Monterealization, CA

I was coming to Monterey to see my brother. That’s what I had told everybody.
Don’t get me wrong: I really wanted to see Timmy. I missed his graduation from Air Force basic training. I hadn’t seen him since before he shipped to boot camp. But inside, I was also chasing more “bucket list” cross-offs: ATV jumping on the Pismo Dunes, driving a convertible up the Pacific Coast Highway, playing disc golf where it was invented, kayak touring a wildlife-filled bay, swinging a round at a picturesque coastal golf course, and—most of all—tandem sky diving at 18,000 feet.
Timmy provided both a good excuse and a fun partner for such high jinks. I could tell myself I was balancing self-gratification with altruism, introducing him to indelible adventures. I’d be bringing the party to his first birthday away from home.
Well, Delta couldn’t get the cargo door open on my plane. I eventually left LAX two and a half hours after landing. So, the Pismo Dunes racing with my helmet camera got scrapped. An unseasonal cold front with low-hung clouds negated any chances of sky diving. I left my Nike golf spikes in the hotel and ended up playing in my clogs (and even barefoot). I grabbed the wrong camera battery for our kayak wildlife tour and only got a handful of pictures before my camera died.
That’s when it hit me, I think: the question of why I had come to the Monterey peninsula. If this was just for Timmy or even just for the experience, I paddled within a few yards of seals and jelly fish and endangered otters. Who cares if I got pictures to prove it or prove my photography skills? Who cares if I played Laguna Seca Ranch Golf Course in slip-on shoes? Back in 2006, I’d jumped out of a plane at 15,000 feet and conquered that fear. Why did I need another 3,000 feet and one of the world’s highest tandem jumps?
For Facebook. For the obituary. For the respect of the guys at The Ridge with a brassier set than mine. For my dad, who gave up these kind of adventures when Mom got pregnant with me. For the Ryan George brand I’ve been crafting, since I got a fresh slate and a logo-wrapped excuse in 2002.
Otherwise, why would I debase myself to emphatic swearing at LAX, when my Murphy’s law weekend started to uncloak itself? Why would I sink to idolatry by asking God to bend his plans to fit my tightly-booked itinerary? Why would I worry about not fulfilling the boasts I had made prior to my Lynchburg departure?
On the seven-hour drop-top drive up California’s coast, I wrestled with myself. I talked to God (and asked for forgiveness). I listened to music like Alanis Morissette’s “Ironic” and Russ King’s “Clear the Stage.” I reflected on my brother, who stood as the best man in my wedding—at only nine years old. I loosened my grip on my plans.
The rest of the weekend proved predominantly relaxed and flexible. What I got was far less selfish and somewhat less story-filled. It was like the home school recesses and after school hours, when Timmy and I did whatever up in my attic room: LEGO creations, sockey (a sport we invented), car designing, wrestling, listening to John Miller spin Orioles games . . .
It was old times but with cool, new memories—shared this time as chummy adults. I didn’t have to spin anything to myself. I didn’t have to wonder if Timmy saw through the generous brother gig. I didn’t have to wonder if you thought my pending Facebook pictures birthed from any insecurities or compensation.
Because I went to Monterey and saw my brother. That’s what I can—honestly—tell everybody.