Bam and I went running in the hills this morning. It is so quiet back there. It is pure jungle. Jungle and dirt. Everything is just dirt. Up the hills slow but steady. Jogging along the flats slow but cruising. The descents get steep and the ground is loose rock and soft dirt. Like quick sand.
Bam goes off leash once we cross the main road. Then we head west up into the hills. Another hobby. More sweat. We leave the house by 6am or else it’s just brutal out there. By 710am it was hot. Feels hot. Gets in your lungs. The heat wraps itself around your skin. When the sun reaches a certain point in the sky the heat is just there. Suddenly. Above the tree line. A certain latitude. The heat is all there. White city boy trying to run around the jungle with a small dog. It is comic. Chubby white city boy far from home like a jungle immigrant.
It is lovely back in the hills. So quiet. A reprieve from the beach circus. From the kinetic ferocity of the ocean. My life revolves around surfing but sometimes it is so good to simply move in the mountains. Hike up a hill. Ruck in the jungle. Run across a ridge line. The polarity is real.
Get The Jungle Gazzete’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.Subscribe
Remember me for faster sign in
These days the car park at the beach gets full early and the inevitable vibe pushes in all directions. Allies and enemies. The cruel realities of ability and age. The ironies of time and choice. The ocean is a wet untold story. Arriving at the beach like pilgrims. Like submissives in blind folds. Looking out towards the horizon with a mixed bag of memory and ambition on the mind. Squinting. A long way from home. Warm water and tubes. Heard about this spot. Here now. Again and again.
The swell is big right now. Kinda massive. Marbella is a mess. A potpourri of power and muscle and defeat. The sand bars are over run by a fist of swell. An impressive display of ocean energy in mid march. We are here.
The better bet might be to drive up or down the coast searching for cleaner spots. Or just go spend some time in the hills. After so many years chasing these swells and driving up and down the coast line, gambling on spots and car parts, it is a surprising relief now to pursue another direction, for a moment. A different view of the jungle. Of this country.
The ocean gets all the marketing material. All the noise. All the coins. Glossy surf photos and promises of heroism and fame. Legends! Line ups full of dreamers and misfits. The car park vibe. The beach vibe. The head nod. The surfboard colors and distinct logos. The white board statement. The heat rising up from the dirt and sand. The fist bump. The skin colors and hair styles. The hunger and fear. There is always hunger and fear. From the airport lines to the beach parking lots. All the bumpy kilometers in between. Days pass in some salt water dream. Rowdy ethics and fuzzy moralities. Surfing gets all the front page space. Fan boys and marching gladiators. Life with intention.
Bam and I went running in the hills this morning. Jungle like an aspiration for peace. One foot in front of the other. The trees shift. The dirt kicked. Always feels like we are being watched. Stalked. Perhaps a puma or a bear. It is so wild back there. Authentically tropical wild. Everything wants to kill you here. Waiting to eat you. Everything is waiting for you to collapse so they can come and eat you. The vultures are calculating. The ants are strategic. Some short haired beast waiting around the corner. Don’t die here, I tell myself. Take me back to Manhattan and kill me. Not here.
Maybe Bam and I will take some people up into the hills. Little squads of locals and tourists. Visitors from Toronto and North Carolina. You are in the jungle now. There is no air conditioning. It is not single track but we are back in it now. The views are beautiful and the ground is soft. These crazy ideas. Nothing is for sale back here. No lipstick or key chains. No one is watching. No cameras or car hoods. It is hot and unglamorous and off brand. A few kilometers out and back is all. 20 to 30 pounds in a Go Ruck bag. Maybe we do this. Give it a name. A number. An account for family photos. A cold plunge and a kombucha at the end. Love you all. Thank you for coming.
