Baby Ruth

I was born as a c-section on the beach of Malibu. My mother of course, a surfer, could never keep herself away from a decent swell. And that day, June 27th, the swell was spectacular. Though she had a baby in her womb, moments away from bursting, she looked great in that flower print bikini and on her 10 foot pink and blue Carington Foam board. As she road the 5 foot wave, and cut the board back and forth, her water broke, and I beckoned my life into the world.

There on the sand, with the California sun casting rays onto the moment of my birth, I peeked my funny little hair filled head out and said hello to the planet earth and what I and everyone else around me would call life.

My mother's name is Debra. Her bartender friends called her Ruth, because of her fascination with Baby Ruth Chocolate bars. She'd have her bouts with philosophy, never much delving deeper than wondering if the Earth really was flat, even though it was proven to be round, but one thing she'd always argue was whether that chocolate covered bar of peanuts and nougat was named after the home run hitter or President Grover Cleveland's daughter; Ruth.

Ruth. My Mom. The Surfer.

She lived in Venice, California in a small bungalow atop a garage with a view of the canal. A small studio apartment with a pressure cooker and a tiny little fridge. A mattress flanked the corner next to the only other piece of furniture; a small vanity with large white light bulbs befit for an actress from the early thirties.

Ruth was a beauty, her mouth the shape of Eva Gardner. Her eyes a shade of burnt fire wood. Back in the day she could have any man or material item she desired. But she didn't desire anything more than the spray of the Pacific and the thought of her son to be.