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.
