The Tragic Death of Andy Irons

The news of 3-times surfing world champ Andy Irons' untimely passing came up mid-day yesterday. I found out through a simple text from my brother, "Andy Irons dead." I didn't immediately believe it. I scoured the internet, but this was before reports had really been confirmed. A co-worker of his at Toddland had a contact within the surf industry, but I was still unbelieving. It seemed too odd. I never met Andy Irons. I never had a reason to feel anything more than respect for the man's phenomenal surfing ability. But when I saw on SurferMag.com and then on the ASP website that the rumors were in fact true, it hurt. For some reason, this season, I found myself rooting for AI. In the past, he'd always struck me as an arrogant asshole that took surf contests far too personally. In his heyday, he was Yang to Kelly Slater's Yin. Kelly the white knight, Andy the black knight. Or however you want to put it. But then he took a year off. He got married. And returned to the Dream Tour, seemingly a new man. I noticed it in his interviews during the Tahiti contest. Teahupoo was a place he'd had some success, but Teahupoo wasn't itself. Waves were small and the contest was hardly one meant for barrel-riding. But with each heat win, he'd do the post-heat chat for the webcam and he seemed so genuinely excited and was constantly sending love and good thoughts to his wife, Lyndie, who was back in Hawaii, pregnant with the couples first child.

Like I said, I never knew AI, so I can only make assumptions. But that year off changed him. Getting married changed him. Knowing he was going to be a father changed him. And for the first time, I hoped he could pull out a win. I realize how inconsequential this may be, considering people much closer to him must be in the worst kind of pain, but he struck me as someone who had finally gotten his priorities in order and was so happy and stoked on life. And then for this to happen, it just struck me as so very unfair. Unfair to his wife, his family, his friends, his unborn child and all of the people that supported him through the years. But in some twisted way, it was almost appropriate that it happened during this contest, when both the men and women were at the same spot -- and with Kelly Slater, his arch-rival for all those years, on the cusp of yet another world title. Coincidence, certainly.

One thing I've always respected about the surfing community is its sense of family. Paddle-outs are relatively common when a surfing legend or just some lifelong surfer dies, but they're always touching. They follow tradition and it's a way for people to come together in a way that celebrates that particular person in an environment that somewhat defined them. In a couple days time, the passing of Andy Irons will barely be on my mind, but for the past 24 hours and until that does happen, it makes me vastly aware of my own mortality. You never know how or when, just that it will happen. My heartfelt condolences to AI's loved ones.

Aloha and mahalo, AI.

Below are two videos that serve as celebrations of AI and his surfing life. The first was put together by Surfing Life Magazine about the memorial paddleout in Puerto Rico, the day after AI's death. A number of fellow Dream Tour competitors offer there thoughts about AI and what his passing means to them. The second is a video produced by Billabong as part of its "I surf because" campaign. From what I know, the video came out during the Tahiti contest, AI's last tour win. Enjoy.

Saying Goodbye

I'm supposed to be reading Melvin Mencher's "News Reporting and Writing" right now for class in the morning. When this thought came into my mind, it became all I could think about. I couldn't make it through the first paragraph of the reading without reflecting sadly, so, here it is ...

It's really hard to say goodbye to a childhood pet.

It's probably one of the worst feelings in the world.

For me, it's been harder than losing most loved ones that have passed away during my lifetime. That seems terrible, I know, but if you have a dog or cat for years and suddenly that day comes, it's worse than breaking up with a girlfriend. Or getting rejected from college. Or getting in your first auto accident. Hearts will heal, new opportunities will arise, bones will mend, but replacing one of your best childhood friends? Not possible.

Pets play a special role in the life of a child. For me, Congo, my Australian Shepherd of 14 years, was many things: my friend, when no one else was around; my alarm clock, wandering about my room when it was time for him to eat; my confidant, when I was learning to understand women; my workout partner, when I was training to make the college soccer team; my photo subject, when I wanted to practice portraits; and my welcoming party, standing at the gate with his tongue hanging and tail wagging when I'd come home from a trip. And quite a bit more.

We never fought, he never held a grudge, he was always willing to go for a walk when I needed to clear my mind, he was willing to lick my plate clean, no matter what was on it, he watched whatever I wanted on TV, and damn, did he give the best head rubs when I'd let him lick my hair (a bit gross, I know, but he loved that Herbal Essences).

So when I heard that my dad had made "an appointment with the vet," I was heartbroken. I knew Congo wasn't well. His hips were bad, he was losing weight, he couldn't jump and torment the neighbors the way he used to. I knew it was a matter of time. But the look on his face when he stood in the front yard, a breeze in his face, his mouth slightly open, a look of contentment in his eyes, made me hope I'd never have to say goodbye. But I did. When I was packed and ready to fly off to NYC for a year, it was when I got down on my knee and hugged him that I shed the first tear. I knew there was a good possibility it was the last time I'd feel his fur and kiss his head. It's times like those that you wished you shared a common language. I wished I could thank him and express my appreciation for all he'd brought to my life. But all we could do was lock eyes and I hoped he knew how I felt.

I'll have another dog someday. He'll have a different temperament, probably be an adorable puppy and make me smile. But it won't be the same. That first (or most memorable) childhood pet gets a special place in our heart. One that can never be covered up or forgotten.

Congo Marshall
1995-2009

Family Matters

This past weekend we held a memorial service for my grandmother, who passed away two weekends ago. Practically the entire family from my mom's side of the tree flew in for the service. And while the week leading up was marked with the occasional bout of tears or blank stares while flipping through the mental memory bank, the weekend was mostly smiles and laughs from Friday through Sunday. 

Though the circumstance for the gathering was unfortunate, the weekend reinvigorated the importance of family. It's easy to take these people for granted, but their contributions to our lives are priceless. And therefore, not worth overlooking. 

So, with one less family member here with me, this weekend triggered some critical thinking on the value of family. In particular, it forced me to take a step back and reflect on the relationship I had with my grandmother.  Now, I'm not the type to get all mushy with my posts ... but occasionally it's necessary (if only for me, to help mend the wounds) ... 

I hadn't lost a family member in the last 10-15 years. So, when I knew my grandmother's time was coming, I almost didn't know how to feel. We hear all the time about military dying overseas, young children caught in crossfire, or celebrities passing away, but I forgot what it felt like for the loss to hit home. 

When my dad's name came up on the screen of my phone at 2:30pm on a Saturday, I knew what the call was about. I knew my parents had gone out to be with my grandparents, knowing she could go any time. Even when my dad broke the news, it hit me with a rather mild swell of emotion. In my head, I knew I should be hurting more, but I didn't. 

Until I spoke with my grandfather. 

When I heard his voice, I pictured grandpa and grandma together, sitting on the couch watching golf or grandma nagging my "selectively hard-of-hearing" grandpa or opening presents with them Christmas morning. They came in a pair. I knew nothing different. Picturing weekends with grandpa, but no grandma, was when I finally broke down. 

After some deliberation over the best location for a service (Palm Desert, Minnesota, etc.), my mom, her sister and my grandpa settled on somewhere local. My sister and cousins booked flights, and the service was a go for the following Saturday. My mom asked that all the grandkids (there's only 5 of us) say something at the service, whether it be a favorite memory or a reading. I'm not one for regurgitating other people's words, so I searched for something to speak on. 

I'm sure it was easier for my two cousins, who are both a bit older, and were fortunate to spend quite a bit more time with my grandma when she was younger and more active. My brother, sister and I had a bit more difficulty. Not that we didn't have any memories, but we were all hoping to come up with something of substance.

Most of the family had come into town the previous afternoon, and we'd spent that Friday evening having a few drinks, reminiscing, and taking over the dance floor at the American Legion in Newport Beach. I had time to catch up with my cousins and speak with my other grandmother. Fun was had by all, even my grandfather, who proceeded to show me up on the dance floor (not that it takes much, what with my typical white boy rhythm) despite a balky knee.

The morning of the service, I was still searching for the right words. We gathered for the service at a spot overlooking Newport Harbor, underneath a blanket of cloud cover. Family and friends started showing up, but the somber mood that typically accompanies a memorial apparently was lost in the weekend traffic. People embraced, smiled lovingly and laughed freely. Just as we were taking our seats,  call it divine intervention or simple coincidence, but the sun broke through. My mom would call it a "God thing." 

The service started in typical fashion (a prayer, tear-jerking song, a brief story of my grandma's life), and before I knew it, both my cousins had spoken and I was up. I didn't have an idea of what I wanted to say until I stepped to my feet. And then it just kind of spilled out. It wasn't necessarily meant to be humorous (but that tends to be my defense mechanism when speaking publicly), and wasn't nearly poetic, but I believe it communicated the void that will be left. It was going fine until I made eye contact with my grandfather during my last statement, "I'll miss my grandma." My voice gave out with the final syllable. 

That was the last tear shed on the weekend. The reception afterward was spent sharing stories, looking through old photos, catching up with everyone who attended and genuinely enjoying the time spent together. 

The day after the memorial was Mother's Day, which seemed appropriate. My grandmother always enjoyed having all of the family together. It didn't happen often since 2,000 miles  separated us, but when it did, it was as though we spent every weekend together. 

Everyone says this, but I feel fortunate to have known and had the grandma that I did. I'll forever remember watching sports together and bickering about Kobe Bryant (whom my grandma detested). And if this period in my life teaches me to value the time I have with my loved ones, I can only be that much more thankful for all she did for me.

Circa 1987.

Joan Maxine Seleen (1924 - 2009)