"The Best Twenty-five of twenty-five," part I

For this last week of twenty-five, I would like to take some time to highlight some events or discoveries that might not have gotten much--if any--mention on this blog, but nevertheless played a formative or otherwise interesting role my last year of life. Each day, for the next five days, I will highlight five "Best Ofs" from my twenty-fifth year, comprising, altogether, "The Best Twenty-five of twenty-five."

Here goes:

1. The best birthday gift

This is way hard to choose, actually, because I had so many amazing birthday presents last year! Ashley Jones gave me a skirt that I love and the best key cover ever. I got a beautiful sweater and some great books from my sisters. And Josiah, in his usual custom, gave a hand-made greeting card, complete with personalized coupons to be redeemed for special outings and fun activities. In the end, I guess I have to say that Josiah's present would be the best, because there's no greater gift than time.

2. The best (and by "best," I mean worst) near-death experience

I'm not exaggerating. I really could have died. Back in September, when Josiah, Jared, and I took a two-night backpacking trip in the Ansel Adams Wilderness, the weather was less than kind to us. The first morning, it started to drizzle. With hopes of climbing nearby Madera Peak, we eyed the sky hopefully all day, casting furtive glances at the southern horizon, where dark clouds persistently loomed over the mountain tops.

Finally, at mid afternoon, the clouds in the south still showing no immediate intention to move our direction, we decided to just go for it. Armed with water and snacks, we began to scale the steep, granite slope. Once we cleared the tree line, the going became especially difficult, with loose rock shards slipping out from under us as we climbed higher and higher, our gaze remaining cautiously on the clouds in the south, ready to detect the slightest hint of threat.

A clap of thunder sounded so loud and so close you could feel it in the ground. Immediately, we realized our folly: we had been watching the clouds in the south so intently, we had entirely failed to notice the storm advancing on us rapidly from the north! We were absolutely exposed and standing on the side of one of the tallest mountain peaks in the vicinity, nothing but loose granite beneath our feet.

Fully aware that a scraped knee or even a twisted ankle would be preferable to being struck by lightning, we began to descend as quickly as possible, running and sometimes sliding down hillsides of sharp stones. As incautiously as we hurried, however, we were no match for the rolling black clouds, which advanced on us rapidly, releasing terrifying cracks of lightning. I moved as fast as I could, but both Jared and Josiah were far ahead of me. The clouds were finally right overhead. And then I was passing trees and shrubs and, as the rain began to fall, my hiking boots touched soft dirt, and I knew I was probably going to live.

3. The best thing I got in the mail

A letter from a student in Japan.

4. The best job

I genuinely loved working for UPS in December. I never thought it would be possible to love a job and occasionally, specifically on the days that it rained, it could be a little bit miserable. But I loved the feeling of working hard and doing something physically exerting while being outdoors and interacting with lots of different people in a positive setting all day. What was there not to love?

5. The best thing I crocheted

In late 2010 and early 2011, I crocheted several fun little things of which I was quite proud, but my favorite would have to be this guy right here.

He's an iPod sleeve.

Southbound Train

It’ been such a weird week. And it’s not over yet.

Saturday evening, on the drive up to Azusa, my GTI started displaying a check-engine light and seemed to have gone into some electronically triggered emergency mode, where it would only go into reverse and fourth gear. Assuming it was not conceivable to get my car into a mechanic on Sunday, I resolved to have it looked at by a professional first thing Monday morning. Josiah, whom I had given a ride on my way up to Azusa, needed to be back home in time to go to work Monday morning. So, Jared and I drove Josiah half way home; Josiah’s brother, Micah, drove the other half way to pick him up. Thanking my lucky stars I had just happened to pack an extra pair of underwear, I decided to stay one more night at Jared and Laura’s place.

First thing Monday morning, I took my car to a mechanic in Azusa. Two hours later, he called me back, explaining that the problem was something internal that he was not equipped to handle, and advising that I take it to the dealer. The Volkswagen dealership in Pasadena was crowded and it was estimated that it would be a couple of hours before they could determine the problem. Though I was scheduled to work that evening, I called my manager and explained the situation, and she agreed to find someone to cover my shift.

I stayed at the dealership all day. They ran a diagnostic test on my vehicle, which identified several malfunctions in the electrical system. A new battery was put in, and this cleared up all of the codes except one: a lingering electrical error in the transmission. It wasn’t until several hours later that I at last received a detailed account of exactly what the problem was and which pieces of my transmission needed to be replaced. Parts would have to be ordered, but the repairs could be completed by Wednesday morning.

My dilemma, now, was whether to take the train down to San Diego so that I could work my shift Tuesday night, or simply remain in Azusa with Jared and Laura until Wednesday. With my friends encouraging me to accept their hospitality a little longer, and a sympathetic assistant manager agreeing to find someone to cover my shift for one more night, I decided to stay up in the L.A. area.

This morning, just as I was already reaching for my phone to call the dealership and inquire as to the current situation with my vehicle, I received a call from the service department. Bad news. Volkswagen had sent them the wrong parts. Right order; wrong parts. They best they could do was reorder and have my car ready for me by Friday.

Friday.

Feeling helpless, I saw I had no option but to acquiesce. I hung up the phone, feeling miserable. Then I called them back, and asked whether it would be possible for me to just drive my car down to San Diego and have the repairs done at the dealership down there. No, I was told, That would not be possible. My transmission had already been taken apart to get it ready for the new parts. It had no fluids in it. It was not drivable.

So here I am now, aboard the Amtrak heading for San Diego. We just passed San Juan Capistrano and I now have a refreshing view of blue ocean and white waves crashing on a white beach. Children running. White seagulls. A simple, carefree scene. Friday, or maybe Monday morning, I will take the train back up to Pasadena to retrieve my car and pay massive amounts of money I don’t have for the repairs that have been done on it. I’ll wonder whether I should have just tried to drive it back down to San Diego in the first place and taken it to my mechanic down there. But there’s no point dwelling on what might have been, especially if it’s going to interfere with me enjoying such a nice view of the sea.

P.Y.T.

Pie

My mother's favorite treat is boysenberry pie. Every year, around this time, the vines in my parents' back yard overflow with tart, juicy berries. Some of the boysenberries get eaten fresh off the vine. Some get put into plastic bags and stored in the freezer. And some get put into a pie. Today, all three happened. When I was younger, we used to can dozens of jars' worth of preserves, slap them with the label "Janssenberry Jam," and give them away as Christmas gifts. I still sort of think of boysenberries as our berries.

Yoga

My gym recently hired a yoga instructor and I attended one of her classes for the first time today. The class wasn't very good. I spent the time thinking about the last yoga class I went to, during my first weekend in Paris. The girl whose couch I was surfing invited me to come with her. As it turned out, the instructor was Polish, and the class was conducted in English. The instructor was very dainty, had knobby feet, and pretty hair.

Tomatoes

Micah gave me some heirloom tomato seedlings that he didn't have the space to plant. I put them in the ground and they started to grow. I love them. The healthy green color of the leaves is thrilling to me. They haven't yet started to produce fruit, but I'm already bursting with pride over them.

Waiting for Wrinklebutt

On a Saturday afternoon, Laurent and I push our kayaks into the water next to the park at the National City marina. We climb somewhat clumsily into our boats--neither of us are professional kayakers--and, after a bit of trial and error, fit our spray skirts securely into place before paddling out into the San Diego bay. Laurent, a Couchsurfer from Bordeaux, France who is currently staying at our place, needs only a minute to get accustomed to the rhythm of paddling before he is speeding off in front of me; meanwhile, I suffer in silence with my old, defunct paddle, dousing myself unavoidably with sea water after each stroke. It doesn't really matter, though: the water in the bay is surprisingly warm, to the point that I'm genuinely tempted to tip my kayak over and go for a swim. But now Laurent seems to be stopping to let me catch up and so I power ahead.

To our left as we leave the marina and enter the bay proper are grassy saltwater marshes, bustling with bird life and excellent for exploring by kayak during high tide. I even spot a snowy egret taking flight: always a thrilling sight. But we're not here today for birdwatching. I must confess I've led Laurent to the bay today with somewhat exaggerated suggestions that we might encounter a sea turtle. And not just any sea turtle. The largest sea turtle in recorded history.

It isn't just I who feel the urge to swim in the warm waters of bay: the San Diego Bay is home to a group of about 60 green sea turtles (according to a 2007 report from the NOAA Fisheries Service), considered an endangered species throughout the East Pacific. Up until recent years, the water discharged by the South Bay Power Plant created a turtle jacuzzi on the south end of the bay, and the turtle population still seems most concentrated in this area. The conditions in the bay are so ideal as a turtle habitat, in fact, that they have succeeded in winning the long-term residency of an exceptionally enormous green sea turtle, Wrinklebutt, so monikered on account of an unusual deformity on her shell. When she was last netted by scientists in 2006, Wrinklebutt weighed in at an astonishing 550 pounds, making her quite possibly the largest of her species in the entire East Pacific. Since there have been no "official" Wrinklebutt sightings for a few years, however, it is not known for sure whether this colossus is still alive. Still, she remains a celebrity among local wildlife buffs and a legend among those who spend their weekends kayaking in the bay.

Laurent is beginning to tease me, "Where are all the sea turtles? I want my money back for this kayak tour." I reply with some clever crack about how they dislike French people. But turtles or no, neither of us really have anything to complain about. It is a beautiful day, and we have a clear view of Coronado Island and its bridge and Point Loma stretching out toward the sea in the background. There is a slight breeze, but the water is mostly calm. As we turn the boats around to head back to the dock, the tide pushes us in.

Though I doubt the likelihood of ever actually encountering the famous Wrinklebutt, it would be wonderful to someday spy a sea turtle while I'm kayaking on the bay (though, of course, going kayaking more than once every two years wouldn't hurt my chances). But if I never see one, that's okay, too. The point is not seeing the sea turtles, but simply being outdoors in the place where I might see them. On this day, I can't help but draw a parallel between Laurent and me and the two main characters in Waiting for Godot (I mean, besides the fact that we also seem to repeat the same jokes over and over and over again). Gogo and Didi spend the duration of the play standing on the stage, "passing the time" as they wait for an illusive personage who never appears. If we in the audience focus morosely on the fact that, in the end, Godot never shows up, I think we're missing out on so much of what the play has to say. It's not whether Godot comes but the act of waiting for him that matters. The journey is more important than the destination, an adage that holds especially true in the context of outdoor activities. In other words, life isn't about the turtles; it's about just getting out there on the water and having a lovely afternoon.