We wake up each morning from our wooden beds and drag ourselves outside, down two blocks to the beach. At this hour of the morning the sand is moon-chilled and a few locals, who operate on a different variety of daily circadian rhythms, are still up and about from last night’s adventure. Their long evening is ending just as our long day is gearing up.

The games we play in the morning are the kind that snap you awake in an instant. Morning workout has a completely different feel here on the ocean than it did back in the wet grass on the banks of the Trancura. We draw lines in the sand and try to pull ourselves across. We run around, knock each other over, sand is flying. After half an hour, we walk home, barefoot with flip-flops in hand, fully awake. We will be shaking sand from our hair for the
rest of the day.

Breakfast! Breakfast comes with peach juice, or banana smoothies, or Mellon juice with a spoon-full of sugar each. Crepes with marmalade and sandwhiches with scrambled egg and cheese. Breakfast of Pichilemu champions.

Melina Coogan and the colors of the town. Photo by Emery Tillman

The day rolls on from there. Classes at the beach, in town, strolling around wide eyed with cameras slung over our shoulder, soaking in the color and the craziness.  Classes on the docks, Newton’s theories while the stray dogs bark insistently. A Grey and white kitten we’ve named pepper materializes from the shadows and tries to sleep in our laps as we study syndechony and personification.

David Gorski, David Hughes and Emery Tilman on a photo stroll. Photo by Melina Coogan.

And then lunch! Everybody together, eating and comparing stories from the day, talking always of the swell, the waves, who has observed them, who has heard stories, who is going to the Point of Wolves, who is taking a rest day to mend a blown skirt.

Classes continue, watermelon Popsicles are becoming a common sight as are sopapillas, (Zach Kathrein found a stand that sells them for 100 pesos a pop). The day marches on and before you know it it’s time to load up the truck and swing through town out to the Point of Wolves.

And then we are spinning somewhere in a white foam pile between blue sky and blue ocean. The tremendous roar of the ocean and the hisssss that follows. Hours of sun and salt water, hours lost in an excited reverie.

David Hughes and Stephen Forster between green water and blue sky. Photo by Mathew Tropea

We are drawn to the ocean.

Birthday season is in full swing at New River! Tracy disbelief kicked it off at the hot springs, with chocolate cake and Manhar torte served with glasses of cucumber water in a tiny kitchen made of wood and windows, over a pit of glowing embers. The next day, David Nelson Jones patiently waited out his 18th birthday as we travel led 12 hours in a van up the spine of Chile, with no way to serve birthday cake. You can believe as soon as we got here, we presented him with no less than FOUR ice cream cakes…(just in case you were wondering…blackberry cream, tres leches, cocoa and chocolate almond.)

 And then the very NEXT day….well, it happens to be today. And long long ago, Ms. Julia Fisher decided to grace this planet with her sparkling presence, and so we will commemorate it with even MORE cake and ice cream. Coming up?? Not to toot my own horn but MINE is, as is the lovely Miss Emery-Kate Tillman’s!

Birthday season in Chile with Huge Experience sure is something else, especially when compared with mud season back in Frozen New England!

Life in Pichalemu

This is some free-writing I did in World Literature

The only other white man in this town is strolling around on the dusty park center below me, which happens to be the cleanest place in this town. Now that I’ve seen him in his white sneakers, blue jeans and tee-shirt it’s hard not to feel self conscious being perched up on a railing doing a world literature assignment. It’s also hard to believe that I’m going kayaking today but fortunately it will happen as always does. But none of that matters to me, what matters is that the order in which things often happen to me, in which opportunities are presented to me happens so fast that I’ve given up trying to think of what I’m going to do next and where I’m be in the next chapter of my life.

All I can do to keep myself from going off subject is squint into the sun that has been wearing away at my eyes and skin for the past month, and watch the little children playing happily in the dirt. Occasionally I’ll get a look from one of the locals which is quickly followed by a glance down at my ripped shorts and blue wife beater with guacamole stains all over it. As much as I’d love to keep things simple in my mind, the meditation that I’ve fell into during this writing has only made me think of home and what I need to do when I get there.

 We were told in World Lit, to go into town, immerse ourselves in a busy spot, and just write. Write what we feel, what we are thinking, what we see. First I wrote a poem, that is in the post below. Then I just…wrote. Here is what I got out of it
 

I am not the only one watching. An old skinny dog lies in the shade, calmly gazing at the scene before us. Ears pricked as a horse drawn carriage meanders by, horses prancing, sweating strong. The dog stands up, crosses the street, and follows a lady pushing her kid. She looks uncomfortable. Does he belong? He seems sweet, harmless. Where is the compassion? So many voices, smells, sounds, all rush by my senses. Bikes mix with cars mix with the clip clop of horses’ hooves.

So many people wandering. Are they here to shop? Are they local? Don’t they have obligations? Oh right, it is Sunday. Everything slows down on Sundays here. Everything is covered with a layer of dusty dirt. The sidewalk where I sit watching is uncomfortable. There is such a mixture of the times here. This place makes Its own time. Am I surprised I like it? So many stories walk past each other, unaware, barely brushing each other’s strings. But what makes this scene complete is the view down the street from me. Crashing, roaring ocean. A smooth breeze blows, and the sun glints off the water. Endless water.

I want this town to stay perfect in my mind. Please do not let anything smear that. The dog returns to the same shady corner and lies down again. Alone. Did he feel part of a family for a little while at least? I hope he has food and some sort of comfort. Somehow that ruined my whole view. Poor thing. Where is PETA when you need it? I think that man is drunk. He cannot walk straight, and oops! He is down- tripped over his own duffle. It is 2:00 in the afternoon. Good gosh. Now he is fighting with his lady friend. She is not having any of it. This writing is deteriorating into nothing. I am now just rambling and drunk man over there is yelling. That’s my cue. Aww! A little stray puppy! I am going to pretend that it has a nice family just waiting for him.

 Wow, that woman looks like a man…a big scary hawaiian man. I want a horse. And a carriage. Maybe one of those drivers will teach me! How do you ask “Can I drive in Spanish?” I should look that up. I love this town, this ocean. But humanity is just not for me. Give me a horse and some mountains any day and oh my god turn your music down jerk!

Cool wind

Ocean Spray

Perfect blue

In the distance.

In the now

Cool hard ground

Dusty sidewalk

Gritty stones

Exhaust chokes 

Dogs are crying

So many, too many

People talking

Laughing

Walking

Holding hands

Buying

Selling

Eating

Broken down car

Humanity.