The Suburbs of Paradise

From: Luigi Semenzato (luigi@Nersc.GOV-DeleteThis)
Date: Wed Nov 05 1997 - 17:55:35 PST

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Message-Id: <199711060155.RAA06169@nsun10.lbl.gov-DeleteThis>
To: wind_talk@opus.hpl.hp.com-DeleteThis
Subject: The Suburbs of Paradise
Date: Wed, 05 Nov 1997 17:55:35 -0800
From: Luigi Semenzato <luigi@Nersc.GOV-DeleteThis>

THE SUBURBS OF PARADISE

1 September 1997

---------
A New Era
---------

The God of our kitchen is an oversized refrigerator that
stands more or less in the middle of it, protruding
abnormally from the counter. When we bought it, my former
girlfriend and I felt that this was the American Way, and
anyhow it cost less than a good slalom board. On its vast
white panels there's plenty of room for decorations.
Important items, such as unpaid bills, are on the side. The
front is mostly taken by pictures and one of those
`refrigerator poem' kits. It's a set of one or two hundreds
magnetized words with a theme. The words can be composed
into poetic sentences, until one starts running out of
meaningful combinations, so towards the end you see nonsense
like `Doctors Make Children Develop Germs' or `Expecting
Poop Won't Bring Sleep.' By now you may have realized that
the kit's theme is unrelated to wind or horses. That's
correct: the theme is `Baby Talk.' Yes. We have a baby.

`How could this happen,' you will ask, `and is this story
about windsurfing or are you going to waste our time?' No
problem: this story has plenty of heroic windsurfing, but it
needs some context which I am trying to break in gently.
Why did it happen? For the usual reasons, among which the
need to preserve a legacy (which one, it depends on the
viewpoint---there are two parents, as in most cases). Her
name is Francesca and she is now 13 months old. I'd be a
shameless liar if I didn't admit her presence has cut down
my windsurfing somewhat, and that's one reason why we
planned the trip to Maui.

We landed in 4.0 weather. Man! Four-oh on the first day,
after a night of little sleep thanks to last-minute packing
and ungodly-early departure. No rest on the plane either.
Francesca had slept well and had decided that she should
meet all other passengers. If we had any energy left, it
was drained by the awful line at the car rental, and, at its
end, by the little surprise that someone had screwed up my
reservation. I took whatever they had.

But eventually Max and I left the families at the condo and
made it back to the windsurf shop. The clerk told us: `It's
pretty windy out there. I recommend this board.'

`What! An eight-three?' I read the warnings near the mast
track. The volume was barely 80 liters. I decided the
clerk was being silly. We both picked eight-sevens with 4.0
and 4.5 sails, and, at three-thirty, were on our way to
Kanaha. I had a slight but persistent headache.

We rigged 4.0s. The wind was crazy. It went from skunk
level to grossly overpowering in two seconds. We stayed on
the beach long enough to feel the stings of the high-speed
grains of sand, then we hit the water.

The chop was unforgiving. The clerk was right. Further
out, at the reef, the waves didn't break but became steep
enough to induce serious air, especially since I was too
tense to even think about absorbing the lift. `Easy on the
hands, easy' I kept telling myself. I wanted my palms to
last. Not that I've ever had problems, but I've seen many
blistered bloody callosities, and it's not pretty.

I crossed Max's path, and he too was as stiff as a log. Not
even his eyeballs moved, but were fixed on a spot on the
horizon, along his line of motion. His mouth was slightly
open to improve air intake efficiency. He was in fear. He
was having fun.

It was a perfect welcome. After two hours of this, my
endorphine production had reached record levels, and had
drowned my headache, even though it didn't quite manage to
squelch a few new pains. I was quickly keying in, and
eventually I chanced to look around.

I was outside the reef. The water was blue-black. The sun
was strong, but there was no glare and I didn't need to
squint. The colors were super-saturated. Downwind,
mysterious valleys opened between green mountains under
permanent dark clouds. Back towards the shore the water
took brown reflections over the reef, then changed to
emerald. A short bright beach ended in lush vegetation
(I have to say `lush'---this is Hawaii), and beyond it
rose the sunny slopes of Haleakala. I wore a shortie and
was being severely flogged in the windiest session of my
life. Was this paradise, or what?

Later, having fulfilled our goals for the day, we unrigged,
loaded, and headed back to the condo, and for the first time
we allowed ourselves to relax. We drove by the airport and
through the outskirts of Kahului. This is when I began to
notice that there was something wrong with my carefully
groomed mental picture of Maui. We passed K-Mart, and then
Costco, then another mall, so, if this is paradise, why does
it look just like an American suburb? I pointed this out to
Max and he sympathized, adding that shopping at Costco is
awful. I completely disagreed.

Our condo at Kihei looked like a concrete parking structure.
The apartments, however, were nice, with a view and sound
effects from the waves breaking on the narrow beach below.
We had attempted to rent a large house for all of us
(eleven), but finding separate small condos proved easier.
In retrospect, this was also a better idea, since Max and
Susan also have a child, Alessandro, who is one year old and
sleeps six hours out of twenty-four.

The wind was still strong at Kihei. Open staircases and
hallways braced the building. When we got out of the
elevator on the fifth floor it felt as if the gusts were
going to lift us and throw us over the railing. But perhaps
it was just fatigue that affected my balance. I staggered
to 519. I turned the knob and the wind pushed the door
open. I had to lean against it to close it. `Dada!'

Oh oh. At this point in my previous trips to Maui I would
drink a light American beer, inviting snide comments from my
snob European friends, and go into a vegetable state known
as Semenzombie. But on this trip something else demanded my
attention. Francesca had taken a nice long nap and was
ready for her dada to entertain her.

Oh, okay. I took her for a walk by the pool and she
discovered the shower. One of its heads was low near the
ground, for rinsing one's feet. Francesca likes water, and
she likes control. It made her day. She started turning
the shower on and off, playing with the jets with her free
hand. She squealed and the wind messed up her auburn hair
in the soft evening light. The image almost made me forget
the beer I hadn't had.

----------------
Day Two (Three?)
----------------

Taking Francesca on vacation was an exercise in rest
deprivation. It's not like I was missing any sleep.
Thankfully she sleeps a solid twelve hours per night, plus
naps. It must have been the running around after her, the
frequent baby lifting and picking up of innumerable little
objects. After spending the morning at the Baby Beach in
Lahaina, and a quick lunch back at home, I was laying on the
bed, seriously undecided between windsurfing and a nap. But
then Klaus walked in, with a big smile and spirited eyes.
He had just flown in from LA with his family. Bye-bye bed.

I introduced Klaus to Max and we took the surfmobile, an old
Buick, back at Kanaha. This time the wind seemed a bit
lighter. I rigged 4.5, and Max 4.2. Klaus was afraid he'd
be underpowered, so he rigged 5.0. It turned out to be a
mistake. The wind picked up. I was overpowered on my 4.5,
and I felt sorry for him.

Upwind of Kanaha, the break at Spreckelsville was inviting,
but we were in no shape to get there. Not yet. We sailed
in and out of the surfless reef at Kanaha and took frequent
breaks. At the end of the session we were all somewhat worn
out. I avoided looking at Klaus' palms and had almost
succeeded but then he showed me. We drove back to Kihei.
Max was about to turn into the parking structure but Klaus
said: `We should check that the fin is not going to hit the
ceiling.'

Good call. Max and I hadn't thought of that. Upon
inspection, it was clear that the three-board stack on the
Buick's roof would have collided with the concrete beam at
the garage's entrance. We took one board down and Max drove
in slowly. With two boards, the fin clearance was two
inches. So! The previous day we had come that close to
losing a fin in a rather unheroic way.

After the evening baby shift, I was clinging to the hope
that I would get used to this new pace of life within
another day or two. It never happened. The following days
are a blur. I treasure my memories but I can't sort them
out.

It must have been the fourth or fifth day when I started
noticing the changes in my body. One day, after the
afternoon session, I began to turn into an Invincible Hulk.
I was walking along the open hallway on the fifth floor and
I realized that I wasn't quite exactly walking. Rather, I
was gliding, my feet barely touching the ground. My
movements were fluid and effortless, and my muscles were a
powerful engine purring on idle. But I didn't push on the
accelerator. I just enjoyed the feeling.

Later that evening I was washing my hands but there was
something wrong with the stupid soap dispenser. `This thing
just isn't working,' I though. I had squirted the pump
several times, and as I rubbed my hands it felt like there
was no soap. I repeated this twice and the third time I
looked at my palms. The soap was there all right. Wow. I
had killed so much skin that I had lost the ability for fine
sensation. I proudly looked at my unblemished palms and
played with them for a minute. If I stop typing and look at
them now, there are still a few rough spots, but now I can
feel the soap.

--------------
The Downwinder
--------------

On or around the third day we were loading the car
(destination: Kanaha) when a guy in wetsuit, booties, and
helmet walked by us in the parking lot. `Are you launching
here?' we asked him.

`Sure.' He was in a talkative mood. `This is a
little-known but excellent spot, especially when the wind
comes at an angle like this. Perfect rigging on the grass
over there, nice beach, no crowds, no driving, plenty wind.'

`But... wouldn't it be windier at Kanaha?'

`No. Not today.' He went to his van and pulled out a wind
pager. `Let's see... Kanaha... there, only 20 miles per
hour. It's more like 30 here.'

This guy had a wind pager and his surfmobile was a van, so
he obviously knew what he was talking about. We rigged and
launched right in front of the condo. The wind was indeed
good, and the only regret was the memory of thin white lines
in the distance. The break at Spreckelsville would have to
wait just a little longer.

Pretty soon we noticed the purposelessness of sailing back
and forth precisely in front of the launch area when there
was so much unexplored territory. Earlier from the fifth
floor we could see two groups of sailors downwind. One
group was launching from the Kihei Beach Park. The other
group, a bunch of tiny sparkly sails in the distance, was
further down. We agreed we should go there. We took off
into screaming wide reaches and started chasing each other.

Max and I were so close in speed that at first I though that
the distance between us was a cosmogonical constant. Then,
when I was ahead, I noticed that he consistently gained a
little bit on me. It's not nice to be competitive among
friends, but I was challenging mostly myself when I decided
to perfect the `surprise jibe.' My goal was to jibe in
minimal time from a normal sailing stance, and quickly get
back on a plane. I have seldom picked a better goal. Max
accepted the challenge. I literally threw myself into each
jibe, flipped the sail, then looked back to see Max still in
the middle of his elegant but slow arc.

Of course we were so engrossed in this activity that we lost
Klaus. We looked for him for at least half an hour upwind,
while he was waiting for us downwind. When we finally
reconnected we felt that it was time to leave (none of us
wore a watch), and in four more reaches we had joined the
farthest group, in front of a huge condo complex called
Maui Sunset.

`OK' said Klaus. `Now how do we get back?'

Aaah, yes, action first, then reflection. We let it happen
so seldom that on vacation it's a must. We walked around
seeking inspiration and noticed a large number of Italian
windsurfers. I was disgusted. Frankly I don't know what
they were doing in Maui. There are plenty of fine locations
in Europe that don't require a 24-hour trip and a 12-hour
jet lag. I suspected Maui had become a fashion item.
Anything that becomes a fashion item in Italy is ruthlessly
pursued by hordes of the rich the and semi-rich in intense
competition, and I could imagine the exchanges: `And where
have you been, Giorgio?'

`Oh, we went to Maui.' Nonchalantly: most important,
nonchalantly, as if Maui were just that smaller island next
to Elba.

I ended up getting a ride from an Australian windsurfer, who
was taking his traditional visit-the-world-in-one-year
vacation before starting to work in his father's farm. I
like the crazy mofos.

------------------
Venus and Alphonse
------------------

Alphonse works with Martha and by sheer coincidence he was
on our same airplane leaving San Francisco. Alphonse
windsurfs too and we tried several times to sail together.
One night we had dinner with him and his wife. We drove to
a Greek restaurant. The moon was low and there was a big
star next to it. ``It's Venus'' I said.

``No, no, that can't be Venus'' someone said. ``It's in the
wrong position''.

``What is it then? It's pretty bright''.

``It must be an artificial satellite''. The bovine
stupidity of this answer destroyed any credibility or the
previous statement. ``That's right, it's not Venus''
someone else said.

A collusion! Unbelievable. For a moment I hoped they were
trying to tease me, but they weren't. There is nothing
worse than knowing you're right and being outnumbered. I
gave up.

We sat and ate and Alphonse and his wife told us their
story. They are from Prague. They were both fresh out of
college, and already married, when the Russian tanks
arrived. They ran away one week later, without saying
anything to with their parents. First to Austria, then to
the States. A good story, and it made us want even more to
windsurf with Alphonse, but it never happened.

--------------------
The Thin White Lines
--------------------

The next day it was a five-oh at Kanaha. We were finally in
decent shape and started sailing upwind in long tacks,
towards the Spreckelsville reef. For a long time we were
alone. Not many people sail between Sprecks and Kanaha.
Suddenly, on an onshore tack, I crossed two sailors, then
another one. Could I be there already? I had just begun to
wonder when the answer came. The swell ahead of me became
markedly steeper. I struggled to climb it and made it. On
the way down I turned sharply upwind, and stuck to the
slope. Yes! The bumpy dark blue universe opened into a
vast smooth green garden with white flower beds all around.
I was flying four feet above the reef, over a soft carpet
unrolled by the breakers ahead. `Welcome! Welcome!' the
breakers said, as we all raced towards the shore. `Where
have you been? It's been a long time.'

The ensuing session was basically like good sex so I won't
indulge in descriptions because it's really boring to hear
about other people's sex. We are trying to maintain
standards of high literature here.

A while later we regrouped and sailed to the beach for some
rest. The beach was narrow. It ended on a low cliff held
together by the exposed roots of flimsy trees. Behind it
there were houses if you could call them so. We landed in
front of one of them. It was a poor, sad shack. It
combined the beauty of living at the water edge on a
tropical island with the sorrow of those who can only afford
a tiny wreck of a house under the takeoff path of a busy
airport. Its occupants seemed to trust the reef a great
deal. It wouldn't have taken much of a wave to rearrange
their living room.

Since we were all supposed to eventually resume our family
duties, we began wondering what time it was. Again, nobody
had a watch. I ventured into the tropical suburb looking
for someone I could ask. With the exception of a couple
making out in a car, not a soul was around, just like your
typical mainland suburb. I went back to the beach and found
a windsurfer with a surfproof, slamproof, and sunblock-proof
muscle watch. In a moment of weakness I coveted it and
decided I would buy one at Costco. Eventually I achieved
this goal. One day after a visit to the windsurf shop I
boldly entered the Costco of Paradise while Max awaited
outside. I grabbed the only available macho watch, a
twenty-dollar Casio Illuminator with a tacky display and a
riot of functions that would appeal to pre-teen males. As a
side effect, I bought a three-year supply of suntan lotion
with a two-year expiration date, and a giant bucket full of
toys for Francesca, knowing very well it would exceed our
baggage limits. I just love capitalism.

We still had time and played on the reef some more. Klaus
was having fun jibing on the face of the breakers and
encouraged me to do the same, but I wasn't in a sufficiently
suicidal mood. I was just as happy running into the faces
at full speed, and then wondering why it took so long for my
tail to hit the water again.

The following day was just like that. Afterwards, for the
rest of our stay, the wind at Kanaha became too light and
only Kihei was sailable. It was better than nothing, but
not enough.

----------
Not Enough
----------

That's right: not enough windsurfing, and not enough time to
write about it. There is only room for a tiny window on our
lifes, our dreams, our struggles, and the sea. This was
mine. I hope I'll see yours some day.

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