Exactly as foretold by my secret crushes, the Wilson sisters (aka Heart), in 1977:
You lying so low in the weeds
I bet you gonna ambush me
You'd have me down, down, down on my knees
Now wouldn't you, Barracuda?
Our follow-up trip kicks off with a 5:45 am flight tomorrow morning. We'll be fishing by end of day.
I have two points:
1) I'll be "Gone Fishing" for the next 9 or 10 days. So things are gonna be even quieter than usual around Bring Limes HQ.
2) If you have trouble getting trips onto your calendar, plan them a decade out. Nobody is going to object 10 years in advance because they'd look like an asshole. Then, all you need to do is lie in the grass and wait patiently. Next thing you know, you're on your way!
Yup!
Francis Bay, St. John, USVI
A year in, I'm still not sure exactly where this is headed. I know I love water and music and, occasionally, words. I know I love curiosity. I know I love having a positive worldview.
I also know that if I don't actively seek out support for a positive worldview, I'm going to get buried in these increasingly grim times. The past year has been a rough one in that regard. The dumb and the mean and the loud have only gotten dumber and meaner and louder. Although I've chosen to avoid politics here, and commentary on world events in general, I see the atrocities just like you do. They affect me, and my world, just like they affect yours.
My carefully considered response? Sweet-ass surf vids and pictures of sea urchins. This is silly, of course. Ukulele-ing while Rome burns. But I need it.
As a distraction? Yes, I need it as a distraction. More important, though, I need it as a reminder: To go. To do. To be. No matter how weird shit gets.
This time last year, my schedule was such that going and doing and being weren't in the cards. So instead, late at night, I'd put on the google goggles and write about what I found. About other people who were going and doing and being. To remind myself it can be done.
And I'll be damned if it didn't kind of work. Bring Limes has led me to palm-lined islands (literal and figurative both). It's led me to yoga and ukuleles. It's led me to some non-hippie stuff too.
So now it's a year later. I have no idea where to go from here. But I'll keep going anyway. And doing. And being.
Thank you so much for coming along.
It's not because Dilys Price has been around for 82 years. In and of itself, that doesn't mean much to me. By this point in life, I've come to find that our allotted time on earth is largely luck of the draw. Someone reading this will see 100 years. Someone else won't see Season 7 of Game of Thrones.
Sure, our habits related to diet, exercise, and high-grade gin might throw a few extra tickets into one bucket or the other. But in the end this is still a random drawing. I've been surprised too many times to think otherwise.
So. The fact that Dilys is 82 years old is neither here nor there. The fact that she's the world's oldest woman skydiver? Okay that's pretty cool. But what really gets me is this: listen to the dance in her voice. Watch her eyes. She exudes excitement about doing what she loves, naysayers be damned. She's good energy at 82 years old and, I bet, she's always been.
Lots of people aspire to be cool old people (myself included). Thinking a switch will flip when we hit 65 or 75 or 85 and viola! We're lovers of life! Suddenly we're parasailing and starring in viral videos where we're dancing to hip hop at wedding receptions.
But it's not like that. There's no switch. Loving life doesn't get easier as we age.
The best way to be a cool old person? Be a cool middle-age person first. And a cool young person before that. Find what you love and do it. Regardless of age. Naysayers be damned.
Along the same lines, you might also enjoy meeting Snowflake: Love Something So Much You Forget To Go To The Toilet
Coleman. St. John, USVI.
For the last week or two, I was on St. John. It's a U.S. territory which means that, among other things, normal AT&T data rates apply (unlike the much better named LIME network which covers most of the Caribbean but involves international roaming rates).
So your phone on St. John works exactly like it does at home. This makes it easy to check in on things. Stay on top of a few issues. Touch base to keep things moving while you're gone. It allows for travel in a way that wasn't remotely possible just a decade ago.
And that's a friggin' bummer bro!
Regular travelers know there are a number of ways to fine-tune the features on your phone: Only receive calls from certain people, eliminate all incoming data, etc. Feel free to Google the options (if you're a total nerd). For the rest of us, I recommend this:
Phone problem solved!
Now here's a few pro tips if you're really looking to maximize your enjoyment of the above plan:
First, see if there's a primary provider of cell service on the island (in St. John it's AT&T). Then make sure the phone you're dunking is the only one in your group which uses that service (the rest of my family is with Verizon which won't help you at all on SJ.)
Second, go to an island where electricity, wifi, and cellular service are prone to random outages (which is to say, any island). This will limit your opportunities for alternative solutions.
And then... ENJOY!
Honestly, not having a phone was fantastic. Instead of calling ahead to see if a place was open, it required physically going there (like some kind of a caveman!) and talking to someone.
Weaving around one of the most beautiful places in the world, Jeep windows down, local radio at wild volume, shoes in the back (probably, who knows), old-school paper map flapping around. These are not bad things.
I'll admit that I did miss having a handy camera. And an infinite jukebox. And a flashlight. But that's all I missed. That was it. That was completely and entirely it.
I've spent entire afternoons crafting artisanal (aka homemade and a little crappy) swizzle sticks from pieces of sea fan. I've rubbed Coors Light aluminum pint bottles with beach sand for hours because I thought it would be cool to have plain silver canteens. I've also done things that some might consider a waste of time.
So okay. Here I am in St. John, surrounded by my family and some of the most beautiful land and seascapes I've ever seen. And for whatever reason, I decided it was really important for me to photograph sea urchins. Like, all of 'em. It doesn't make any sense whatsoever. Which I guess is maybe the point.
Anyway, here's some pictures of some goddamn sea urchins.
St. John, USVI
We arrived to St. Thomas late Sunday afternoon. Spent the night in Charlotte Amalie, grabbed a bite, and had a generally fine evening. But we were just staging, actually, for Monday morning's ferry to St. John.
It seems I'm the only person I know who hasn't been to St. John. Its popularity as a travel destination is what a vexillologist would call a red flag. I would call it the same. (A vexillologist is a professional flag maker. I am just a guy with a strong distaste for tourists.)
But we're here anyway, my family and I, based on reports of a kajillion killer shore dives and hiking trails for days.
Straight off the ferry, we bought a bag of genips (aka skinips on Grenada, aka chinups on Carriacou, aka spanish limes on google), and we pointed the Jeep to the remotest corner of the island we could find. From Cruz Bay to Coral Bay to the end of the paved road to the end of the dirt road to here.
So far, I have to say, the place has lived up to its reputation. Stellar reefs and deep-water boulder fields. Shark, turtles, tarpon, 'cuda, rays, cero, squid, plus all the reefy regulars flashing every color in the crayon box.
But this isn't a freaking travelogue. You're here for the nudity.
So okay. Down here, as it turns out, I'm the early riser in my family. No idea why. Given my taste for late-night rum, this is a goddamn miracle, not to mention a troubling indictment against the up-and-at-em-ness of my squad. But I'm not complaining because it means dawn is entirely mine. And these dawns have been especially good.
I've mentioned that I recently became a fan of early morning yoga. I wouldn't say yoga is entirely "my thing," at least not in the same way that, say, the sound of the ocean or being a smart-ass are my thing. But I like yoga enough that on my first morning here, it's how I decided to greet the day. There's an overlook next to our place that seemed perfect. I carefully considered what I needed to bring with me. But slowly I realized I didn't need jack shit.
Happiness, I'm convinced, is the result of reduction. Of removing everything that's not absolutely necessary so you can focus on what is. In the case of yoga, all you really need is you. Or in my case, all I really need is me. And so that's what I've been going with. Just me and the sun and the sea.
It's a helluva thing when the waves are crashing against the rocks and the sun is pressing warm against my skin. Birds are flitting all around me and singing like I'm in the scene from that old Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah movie. Except with less racial stereotypes and more dangling and flopping.
I have to say it's a great way to kick off the day. Especially when it's followed by some time in an outdoor shower. Of course my teenage boys think the whole thing is weird af. Mostly because, you know, the whole thing is weird af. But I'm going to stick with it while I'm here.
They're sleeping at that hour anyway. And. I so rarely get a chance to drive life into the corner, as Henry David Thoreau put it, and reduce it to its lowest terms.
At least not without the cops showing up.
The timing isn't the best, as it turns out, with lots of work related whatnot afoot. If I hadn't already planned it then, we wouldn't be going now. But it was planned then. And as such, we're going now.
The packing is complete (see photo, it didn't take long), Heading to St. John Sunday morning. In the meantime, I'm thinking I might start planning for something 144 days for now.
I didn't realize this was the case the first five or six times I heard Wow by Beck. My initial take was that it's another one of those interesting style exercises that Beck does from time to time. A reverb-y flute-EDM mashup with a hip hop bottom end. AKA "interesting style exercise" right?
But no! Upon the next 500 listens I came to realize it's as good as anything he's ever done. His downbeat 2002 album Sea Change is one of my favorite records of all time. But nothing beats happy Beck. And this is Beck at his happiest.
Wow shimmers and glistens. It makes you wanna shake your ass, but slow and grind-y even though you know you're too old for that shit. And the lyrics, a perfect mix of positivity and wtf.
It's my life, your life
Live it once, can't live it twice
So nice, so nice
Song's like a tidal wave, take you on a getaway
My friends, your friends
Love 'em every day like it's just about to end
Now we're pissin' in the wind cause it's so pine fresh
Right now
Yeah I, I wanna get it like
Wow!
I love this song.
But for real. Fish. They're like geniuses! Because whatever it is that I need the most on any given day? They seem to understand it better than I do. Sometimes they let me catch them at will, just like that, and hold them up for the world to see. Other times, they'll leave me casting for days on end without even a fin-flash of hope.
The fact that they let me catch them at all is a huge leap of faith on their part. But not letting me catch them is, by far, the greater gift. Life's greatest lessons so often follow extended periods of desperately flailing about. Of blindly waving sticks over dark water.
When everything is working, the living's easy like George and Weezy. (Jeffersons reference? George Clinton/Lil' Wayne reference? Your choice!)
I spent last week fishing in northwestern Ontario. Everything was working. Despite rain and temps in the 40s, the fish proved to be very generous with their time. We caught one after another. "We figured 'em out," as the saying goes. Times like those feel like the catching is a permanent situation. Like fishing will be this easy always and forever. Now that you've figured 'em out.
Writing is the same way. Sometimes the words rise up from the depths and just jump right into your damn boat. Everything works and the words pile up all around you, into sentences and paragraphs so many you can't even count. You figured 'em out, these words, and there's a sense that they're going to stay figured out, for always and forever.
The main challenge on those days is deciding which specimens to hold up for the world to see and which to toss back over the side. The implication of the toss-back, of course, is that there are more ideas where those came from. The clear thinking, the concise articulation, the natural rhythm of writing well... you've got all that figured out. Tomorrow will bring another easy boatload. No need to push hard today. Easy come, easy go.
The no-big-deal toss-back is definitely a form of hubris. But on those days where everything is clicking, it's maybe an understandable one.
Holding your ideas up for the world to see is another level of hubris all together. Look at me! I figured it out! Read it! And weep! I alone was able to catch the uncatchable!
Of course in reality all ideas are catchable. Not only that, all the best ideas have already been caught. Look at any piece of writing and you'll see the telltale hook marks from prior writers, prior people who figured out the same things you did; only long before you and better conveyed.
---------------
To be honest, I'm not sure where I'm headed here. I noticed some similarities between fishing and writing. That's how it started. I thought I'd be able to shape those similarities into a finely crafted treatise on the feast/famine dualities of fishing and writing and life.
Clearly I was wrong about that. Upon review of the previous 548 words, I see I've been fishing, but not catching. Typing, but not writing. Time to stop casting for the day. Hopefully they'll be biting better tomorrow.
For a taste of it, we've got this damn fine video called Last Exit To Elsewhere. It features VO taken from the book, paired with footage filmmaker Dan Sadgrove shot while on a recent 5,000 mile road trip of his own.
The tone, of both the VO and the visuals, are entirely different than your typical roadtrip video. The piece doesn't culminate with tight tan bodies leaping from cliffs into the sea. There's no final call to action. There's no Go For It Bro! There's just this tone, throughout. Of searching and sadness too.
The video culminates with a realization: "I still dream... but I'm not restless anymore." Is it wisdom? Surrender? A bit of both I suppose. I've come to the same understanding myself after extended time on the road.
I imagine one of these times the feeling might stick for me. But not quite yet.
I first discovered Daan's work on Instagram. For context, my typical Instagram session is a sliding scroll through my brain: a discombobulated mish-mash of aggressively filtered rum drinks, bomb-ass Sprinter van conversions, and women in bikinis holding fish. As you might guess, there's also plenty of diving photography in the mix.
But when a @daanverhoevenfreediver image shows up? It stops me in my tracks every time. The quality of light is what hits me first. He shoots using only natural light which, at depth, can be ridiculously dramatic. (I'd mention Caravaggio here but ain't nobody coming to Bring Limes to hear about Caravaggio.) Next is his sense of composition: the relationship between the divers and the space around them. With the boat above or the bottom below. With water. It's no surprise Daan is a freediver himself. There would be no other way to capture the spirit of the thing the way he does.
Finally, his images exude the gravity of freediving. There's an understood danger here, especially at the competitive level which is mostly what Daan shoots. Depths routinely reach more than 100 meters. Breath hold times can push 8 or 9 minutes. Deep water blackout is always a risk, and usually catastrophic, even for the best freedivers in the world.
My version of freediving is an entirely different thing. It's me vs. fish. And since the fish around here are almost always shallower than 30 or 40 feet, so am I. Of course, there are risks in anything (e.g. shallow water blackout). Realistically though? The worst case scenario for me on any given day? No ceviche for Johnny.
But still. The sensation of being at depth, at any depth, is a peaceful important thing for me. I don't know if my connection to water is rooted in the primordial, the prenatal, or something less profound.
But I know it feels just like Daan Verhoeven's photographs.
Rodney Mullen invented street skateboarding. He was figuring things out in the early '80s that are the foundation of everything that's come since. Seeing him skate in five different decades (!) has been a beautiful thing.
But man there's so much more to him. He does a lot of speaking these days. Ted talks and so on. The thoughtfulness and perspective and connections he makes, between skating and life, is really inspiring to me.
The super short episode of the Bulletproof Thoughts series below features some of his thinking around the fear of falling and the importance of getting back up. If that strikes your fancy, I'd definitely suggest this longer interview. He's my kind of people.
It’s mornings like that where no one would blame you for listening to an Ambient Chill mix. Just close your eyes and zone out to the sound of gently cascading synth pads buttered over the shimmery cooing of angels. But no. Not me. Not last Friday. And not this Friday either. Maybe never again.
Because last week I saw J Roddy Walston And The Business play live. And holy shit.
For the record, I love music. All kinds of music. Hip hop, classic country, EDM, reggae, pop, whatever ya got. I go through crazy phases, weeks or even months at a time, where I'll obsess over, say, Pretty Lights' second album. Eventually though, life always seems to lead me back to the front of a small stage, looking up at four men with amps and hair and disorderly intent.
All music has the potential to steal your heart. But the right rock and roll band? On the right night? They'll do more than steal your heart. They'll rip it from your chest and hold it out in front of you so you can watch it. Beating and glistening and alive.
That was J Roddy Walston And The Business last week. They're a phenomenal live band – proof of how powerful live music can be. I strongly suggest you catch them the next time they roll through your town. They'll remind you of stuff you maybe forgot: That pianos are better than keyboards. That drums aren't necessarily machines. And that neither are we.
Here's a little taste, toned down a bit since they're playing inside a van.
And here's their most recent album called Essential Tremors
Well, ships aren't built for this sort of thing either. But it's still better than the harbor.
Gilbertson's Store is on the edge of Columbia county in central Wisconsin. If you can find the town of Keyeser, you've found Gilbertson's. Because it seems the town and the store are pretty much the same thing.
Inside, once you make your way past the sock rack, the meat case, and the lingerie, you'll find a four-stool bar. You'll also find the proprietor, Kenny. He and his relatives have owned Gilbertson's Store since 1894. He'll be happy to tell you all about it after he cracks you a $2 bottle of beer. He farmed the family land for 43 years, but just focuses on the store now. The bathrooms are in the back. As in the backyard. A fine set of his-and-her one-seaters that, according to Kenny, were the site for at least one wedding and perhaps some honeymoon activity as well.
My buddy Clem and I discovered the place last weekend during a non-sanctioned tour of historic bars (aka spring road trip). A sense of propriety keeps me from divulging our entire itinerary (not to mention the firm advice of my sizable legal team). But as itineraries go, it was ambitious. We visited a number of places, most of which originated in the 1800s. The best part, many of them happened to have the owner on hand. Eager to share the history of their place.
It made for a helluva day.
They say nothing good happens after 2am and I generally agree. But at some point, the clock resets. Because at 10 or 11am? On a fine April morning in the Wisconsin countryside? Bellied up and hearing how things were, straight from guys like Kenny? Plenty of good happens then.
These types of time-capsule bars are all over our fine state. You've got 'em in your fine state too I bet. I'm hoping to find a few more before they're all gone.
Theo Jansen makes animals. Colossal beach creatures powered by wind and imagination and some of the most captivating engineering I've ever seen. Watch the first video below to see his creations in action and get a sense of what he does.
Then, watch the second video to see how he does it, and more important, why. He shares some really interesting perspectives on life, art, evolution, and immortality. The things his animals have taught him.
I've always been fascinated by obsessives. Those blessed and/or cursed with the ability to focus on something, on one thing, for years or decades or a lifetime. Sometimes you look at the outcome of all that effort and you say "hm, well, to each his own."
Other times, you look at the outcome and you can't hardly say anything at all.
So you probably know Venice, Italy – with its wonderful canals and gondolas. And you probably know Venice, California – with its wonderful canals and roller skate dancers with their comically ambitious boob jobs. But whatcha know about Venice, Florida?
Venice is a smallish town/series of interstate exits between Fort Meyers and Tampa. Like much of Florida, there doesn't seem to be much happening away from the water. But the beaches of Venice, and the waters offshore, give it the absolute finest tagline for a city that I've ever heard: "Shark Tooth Capital of the World." And as if shark teeth aren't cool enough, these Venice shark teeth are fossils.
I know! My 12-year-old-boy brain reels!
So why are there fossils in Venice, Florida? It's time for a quick lesson in paleontology. If you're turned on by big words, darling, make yourself comfortable. This is gonna get kinky.
During the Cretaceous period (50 million years ago), Florida was under water. During the Oligocene (30 million years ago), sea levels began to drop and north central Florida became an island. Then during the Miocene (20 million years ago), that land mass...
Geez louise. tl;dr. Prehistoric geology evidently isn't my kind of kink. Here's a link if you wanna learn more. But in a nutshell: the dry parts of Florida used to be wet, and the wet parts of Florida used to be dry. Go back and forth like this for tens of millions of years and, I don't know, evidently you get fossils.
So back to Venice. Five years ago we visited Casperson Beach (which is a real beauty) to look for shark teeth. They're laying and/or buried along the water's edge – pointy little black or grey buggers that you find by sifting through the sand. Looking for them was a perfect activity for my kids who were 8 and 11 at the time. It's a perfect activity for you too if you like to pair your OCD with a little sand and sun. Over the course of an afternoon we found 50 or so fossilized teeth: a mix of mako, lemon, and bull shark mostly.
If you want the big stuff (megalodon teeth, mammoth fossils, etc.), I was told at the time, you need to do a dive boat off shore. This year, that's finally what I did. Because, you know, I want the big stuff.
So two weeks ago I boarded the Hammerhead, a 31 foot dive boat run by Megaladon/Florida West Charters (who I'd definitely recommend). We left the harbor around 7:45 am with 10 divers total, for a 20 minute boat ride to an area called "the boneyard." On the way out, Captain Dan did a nice session on what we were looking for, why it was all there, and so on. Then we anchored and in we went. It's an easy two-tank dive, relatively shallow (30 feet) with no current. Visibility was only 4 feet or so (due to storms), but no big deal since you're looking right in front of you the whole time anyway.
So yeah! You creep along the bottom carefully peeping at every damn thing you can find. Every now and again, one of the things turns out to be a shark tooth or a dugong rib from a 14 million year old manatee. New fossils reveal themselves in the shifting sand over time (the sea is a bit OCD herself), so there's always plenty down there if you're patient/lucky.
Over the course of 90 minutes or so, I found more than a dozen dugong rib pieces (heavy and black as night) and other fossils including jaw bones from whales and grind plates from rays. I found a bunch of fossilized shark teeth too, including one big megalodon tooth.
The best discovery, though, was this: I also found a dive partner. Because when I got back, I barely got done laying out the fossils when my 13-year-old son Tobias asked... "How old do I have to be to go scuba diving?"
VICTORY AT SEA!!!
So this past weekend he did a Try Scuba class at a local pool and loved it. (35 bucks all gear included!) He's starting online classes now and should be certified in time for our trip to St. John in July.
That right there is about as good as it gets.
If you have any questions about diving for shark teeth in Venice, or Try Scuba classes, hit me up in the comments! I'd be happy to share what I know.
Bring Limes is dedicated to beaches, bonfires, vagabonds, and doing what you love.
