by molding it to serve one's chosen goal. The course led them to the moment when, in answer to the highest of one's values, in an admiration not to be expressed by any other form of tribute, one's spirit makes one's body the tribute, recasting it - as proof, as sanction, as reward - into a single sensation of such intensity of joy that no other sanction of one's existence is necessary. He heard the moan of her breath, she felt the shudder of his body, in the same instant.
There were lights burning in the two rooms behind them. He took her wrist and threw her inside his room, making the gesture tell her that he needed no sign of consent or resistance. He locked the door, watching her face. Standing straight, holding his glance, she extended her arm to the lamp on the table and turned out the light. He approached. He turned the light on again, with a single, contemptuous jerk of his wrist. She saw him smile for the first time, a slow, mocking, sensual smile that stressed the purpose of his action.
He was holding her half-stretched across the bed, he was tearing her clothes off, while her face pressed against him, her mouth moving down the line of his neck, down his shoulder. She knew that every gesture of her desire for him struck him like a blow, that there was some shudder of incredulous anger within him - yet no gesture would satisfy his greed for every evidence of her desire.
He stood looking down at her naked body, he leaned over, she heard his voice - it was more a statement of contemptuous triumph than a question: "You want it?" Her answer was more a gasp than a word, her eyes closed, her mouth open: "Yes."
She knew that what she felt with the skin of her arms was the cloth of his shirt, she knew the lips she felt on her mouth were his, but in the rest of her body there was no distinction between his being and her own, as there was no division between body and spirit. Through all the steps of years behind them, the steps down a course chosen in the courage of a single loyalty: their love of existence - chosen in the knowledge that nothing will be given, that one must make one's own desire and every shape of its fulfillment - through the steps of shaping metal, rails and motors - they had moved by the power of the thought that one remakes the earth for one's enjoyment, that man's spirit gives meaning to insentient matter by molding it to serve one's chosen goal. The course led them to the moment when, in answer to the highest of one's values, in an admiration not to be expressed by any other form of tribute, one's spirit makes one's body the tribute, recasting it - as proof, as sanction, as reward - into a single sensation of such intensity of joy that no other sanction of one's existence is necessary. He heard the moan of her breath, she felt the shudder of his body, in the same instant.
10.26.2010
10.07.2010
10.05.2010
9.29.2010
9.28.2010
9.20.2010
9.14.2010
8.28.2010
Traci
I have a friend named Traci. Occasionally she hooks shit up:
http://poemgame.blogspot.com/2010/08/for-seamus.html
http://poemgame.blogspot.com/2010/08/for-seamus.html
8.24.2010
8.22.2010
She presented herself unannounced, and took me by surprise.
I had been waiting for her, and still she managed to bewilder me.
The truth is I was desperate for her.
I had been waiting for this moment for months; long, hot, summer months drenched in the type of haze and humidity caused by longing and desire. I had been longing for and desiring her for so long I struggled to maintain composure before her now.
We had a history. I first tasted her when I was barely 18 and have been helpless since. There had been affairs in exotic locales across the globe. Staying out late in her arms and sneaking out early to see her whenever she called had left victims. Commitment to family, education, work and lovers all faltered under her undeniable spell.
I would do anything to have her, a fact she knew all too well, mercilessly taking me for all my worth.
She was dangerous. She had the power to erode landscapes, alter climates, float dreams and destroy them with the depth of her passion.
Her mood was unpredictable. There were moments when she became approachable, and these were the moments I lived for. Even when she would have me, there was no telling how long it would last. Our affairs had lasted minutes, hours, weeks and the longest, a month. Each one was drastically different and according to her insatiable temperament. History should have taught me lessons, but she always left me craving her caress once more. This time was no different.
I was standing before her on the beach. The sun had set. Anyone who was around had gone home to supper with loved ones or loneliness without. There was nobody but us.
In the dusk, we embraced. I tasted the salt on her; immersed myself in her touch; dove beneath and inside of her; slipping away on waves of lust and love; trying hard to keep up, keep pace, keep her satisfied.
The stars came out. It was twilight.
I could not stay with her, she would not have it. I would never survive in her world, a vicious truth she never let me forget.
I returned home both exhausted and exhilarated. I lay awake dreaming of her. I did not sleep.
At the first sign of light, I returned to the beach where we had been together the night before. Sure enough, she was waiting for me.
It is my sole belief that no man could ever conquer her. She takes and takes and takes. If I am lucky, or perhaps unlucky depending on the point of view, she gives just enough to make me forget all her taking, and she takes some more.
For two more days I was rendered useless to anyone but her. I would say goodbye to her in the morning and drift hopelessly in thoughts of her until I saw her again that evening.
For two more days our bodies collided in lovers’ bouts. My muscles ached; my flesh became raw, and skin chafed. I gave her everything stored up inside of me and more. I was spent.
There was something lovely about feeling broken by her. I wanted to give her everything. I wanted her to break me. I was spent. My body was done. I could take no more. I had nothing left to give. I was no longer any use.
She had her way, as she always has and always will. And for the time being, I said goodbye to her -- my lover, the Sea.
8.12.2010
FVWTBT
The young man stared out at the vista before him.
He was reclined on the balcony in a chair of wood and canvas.
His view, except when interrupted by linen curtains blowing with the wind off the mountain, was of lush hillside, flowing into valley, and into the Caribbean Sea.
He was listening. He heard the fantastic melodies of birds; the dogs barking; steel drums and reggae playing; crickets chirping; children yelling; mothers fretting; and faintly, he heard thunder rumbling.
Listening was different than hearing, however, and the young man heard all those things but listened to none.
He was listening to her.
Communication on the verge of breakdown, both of them were becoming desperate in the face of a dreadful delay on the line.
They had settled on abandoning conversation, for the sake of just listening.
As he listened to her doing nothing but breathe, his view changed.
He was now focused inward, no longer staring at the sea that seperated him from her.
A display was being witnessed.
On the balcony railing before him, a lizard had appeared. A male Green Anole, the reptile began an elaborate performance. In commanding fashion, the lizard puffed out its throat to reveal the fiery passion inside. Red scales, projecting from green; a natural mechanism of unadulterated showmanship.
He stared, always listening to her breathing, as the island turned to gold. He was now watching another magnificent display courtesy of the sun.
As if the sun saved the best for last everyday, it saved this evening hour for a dose of the most spectacular light on tap.
He watched the sun's last display before it set behind the mountain.
Still listening to her in the fading light, he watched a storm on the ocean.
Another display.
He had just said goodnight to her when a ferociously brilliant bolt of lightning cut the horizon.
Sparks were flying across the sea.
He knew what was required, and promptly booked a plane ticket.
It was time for the young man to put on a display
.
8.11.2010
god damn sexy kyle e
this is kyle e:
these are some of his photos. welcome to romance the sea kyle.
guinea bissau and nobody out- like most days
some gay art shit
eastern canada
eastern canada
yours truly, seeking shelter from the strong nova scotian sun
arabia. or so he says.
these are some of his photos. welcome to romance the sea kyle.
guinea bissau and nobody out- like most days
some gay art shit
eastern canada
eastern canada
yours truly, seeking shelter from the strong nova scotian sun
arabia. or so he says.
8.10.2010
7.21.2010
She is laying in bed.
Outside, a train leaves the station across the street, as a cyclist scurries home in a designated bike lane.
This time of the day is for silent reflection. She quietly rests. In her restful mind, she finds some thoughts.
Despite the early hour, it is still warm in her corner of Europe.
Her quiet, restful thoughts rise and evaporate with the summer heat.
They are carried up, straight up, over the Alps and across the French Riviera. They cross, briefly, the Mediterranean, the Spanish Sierras and the Mediterranean once more; North Atlantic now, settling off the shores of Morocco.
There her thoughts float, gradually gathering moisture from the atmosphere around them. Becoming saturated. Then condensing above the warm doldrums beyond the African coast.
And by the time those thoughts reach him, they are full blown storms.
They have picked up speed and passionate fury, rushing across the equator, flirting with the South Americas.
They have organized themselves, without an effort but with plenty of grace.
Her simple thought reaches him as a cyclone of storm activity.
For he is trying to fall asleep on a hot, damp boat in the Caribbean, and there is torrential downpour all around him. Lightning flashes and thunder crashes. The wind screams through his rigging.
On his side of the ocean, it is hurricane season.
Outside, a train leaves the station across the street, as a cyclist scurries home in a designated bike lane.
This time of the day is for silent reflection. She quietly rests. In her restful mind, she finds some thoughts.
Despite the early hour, it is still warm in her corner of Europe.
Her quiet, restful thoughts rise and evaporate with the summer heat.
They are carried up, straight up, over the Alps and across the French Riviera. They cross, briefly, the Mediterranean, the Spanish Sierras and the Mediterranean once more; North Atlantic now, settling off the shores of Morocco.
There her thoughts float, gradually gathering moisture from the atmosphere around them. Becoming saturated. Then condensing above the warm doldrums beyond the African coast.
And by the time those thoughts reach him, they are full blown storms.
They have picked up speed and passionate fury, rushing across the equator, flirting with the South Americas.
They have organized themselves, without an effort but with plenty of grace.
Her simple thought reaches him as a cyclone of storm activity.
For he is trying to fall asleep on a hot, damp boat in the Caribbean, and there is torrential downpour all around him. Lightning flashes and thunder crashes. The wind screams through his rigging.
On his side of the ocean, it is hurricane season.
000
ABNT20 KNHC 202331
TWOAT
TROPICAL WEATHER OUTLOOK
NWS TPC/NATIONAL HURRICANE CENTER MIAMI FL
800 PM EDT TUE JUL 20 2010
FOR THE NORTH ATLANTIC...CARIBBEAN SEA AND THE GULF OF MEXICO...
A VIGOROUS TROPICAL WAVE...LOCATED NEAR THE EASTERN DOMINICAN
REPUBLIC...IS PRODUCING A LARGE AREA OF SHOWERS AND THUNDERSTORMS
EXTENDING FROM THE NORTHERN LEEWARD ISLANDS WESTWARD TO HISPANIOLA.
SURFACE OBSERVATIONS INDICATE THAT A CLOSED CIRCULATION HAS NOT YET
FORMED. HOWEVER...ENVIRONMENTAL CONDITIONS ARE EXPECTED TO BE
FAVORABLE FOR TROPICAL CYCLONE FORMATION AS THE SYSTEM MOVES
WEST-NORTHWESTWARD AT ABOUT 10 MPH DURING THE NEXT DAY OR SO.
THERE IS A HIGH CHANCE... 60 PERCENT...OF THIS SYSTEM BECOMING A
TROPICAL DEPRESSION OR A TROPICAL STORM DURING THE NEXT 48 HOURS.
REGARDLESS OF DEVELOPMENT...LOCALLY HEAVY RAINFALL AND GUSTY WINDS
WILL LIKELY AFFECT THE VIRGIN ISLANDS...PUERTO RICO...THE DOMINICAN
REPUBLIC... HAITI...EASTERN CUBA...THE TURKS AND CAICOS ISLANDS...
AND THE BAHAMAS DURING THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS. THE HEAVY RAINS
COULD CAUSE LIFE-THREATENING FLASH FLOODS AND MUD SLIDES IN
MOUNTAINOUS AREAS.
ELSEWHERE...TROPICAL CYCLONE FORMATION IS NOT EXPECTED DURING THE
NEXT 48 HOURS.
7.20.2010
7.13.2010
"One can rest above or below the wave, and even completely within it and tour the world with it ten times, doing nothing but watch the clouds and the sun and the moon and the stars above the clouds, with the wave and in the wave doing nothing but watch and feel. But one could also take a moonbeam at the instant it ricochets into the sea and lands and return aboard to see the sea, just watching and thinking with her, breathing again the odour of land and the things of the sky. All of this is easy, just watching the sea, choosing the wave well, just the right size, and take the time to see the sea."
Bernard Moitessier, La longue route
Bernard Moitessier, La longue route
7.10.2010
Love Transatlantic
By now, perhaps you are somewhere off the coast of Greenland? Iceland?
Thousands of miles above the North Atlantic?
Never, ever, forget the significance of that ocean. It was on its
glaciated Nova Scotian shoreline that we first met. As you so
eloquently recalled in our first fateful letter exchange, I had spent
a morning in its waters the day I laid eyes on you.
The ocean brought me to you. It has also brought me away from you.
Today, the ocean has me isolated on the eastern limits of the
Caribbean archipelago. Tomorrow, the ocean will have us separated by
thousands of miles of wind, waves, storms and currents.
It is only fitting however. The ocean is in many ways like love. Man
has yet to conquer the sea, and man has yet to conquer love. But man
has managed to embrace the sea, to sail on it, to chase dreams on it.
Our love is the ocean. It is this ocean of love that I embrace. And on
its waves I will sail. Chasing my dreams of you.
Soon enough darling, I will sail to you. I have my sight set on that
horizon. And as long as there is water in the sea, I will continue
loving you.
I am dedicating my life to the sea, to love, to you.
Thousands of miles above the North Atlantic?
Never, ever, forget the significance of that ocean. It was on its
glaciated Nova Scotian shoreline that we first met. As you so
eloquently recalled in our first fateful letter exchange, I had spent
a morning in its waters the day I laid eyes on you.
The ocean brought me to you. It has also brought me away from you.
Today, the ocean has me isolated on the eastern limits of the
Caribbean archipelago. Tomorrow, the ocean will have us separated by
thousands of miles of wind, waves, storms and currents.
It is only fitting however. The ocean is in many ways like love. Man
has yet to conquer the sea, and man has yet to conquer love. But man
has managed to embrace the sea, to sail on it, to chase dreams on it.
Our love is the ocean. It is this ocean of love that I embrace. And on
its waves I will sail. Chasing my dreams of you.
Soon enough darling, I will sail to you. I have my sight set on that
horizon. And as long as there is water in the sea, I will continue
loving you.
I am dedicating my life to the sea, to love, to you.
7.08.2010
7.04.2010
Elle est bonne, la mer, toi aussi.
He couldn't understand very much français, but he understood beauty, and he understood the sea. Anything that could not be understood in these terms did not seem worth explaining.
But she was as beautiful as the ocean, and that, he could understand.
He remembered the old Tahitian sailor whom he had met, and the prophetic words he spoke:
"No man can rule her. La mer, the sea, cannot be steered the way you or I would steer our vessels."
And the young man was beginning to understand the same about the beautiful girl.
Just as they danced, with great intensity and gusto, for it was their favorite thing to do, orbiting one another like the earth, sun and moon, he knew he had lost control.
He held her in his arms until a set wave came through, crashing right on top of them both. In fleeting glimpses, he could see her tumbling away with the currents.
But fighting was useless. Momentum was the key. He understood the need to go with the flow. Ignore the burning chest, he told himself, soon you will surface again. Those moments spent hurtling underwater only make the next breaths sweeter.
Though nothing was worse than this, he thought. She had the power to drown him. Yet, drowning would be a relief. At least it would end the way it started; in a maelstrom of passionate fury. Drowning would save him.
And so, his most dreaded dream came true. The ocean went flat.
Days passed, turning to weeks. Weeks, in turn, became months. And still he remained.
Adrift.
He couldn't understand very much français, but he understood beauty, and he understood the sea. Anything that could not be understood in these terms did not seem worth explaining.
But she was as beautiful as the ocean, and that, he could understand.
He remembered the old Tahitian sailor whom he had met, and the prophetic words he spoke:
"No man can rule her. La mer, the sea, cannot be steered the way you or I would steer our vessels."
And the young man was beginning to understand the same about the beautiful girl.
Just as they danced, with great intensity and gusto, for it was their favorite thing to do, orbiting one another like the earth, sun and moon, he knew he had lost control.
He held her in his arms until a set wave came through, crashing right on top of them both. In fleeting glimpses, he could see her tumbling away with the currents.
But fighting was useless. Momentum was the key. He understood the need to go with the flow. Ignore the burning chest, he told himself, soon you will surface again. Those moments spent hurtling underwater only make the next breaths sweeter.
Though nothing was worse than this, he thought. She had the power to drown him. Yet, drowning would be a relief. At least it would end the way it started; in a maelstrom of passionate fury. Drowning would save him.
And so, his most dreaded dream came true. The ocean went flat.
Days passed, turning to weeks. Weeks, in turn, became months. And still he remained.
Adrift.
7.01.2010
6.28.2010
6.27.2010
6.25.2010
6.23.2010
6.22.2010
6.20.2010
6.19.2010
It is summertime in Australia. It is not in Canada. That was my first thought as an ice cold, 12 foot wave exploded a few metres in front of me. I ditched my board, and fighting against all the rubber enrobing my body, swam deep in the water and waited for impact. BOOM! Pins and needles stabbed the soles of me feet. My heart beat so fast it actually hurt my rib cage. I suddenly had to urinate, defecate and vomit; all at the same time. Like I mentioned, my brain was talking to me, but it wasn’t being very helpful. “You’re unfit. You’re out of your league. You shouldn’t have eaten that breakfast sandwich. You definitely shouldn’t have smoked those two joints. Two joints and a breakfast sandwich?! It’s not even sunrise! How can you describe this in onomatopoeia? Nobody likes you.” Thoughts like these are the consequence of surfing in water temps that wiped out the Titanic passengers. Despite those temperatures, despite my spin through a coldwater rinse cycle, despite those negative thoughts, despite the ice cold water flushing into my five millimeter thick wetsuit, I eventually surfaced with a smile. The cold had tightened my lungs and it felt like I was breathing through a garden hose, but the rewards associated with surfing Nova Scotia in the heart of winter far surpassed the discomfort. What’s more, I was not alone, which was a good thing. A few feet from me, my friends scowled as they fought through their own ice-cream head ache, we caught each other’s eyes and couldn’t help laughing as we noticed four more 12-footers headed straight towards our battered selves. It’s a Tuesday morning in January, and we wouldn’t spend it any other way.
Above: An icy lip about to bring chills to anyone who stands in its path. Photo: Author’s own. Below: Not your typical beach scene. A frigid Tuesday morning complete with 5 metre wave sets. Andrew Hunter scopes the line-up. Photo: Matt Taggart
“Our surfing forebears were passionately devoted to sliding naked into a warm ocean and riding waves. But as the centuries passed and surfing spread to less accommodating climes, new generations of wave riders have nurtured that fire, carrying it forward to every ocean regardless of the water temperature, banking the coals, fanning the flames, keeping it hot when the world gets cold.” –Sam George, The Surfer’s Journal. Vol 17, No 5, Oct-Nov 08
Perhaps you are not convinced about this whole winter surfing phenomenon. To many, surfing is a foreign concept. Factor in the cold North Atlantic, hostile low pressure systems sweeping up the harsh coast of Nova Scotia, and the fickle mood in which they harmonize, which shows little consideration for schedules or work load, and you have something that very few people can relate to. Yet, there are a growing few, including myself, who can no longer imagine life in this cold winter climate without waves. Andrew Hunter, or Drew, age 29, a Halifax-based musician, is one such person. He was right alongside me when the North Atlantic unleashed itself on us. He fell in love with surfing while living on the ancestral shores of Maui at age 18. Since then he’s returned to more familiar waters, and surfs just as much on the snow covered cobblestone points of Nova Scotia as he did on turquoise coral reefs of Hawaii. On that Tuesday we all rolled together in his van. His approach to winter surfing is simple:
“Get in, get waves, get out, get in the van, get heat blasting, get music blasting, get down the coast, get high, stay high, and repeat.”
As a result we almost crashed twice, had great music selection, and could no longer remember whose turn it was to roll the next joint. Cory Barrington is another diehard winter surfer. Cory, also aged 29, hails from New Waterford, Cape Breton, and caught his first wave in the ocean near his family home. Now, Cory is in the process of completing his second degree in physical geography. That is why Cory was navigating. We got lost five or more times. His approach to winter surfing?
“Save up all the piss you can. When you can’t take the cold anymore, let it all go. It’s just like a warm bath.”
As Cory changed out of his wetsuit after our first session, That Smell by Lynyrd Skynyrd blasted on the van’s stereo.
Above: From left to right, Cory, author, and Drew, somewhat lost. Photo: Matt Taggart
“The surfing life is nothing if not a devotion. And true devotion is unconditional” – Sam George, The Surfer’s Journal, Vol 17, No 5, Oct-Nov 08
After a brisk morning session, which included some of the biggest waves surfed all winter, we could slow things down a touch. The surf signaled the end to a serious drought of waves that had affected us all deeply. Drew was ahead of his work and recordings. Cory had yet to miss a class. I had compensated for my addiction to waves by substituting them with heavy substance abuse. Hell, I had even taken up squash. Finally, the waves had arrived. Cory blew off some important classes. Drew cancelled meetings and snuck out before his wife woke up. We got a quick fix that Tuesday morning, and now we could invest in some discovery. We knew there was a wave breaking somewhere that no one else would be surfing. When we found the road to the point unplowed, we knew it could be the place. When a snowplow showed up and escorted us right to the sea, we knew we were the first to find the wave that waited on the snowy cliffs. More importantly, we knew that no class, no meeting, no amount of grief from loved ones, and no substance could rival the feeling of joy that comes with discovery and surf in Nova Scotia.
Below: The road to discovery. All Photos: Matt Taggart
Style
"I think Kiki, that every human soul has a style of its own. Its one basic theme. You'll see it reflected in every thought, every act, every wish of that person. The one absolute, the one imperative in that living creature. Years of studying a man won't show it to you. His face will. You'd have to write volumes to describe a person. Think of his face. You need nothing else."
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