Mom & Coop Ride Tandem

Just back from our recent fab Surfing trip to Sayulita with Coop, his pal Andrew and my pal Koko (a.k.a. Myrtle, a moniker we picked up for her while listening to a homespun radio program near the Myrtles Plantation in Louisiana.  I am Sue Ellen (pronounced S’willin, but that’s another story).

When we got back home, I couldn’t wait for Myrtle to send me all three thousand two hundred and eighty four pictures (nearly) that she snapped.  Got myself comfortable, and excitedly began to go through the images when the wave of nausea hit – I spied the first picture of me, a forty-something mom, cavorting on a beach in Mexico, bopping around as if I were Gidget, (though looking rather more like Gidget’s bloated, gravity-impacted grandmother Golda, with my 16-year old son, and an ever-increasing number of other sixteen to early-twenty-year-olds.

Yup, I was squarely bitten on my Brazilian bikini-covered ass by the ugly moral conundrum known as perception versus reality.  I can still feel the sting, though it has been slightly assuaged by the horrifying mortification of what my son’s friends must have thought of his mother clearly experiencing an “awkward stage” in her mid-life crisis.

The Highlight Reel of our Trip

Now, several days after the unfortunate and revealing incident, I am still left with a feeling of embarrassment and unease, though the,”goddamnit why can’t I”, justification sequence has started to kick in.  In my desperate rationalizations, I say to myself that I have always been the athletic mom; that Coop and I have spent every summer since he could walk, swimming and playing in the ocean – boogie boarding, body surfing, surfing.   When the big waves come (“outsiders”), I taught him to swim towards them, regardless of his fear or their size.  We spent two summers working on his conquering the fear of big waves, but he got it before any other kid his age.  And if we’re too late to get to the wave in time, and it broke on us, I taught him to dive down to the bottom and pick up a handful of sand as a way to take his mind off the fear while also staying out of what could be a powerful washing machine.

My conclusion?  No doubt the surf is our playground.  As I consider this, I realize that it is a sacred place that we have always shared – where we have grown up.  Together.  These times represent a celebration of summer, of spending time just the two of us, of the hot sun, of salty skin, of ice cream cones at 3PM, and an early evening swim before dinner when hardly anyone was left on the beach and none in the water, before we would each head into our respective locker rooms at the club, spend far too much time under a hot shower, get in warm clothes and stay down at the beach for Bistro dinner, when Stuart would come down and join us.  This was our Friday schedule for over 10 years.  And we loved it.

So, while there is clearly a pang of self-consciousness at my body’s total lack of cooperation and traitorous foray to the dark side of gravity, painfully evidenced in a bikini these days (note to self – possibly more conservative bathing suit selections in future), after careful consideration, I’ve decided “screw it” – the end justifies the means.  If Cooper actually wants me to surf with him – to continue as we have done for 16 years, and play in the ocean together, I’ll be damned if I’m going to stop now.

So…look for us back in Sayulita in a couple of weeks.  I’ll be the one hanging out (literally, most likely) with the group of 16 – 23 year olds, eyeing the breaks, chatting about God knows what, surfing with my kid for hours and hours at a stretch and occasionally reminding myself that I am having the time of my life.

…and speaking of the aforementioned LAX/Sydney flight, while trolling the aisles of the aircraft that evening, I walked past what I thought was the most fabulous coffin, securely seat-belted into a pod seat, and safe under the watchful eye of a careful guardian, who I naturally assumed was the son of the lovely and clearly petite grandmotherly figure contained therein.

I was immediately hit with two slightly morbid and conflicting thoughts, which sent me off into one of my stream of consciousness monologues, that went something like this.

“What is that?  Oh my God, is that a coffin?  Is that a Louis Vuitton coffin that looks like a steamer trunk?  Euuuu – does that mean  there is a dead body in it?  Is it going to rattle around business class the entire way to Auckland?  Its kind of sticking far out into the aisle.  What if the beverage cart bumps it and the body of – God, it must be a little old lady – a really little old lady – probably a KIWI – so cute.  And this guy – he’s very attractive, isn’t he?  He must be her son.  Or maybe her grandson.  He’s obviously in charge of bringing granmum home.  Oh, that’s so sad.  I bet they were so close.  What a good guy.  He really is very good looking though – looks very windswept with the chapstick lips and tan face. Like a sailor.  Hey, we’re sailors, too, I say.  Really, he asks?  What kind of a boat?  A sailboat of course, I replied, completely oblivious to what I was saying as the internal stream of consciousness monologue kicked  into high gear.

“I have GOT to have a Louis Vuitton coffin. I mean, I’m the only one I know that wants to be buried, not cremated.  I’m not great with fire and the last thing I want is to be scattered in a bazilliion pieces. No way.  Being buried is much more civilized, though everyone else will be cremated, so I guess I wouldn’t really see anyone, which is a drag.  Still, I know where I want to be buried (Montecito cemetary for any family members who might be reading this.)  Preferably under a tree.  Facing the ocean, for sure.  And with a bench – not a marble or stone one – gotta be wood.  With a gold plaque dedicated to me.  Something understated – ish.”

Realizing I had nothing more to say to the son, or grandson, and was beginning to involuntarily yet discreetly sniff around the coffin to catch either granmum’s  perfume or the death odor, I thought it best to carry on back to my seat, um, pod (gotta get used to that).  I couldn’t wait to tell  Stuart about my discovery and fabulous new idea to have a Louis Vuitton steamer trunk as a coffin like the little old woman back in aisle 11 has, who quite possibly, now that I think about it, could have been an acrobat.  Or a circus performer.  Predictably, upon hearing my enthusiastic whining for an LV coffin, Stuart shook his head and groaned, doing a spot-on imitation of Lurch from The Addams Family.  He then turned his eyes to the heavens, as though pleading for celestial assistance to send down a planet to fall on my head.  “Darling”, said my husband, in his snobbiest British accent, “that is not a coffin for a little old lady Kiwi acrobat circus performer.  That trunk contains the America’s Cup trophy, on its way back to Auckland.”  “Ohhhhhh.  Are you sure”, I asked, not completely convinced, though that did explain the grandson’s yacht club polo shirt and boat shoes.    Turns out Stuart was absolutely right, and we were flying with the America’s Cup trophy (an excellent omen as planes never go down when there is something as significant as the America’s Cup trophy on board).  And as we sped through the night sky, I meticulously mapped out plans for my Louis Vuitton-themed funeral, which I know will be fabulous.

April, 2009

Being an avid fan of the show “Ghost Hunters”, and never having ventured to Louisiana before, I thought it would be huge fun to take my 15 year old son, 16 year old French exchange student daughter along with my good friend and excellent traveling partner to New Orleans over Spring Break – do a little volunteering with Habitat for Humanity,  check out the town, and of course, head to St. Francisville and the Myrtles. Well, the Myrtles ended up being a highlight of the trip.

Here’s the skinny…first thing is to manage expectations. The rooms are basic and certainly have some wear & tear, but that’s all part of the charm. This is about the experience, so if you know that going in, you’ll be fine. We stayed in the Caretaker’s Cottage as only 2 people are allowed in the rooms in the main house, and I knew that there was no way one of us would be brave enough to spend a night alone in a room (most especially me). This was actually just perfect. The Cottage is about 100 steps from the main house, and is absolutely adorable, complete with picket fence and garden. Inside was verrry basic – queen bed and bunk bed, but fine for one night. We booked in on a Friday, and arrived about 4 or so. Check in a breeze and reception staff very friendly. Do have dinner in the restaurant on property. Not only was it good, but it allows time for a glass or two of wine to buff out the edges and loosen you up for the Ghost Tour at 8 PM. Our tour was led by Bree, (I think that was her name) who spun an excellent yarn with her knowledge and enthusiasm – very engaging and highly entertaining. Emphasis on entertaining – again, while the stories are certainly plausible, you should never let hard facts get in the way of good storytelling. After the tour, you are off to photograph incessantly, test for EVPs, and thermal image to your heart’s content. You can go all over the grounds (with the exception of the main house, unless you are actually staying in the house). No worries – lots of creepy places to check out, including the little island (watch out for the water snakes). 187 shots later, my son was convinced he not only captured orbs, but that he had uncovered a “portal”, as some die-hard, photographer vest wearing ghost hunter declared to him. Pay dirt! No ghostly activity experienced in our little cottage that evening, hence no need for the instructions to the kids about placement of nitroglycerine under my tongue when the heart attack comes on. We found out at breakfast the next morning though, that some guests had a situation with coins being moved in their room in main house, which apparently, happens quite frequently. Breakfast at the Plantation is particularly charming as you essentially eat in the kitchen with the cooks and staff, who are entertaining and great fun to talk to. The food was fantastic – eggs, biscuits, grits, sausage, juice – very authentic and very good. All in all, we absolutely loved our brief sojourn at the Myrtles – a very relaxing setting (in the day) with beautiful grounds, great food and warm staff.