World-class or, at least, American-class.
Oh and please excuse my absence. I was on a
sailing endeavor, exploring an outer Channel Island and what was
supposed to be a fine, but standard, adventure turned into the most
harrowing, most apocalyptic tale modern children’s literature has
seen in the last twenty, if not fifty, years. The crew, my four
great friends and our ten combined children, set off as the sun
dipped Tuesday eve, a light gust blowing from the north but
otherwise clear and inviting. Time slots for the helm were allotted
to the fathers, as we would be sailing through the night, and the
savages were tucked into bed, the youngest apparently suffering
from a bout of seasickness and vomiting uncontrollably.
The next morning after a fine breakfast, we caught an even finer
wind and sailed around the island at a ridiculous heel before
anchoring in a cove and finding a hike billed as four miles, round
trip. In reality it was five-plus miles each way, up and down steep
canyons, but the savages are tough and handled their business,
except for the eldest who began vomiting uncontrollably, assumedly
due over-exertion.
It began to rain as we all rounded that final bend back to the
beach and our dingy, the eldest riding my back for the last four
miles. A bitter cold rain, almost sleet. We hurried to the boat to
make a warm dinner and tuck them all into bed again but, directly
after a quick pasta first course, three more savages gripped at
their bellies.
Uncontrollable vomiting ensued.
Two hours later, nine of ten savages had gone down and gone down
hard. These were no simple heaves but a dredging of the bottom of
the guts. A terrible expulsion. An explosion oft times all over
each other. It was impossible to put them outside, as that bitter
cold rain had picked up its intensity, so in the salon they
writhed, drenched in bile, crying for it all to end.
The witching hours saw two of the fathers go down and it had
become a Triangle of
Sadness.
Three of us stood at the end, my two very best
friends and I, and felt the big sick clawing but also
knew we had to sail the twelve-plus hours home, care for the dying,
clean up vicious messes, etc.
We did, arrived in port deprived of any sleep for 48 hours and
on top of the world.
Victorious.
Very unlike the thirty-nine year-old Elizabeth Holmes feels
right now, I’d imagine, though San Diego area surfers are certainly
taking her choice to spend her final hours as a free woman sampling
the region’s many waves as proof of greatness.
Holmes, as you certainly know, is the former genius who invented
a life-altering blood testing technology that held so much promise,
so much glory, that investors lined up around the block to throw
hundreds of millions at the the future and all was wonderful.
Except.
Holmes, who modeled herself after Steve Jobs and had the
nickname “Eagle One,” got busted for lying about both the
technology, what it could do, what it was doing etc. and was
eventually convicted, after a 2022 trial, and ordered to serve
eleven-plus years in prison for fraud.
Well, as her legal team continues to file appeals, she has been
allowed to stay free, and, per reports,
just moved to a beachfront home in Del Mar, a few clicks south of
my Cardiff-by-the-Sea. A privilege that would certainly not be
afforded to you or I but we were not, at one-time, the world’s
youngest self made billionaire. She could choose to spend these
last few moments surfing any wave the world has to offer, or maybe
just any American wave the world has to offer due her legal
situation, but still. That includes any corner of the Hawaiian
islands, Santa Cruz, Huntington Beach, San Clemente, Sebastian
Inlet and many more.
The fact that she is in Del Mar, easy striking distance to
Swamis, Blacks, Windansea, means those are, likely, the United
States’ finest.
Huzzah.