Live Free or Die in New Hampshire

[ Live Free or Die in New Hampshire ] (part 1)

I've always figured, if you can't find yourself in the country, it won't happen in the town. I'm not holier than thou, understand - it's only my opinion, I may be right or wrong. Quick christ, I haven't even been to the Grand Canyon.
And, although they may be five years in the making, sometimes the schemes we hatch turn into full-fledged gulls and fly farther - like our boy Jonathan gull. This was the case when my two favourite road trip allies, Jaybird and Manny, and I set off for New Hampshire in July.
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I arrived on Manny's porch at 4 am. The doors were locked, but the mosquitos and the motion light made me feel welcome in the early dawn. I sat down in the rocking chair, and began to wonder if the trip was all a hoax. After all, we'd been talking about going to visit Grain, Rye Airfield skate park, and Cinnamon Rainbows surf shop for many years. Each time whipping ourselves into frenzy, but not following throe - not actually getting down to the hard travelling.

But as Manny opened the door at 4:03, I could have sworn I heard the whistle of the 309. Nevertheless, the Toyota Matrix radio spoke up and said, instead, "Carry on my wayward son..."
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When we picked up Jaybird, he clearly had a wicked case of the cholera, but no amount of sweat-stained evacuation drills could keep that kid down. He saddled up in the back seat, bloody and raw, among the 47 bags of camping gear that we didn't use. I didn't say a word about imagining a miniature version pro surfer Rob Machado being along for the ride somewhere in the compressed in a Gortex sacks. After all, sometimes, it’s hard to tell the difference between dreams and reality.
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As we headed over the Cobequid pass Tom Petty took the wheel and Manny and I discussed what it means to find yourself following a path of self-destruction. I suppose this moment was the first truly ironic time I've ever known. Besides, I knew then that by the time I returned from this trip, I'd be unplugged for the first time in two years. Don't worry; I don't need you to understand me here. I would just like to say, for my own benefit, preferably over the Yankee stadium public address system, "True apothecaries, Maggie and Suze, thy drugs are quick, but I'll tell you this about that - someday babies, you ain't gonna worry po' me anymore."
Thank you for allowing me that cryptic digression.
~
Now:
By the time we cleared the Highway 9 Airline route into Maine it was 104 degrees F and I got naked in the back seat with my BBP. We stopped in the rest stop and, despite the remarkable capabilities of our GPS, picked up a map that would prove to one tough mother to learn on. Yet, somehow we made it to Grain. And my mobile roaming charges were only a mere $331.23.
~
The guys at Grain Wooden Surfboard Shop had to concentrate to catch our words through our Maritime accents, but there was no mistaking our enthusiasm. And unlike the "surfers" back in our hometown, they were happy to tell us where the breaks might peel. It seems enthusiasm does conquer all. (Rob Machado squirmed a bit in his back sack.)

I think it's fair to say that when we left Grain all of us felt 5 years old and free - maybe a little less our parents, and more hippies in a tent. Refreshed and encouraged by the wave of camaraderie we’d found in the time spent with the Grain crew.

At any rate, when we walked out of their wood shop, Jaybird went looking for a golf ball and baseball mitt, so he could revisit a game he invented, and played, as a child. He breathed a heavy sigh which sounded nearly cholera free. Meanwhile, Manny took photos to take back for his children; I wonder if they’ll ever get to see them and understand the significance.
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Later that afternoon, at the Rye Airfield skate park, Manny and Jay got down to bowling their wheels and setting up for a few spares. I, frankly, was over-stimulated, and had to go sit in the car. I have no idea how long we stayed, but the youngsters leaving the parking lot spoke in whispers to their parents about the dudes who’d driven all the way from Nova Scotia, Canada just to skate. They pointed at our license plate with awe, and I tried to pretend I was asleep despite the black interior and heat wave.

(It pleases me more than the sea to know that Manny and Jay connected with these kids.)
~
Feeling like I just climbed out of my casket, we began the hotel shopping - everything in Portsmouth was booked for the cheerleading competition - so we decided to storm the beaches. Eventually, The Kentville stood out like a beacon of hope in a generation of madness. I spoke just for the French girl at the front desk, and she handed over a buttered croissant with a discounted room.

It was Wednesday evening, and that meant the good people in New Hampshire would be blowing up their beach with their atom bombs, or maybe, it was fireworks. At Ron's Landing Eatery, we met Terry or Tara or Shelley, who served us weak beers while Jaybird squeezed Tabasco sauce in a Caesar – the goddam cholera was upon ‘em again. And, goddam, there ain’t a cure.

The fireworks went on for hours – and, finally, Manny gave Tara my number. And I'd like to state for the record, Tara, that if you take a very sleepy man, he always stands a good chance of waking up with all of his faculties i n t a c t.
(End Part 1)