I lived in San Diego for a while in the late eighties and early nineties. I’d always liked the ocean, and soon after I arrived there I established a routine in which, after my day’s work was done, I’d head down to the beach for an hour or two of boogie-boarding.
A boogie board is like a miniature surfboard. You lie, rather than stand, on it. Unlike surfing, which is difficult, serious, and freighted with myth and romance, boogie-boarding is – I was told -- for little kids and tourists.
That was fine by me. After all, I WAS a tourist basically. Each afternoon I’d park my car near a long, old-fashioned wooden pier that stretched into the Pacific and paddle out to a spot just south of the pier’s giant pilings to wait for waves.
Floating on my foam rubber kids’ board, I’d watch the serious surfers lined up just a few yards away from me on the north side of the pier. When a big wave came in, I’d paddle furiously, trying to catch it just as all the surfers did. If I missed the wave I’d stop and watch to see which surfers caught it and which were left behind as it rumbled into shore.
The best thing about boogie-boarding was that it didn’t really matter whether you succeeded in catching a wave or not. Riding the waves was fun, but getting tumbled and knocked around by them was too. Just as being a pro surfer was fun, and being an idiot from the East Coast on a boogie-board was fun as well. It was all good.
The only danger came from the pier. Especially on days when the waves were big, there was the threat of getting tossed against one of the pilings. It would have been safer for me to do my boogie-boarding a little further down the beach, away from them.
But on most days I stuck right by the pier all the same. I enjoyed the strangely privileged view of the surfers I got from there, peering at them through the shadows of the structure overhead. And I enjoyed the atmosphere of the water down under the pier – the sound it made as it slapped and echoed against the wood. As I rose and fell with the waves, riding or getting tumbled, those massive pilings always stayed right where they were, not budging an inch even when the waves were at their most violent.
Sometimes, rising and falling on the swells, I’d reach out and brush one of those pilings with my hand, the wood slick to the touch from the thin coat of algae growing on it. I loved the chaos and energy of the ocean. But I had to admit there was something about those reliably rock-solid pilings that I liked as well.
It was during those years out in California that my drinking life changed decisively. When I arrived there, I was a twenty-six-year-old who drank too much, but who still functioned more-or-less successfully in the world. By the time I left, I was an unemployed thirty-one-year-old with few prospects, and a drinking and drug problem that was obvious for all to see.
As the quality of my life degenerated ever more rapidly in the years after I left California -- as I lost my old ability to ride the energy that substances provided and began to drown in them instead -- I’d sometimes find myself thinking back to those initial, happy afternoons of boogie-boarding in the shadows of that giant pier. In particular, I’d remember the sense of strength and solidity I'd get as my fingers brushed against one of the pilings. How deep must they have been anchored in the ground to be able to withstand the constant pounding of the waves, year in and year out?
Mighty deep, I’d think.
These days, I haven’t completely abandoned my love of chaos. If I happen to go to a beach where the waves are big, I still love that feeling of being picked up and slammed down into the sand – of losing all my bearings for a moment. Just as -- whether I'm supposed to or not -- I still value some of my experiences from my days of drinking. The energy and unpredictability and joy that those chaotic days sometimes brought with them.
But I also have come to see why it was that I was drawn to the cavernous, echoing architecture of that pier -- why I didn't want to enter the waves without being near it.
Chaos is a powerful, deep, and sometimes beautiful force.
But structure goes deeper.