Aloha! Here’s the Honu’a Earth Revival – Maui AMPFest

Aloha! Here’s the Honu’a Earth Revival – Maui AMPFest

Ticket To Ride, Book 2, Chapter 28: Mexican Wedding Cookies in the Sea…

"Untitled" Painting by Tristan Adams,
“Untitled” Painting by Tristan Adams,

Seychelles – Mexican Wedding Cookies in the Sea

by Livy Tinsley

Seychelles by way of Zanzibar. Serenghetti for Morgan on the way back but now Seychelles, sea shells, the Indian Ocean. French settlers, Arab traders came first, 16th century, Shakespeare writing while mariners comb the earth in search of some or other splendor. 1742, taken, possessed. By 1770 the fondling was over and Seychelles was permanently settled. From then, domesticated, and no longer anyone’s wild notion of an outpost, no longer free to be alone with God, islands tamed. And if taming wasn’t enough then came the blemishes; slave trade, convicts, a spice trade as hot as and dirty as drugs.

Brits and Frogs fought over her like schoolboys in heat. And such was a century when Seychelles was a speck of light in the empire of Victoria on which the sun never set. Following with the mother country slavery went by the wayside and the early stirrings of independence mirrored an America of two hundred years ago. With 1976 came the first of the republics. This year a new constitution established the current one-party regime, known otherwise as the second republic. A republic: country with a president, not a monarch. Monarch butterflies, the winds of change, states of flux, this century seems to pivot at this point.

1593km East of Kenya, 2813km South of West India and 925km Northeast of Madagascar. An archipelago like Mexican wedding cookies sprinkled in the blue; an expanse of ocean interrupted by Mahe and dozens of others. Grand Anse greeting the sweep of monsoon soldiers, watery swords of energy, slicing their way south. Playing limbo with the equator the Seychelles ducks the cyclone but welcomes its gifts in good form; open ocean swells in a soft, close air.

Coralline and low slung like a sway back horse, habitation on these parts of the archipelago is best for the native birds who ask little for their sustenance. Their granitic sisters reach 6-1000km’s and flow with streams sufficient for larger settlements of human beings; verdant with white sand beaches.

People. European, Asian and African, the “locals” are the descendants of the first French settlers, African slaves, British sailors and traders. Indian, Chinese and Arabians came later. They speak Creole, a dialectic French, eclectic and mixed with everything aforementioned. Money, one might think it Third World, but in the order of things folks enjoy a relatively high standard. Upper middle income in the center of the sea, paradise without hunger. Healthy, smart, and well-read with 70 years to look forward to, the people of Seychelles are accommodating and peaceful, given to kindness and warm like Grandma’s afghan.

Surfers first began coming here early in this decade.

Bali High  turned’em on. Jerry and the crew opened surfers to the idea to pushing beyond home.

“This is good stuff Liv, but before you go on, please don’t glorify surfers as a whole anymore. It’s tiresome and it just adds up to saying something like robbing banks is good if you’re as cool as Jesse James. There’s a lot of good to surfing but to try and raise the whole group to icon status is counterproductive. There’s a whole lot of idiots riding the coattails of men like Duke Kahanamoku and they don’t deserve it, and the Duke deserves a better legacy. People should be judged on a case-by-case basis. I understand you were getting stoked on something new but you’ve got to avoid being blinded by the false romance of it. Your editor will see it soon too. As soon as the adrenaline wears off.”

True Hawaiians

hawaiianTrue Hawaiians – key word True, not the fakers, not the ones who’ll sell themselves and their culture out for a US Gov.’t buck.

I just wanted to take a moment to thank the Hawaiian people for the wonderful word “Aloha.” It has so many meanings but most importantly to me it means Love. While living on the beaches of Maui I’ve been looked out for by several different people who have shown me respect and caring in the smallest but most beautiful ways. I can find nothing more beautiful in the world than the smile on the face of a Hawaiian person. There’s a richness of color and light that emanates from their dignified and soulful faces that warms the moment like nothing else can.

And to think of after all they’ve lost, their ability to keep smiling is a wonder I’ve only witnessed elsewhere on the faces of the Irish. Both peoples have seen great hardship but instead of giving in to bitterness they turn disappointments, tragedies and turmoil into rainbows.

There’s a Hawaiian family camped not far from me and at night I listen to the song of their conversation and know that every other word is meant as “I Love You” and that they care deeply for one another though they have little of what most of us might consider creature comfort. The sound of their voices is a smile that goes on for hours. They are a people who will give until they have nothing for themselves.

It should be our mission as invaders of their land to make sure their cups never run dry and to never look upon them again in terms of “manifest destiny” as a “conquered people” but as some of our greatest teachers in the ways of kindness and caring.

Thank the mystical place called Heaven that these people might continue to walk among us and shine the light of an unrequited love on us all. Without them, I know for myself, I might never have made it through the many trials and tribulations I’ve been subjected to by those whom I had thought were my own people. They tried to surround me so that I might not see this and they tried to make me believe it no longer existed. But I kept looking and hoping to see it again and I’m happy to have found it again.

Mahalo Nui Loa, Thank you from my heart. May the warmth of the word Aloha serve to light you all through your darkest days.



Baja 1979, from Ticket to Ride

Intro to an excerpt from Chapter 14 of Ticket to Ride

It’s now the spring of 1979 and Livy’s editor has sent her to San Diego to meet with a bunch of surfers for a trip to Cabo San Lucas. Livy has never gone surfing and knows next to nothing about the sport or it’s culture. While on this trip Livy falls in love with the sport and gives us a unique view of the surfing lifestyle and its devotees.

What I’ve tried to do here is to present the world of surfing as realistically and as truthfully as possible. Livy’s experience is informed by the exuberance of Jack London’s introduction to surfing at Waikiki in the early 20th century and is tempered by what I like to think of as Duke Kahanamoku’s vision of the ideal surfer and waterman. Duke was born just outside of Waikiki and, as part of the US Olympic swimming team, won gold in the 1912 and 1920 Olympics, and silver in 1924. He is considered the greatest of the godfathers of surfing and was responsible for introducing the sport to the US and Australia. His integrity and kindness made him a friend to many.

From Chapter 14, Ticket to Ride

In her journal Livy writes:

Baja is a place

by Livy Tinsley

(3,000 words)

Baja, deep baja. Mestizos, indios, cactus, joshua trees, riverbeds trickling, Catholic shrines.

Before Europeans there were three tribes, the Cochimi in the north down to Loreto, the Guaycura from Loreto to La Paz and the Pericu in the Los Cabos area. They were mostly fishermen who ate the fruit of the cactus and hunted game and gathered the root of the agave or mescal. It was noted by Hernan Cortes that there were “abundant pearls” in this land that, at that time, they believed was an island. The Jesuits came in the 17th century and established seventeen missions and introduced Christianity. The effort to subdue the natives failed largely due to the harsh weather conditions. Hurricanes, torrential rains and overdressing made life for the Spanish uncomfortable and the local population was decimated by the introduction of European diseases.

In 1823 a successful rebellion resulted in the creation of Mexico. Native rock art is the only evidence of the existence of the indigenous people. Baja is a wild place that only six years ago was almost impossible to travel in the average passenger car. Mexican One, the transpeninsular highway is now paved, but solitude is still Baja’s greatest commodity.




the day marches,

we march behind, along with, and sometimes ahead

of the day.

Mexico will even things out.


green, even, cool this time of year,

purple soon,


but green now, moist,

hard to conjure the drymouthed days of


Sweet August,

dust-dry days and salt-dry skin,

cool cerveza to slake the thirst.




the world’s rolled outa bed to lay in the sun,

to shed the Afghan winter.


cold, cool, warm, fog, hot then dry



sounds like I’m longing for summer,



Mexican One…

Day 1

Not sure of the day. So far we’ve traveled 700 miles. 4 days into it and first day with waves. The guys’ve been crazy for surf. They’re glowing today. Eyes alight with the ocean. Strange journey. All this way to ride a wave like others they know at home. It’s the emptiness they say, the quiet, the being away and the elemental purity of a nearly untouched land.

After a long overnight drive to a small Ejido south of Ensenada there was a day of rest. Trent and Jay struck up a game of football (soccer) with some of the local kids. The villagers went mad for ‘em. Loved the gringos and laughed at their awkwardness on the field. A couple of the kids showed up later and we traded them T-shirts for fish and in the morning we headed south for a place we’re calling Rattlesnake Gorge. It’s a beautiful setup with cliffs to either side and a sandy spot in the middle of a fifteen-year flood plain. The occasional rain has created a triple reef/sandbar break and the guys went mad for it, and having discovered a cheap outlet for Corona, we all celebrated our good fortune of surf (I surfed for the first time today) with a middle-of-nowhere no one-to-worry-about party in the wilderness. They’ve shown themselves to be gentleman and I’ve told’em about the guy in Europe. Good lads, a respectable, earthy sort. Live by a code of chivalry and sharing.

Just beyond Rattlesnake Gorge we found a rusted old school bus sinking in the sand. The wheels are gone and we’re all guessing maybe some hippies got lost on the way to Woodstock. “Summer of Love” run out of gas. Inside I nearly stepped on a rattlesnake. Remnants of parties all over; a bong inscribed with “FURTHUR” after Kesey and the gang. Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test bubbled over, desiccated in the sun. We’ve dubbed it the “Magic Bus” after the Who song.

Third day was an all-out beeline through the desert with burritos for breakfast in El Rosario. The trip seemed to start then. Remote, gone, last outpost on the Pacific behind us and nothing but pot-holed road in front of us. Huge cactus and white stones everywhere, drinking. We stopped a lot in the desert to wee in the brush. Had a margarita somewhere near Guerrero Negro and a guy gave us a tip on some camping on the Gulf side. Long road off the highway, dirt, like washboard, shook the bloody hell out of the bus, but with a beautiful sunset going on around a triple-peeked set of hills we came over a rise in the road and Tristan began to wail. In front of us, a mile or so off, was a spit of land with large swells rolling like caterpillars. I got “stoked” with all of ‘em and am feeling like I’m getting a peek at the draw of the sea. Then we got stuck in the sand. Slowed down to get a better look at the surf and sunk.

This morning we’re situated just below a sort of airfield and adjacent to a rudimentary lighthouse. The Aussies next to us were calling it 10-15 feet and said the place wasn’t holding the swell the day before. Today it’s dropped off a bit and the guys are calling it clean, better with the tide, and the word is the wind turns offshore in the afternoon and adds a crispness to the surf. This spot’s too dangerous for beginners but there are lots of beautiful shells on the beach. Tristan, Trent, and Jay came in saying the rock reef shelf is like a racetrack and “gnarly.” I saw them all get tuberides and wonder what that must be like.

A man who calls himself Ismael came by this morning to check on all of the campers. Nice sort, salt of the earth, or the sea in this case. Says he’ll have lobster later, a dozen for $10.00. There’s a mellow break further up to the point and Jay took me up there for a surf. I stood up on nearly every wave and Jay was hooting. Feel like I’m a natural to this.

I am possessed by a primal energy,

a tribal tension,

the residue of millenia






elemental simplicity fueled by

an adrenal stream and

pumped by an infant heart

Woke up with “The Ballad of John and Yoko” in my head this morning. Thinking of the guy in Portugal, dreamed about him, maybe someday we’ll do that. I’m different now and so to must he be. Success as a writer can only go so far to carry one on. Someone to share it with seems a better place. I know someday I’ll see him.

Three flat tires, a busted gas tank, and three days later we’re sitting at a long left-hand point a couple of hundred miles north of Cabo San Lucas. A steel-framed lighthouse and a plywood shack are the only “Civilization.” Should’ve been to Cabo by now but the ocean gave us another incredible swell. I’m what they call a “goofy-foot” which means I surf with my right foot forward. Here I can ride with my body facing the wave. Nice little waves on the inside cove here and I’m riding a 9’6″ longboard and’ve begun being able to turn and ride down the line.

Note: The people here are extremely friendly and accommodating. Two fisherman drove all the way out into the middle of the desert, pulled our gas tank off and patched it with marine tar. Charged us five dollars then bought us beers with the money they made. One of their wives made us a drink called horchata from condensed milk with cinnamon and sugar added. They say it keeps you cool. I’d drink gallons of it in the summer.

Fish for dinner tonight. We traded a couple of beers for fish the size of small white sharks. Should mention the wonderful snorkeling on the gulf side. Stopped there a couple of days ago and paddled into the Bahia Concepcion (Bay of Conception). The water there is quite warm and the contrast between the watery world of the gulf and the outlying land seems an optical illusion. Jagged, dry and rocky peaks sweeping into a calm sea. Sand fleas are a nightmare there but Trent filled an empty can with stove fuel, lit it, and they all started to jump in and away from us.

Discord among the ranks. Went something like this:

“Livy’s mine man,” said Trent.

“Yours,” said Tristan.

“I mean my responsibility.”

“I was just trying to help her.”

“Look there’s a brother out there who’s waiting for her.”

“She’s not you’re goddamn fire hydrant man.”

“Just keeping an eye on her.”

“Well ease up. No one’s trying to move in.”

Chivalry, knights, none shining here, but desperate to help a damsel. Got pretty heated and Trent just about split. A few cervezas involved, good thing the Tequila’s gone, firewater.

They want to know what I know about the way women are. I told them all I know is what I know of myself really and that it was understandable to me why women would confuse them. Most women don’t know what they want. The fuzzy line between being the woman that my mother was and what it is to be a woman now plays a part in it. I think most women still want, or still think they want, to be taken care of. Part of the problem is that with modern medicine and health we’re living an awfully long life compared with our ancestors and the prospect of a marriage lasting fifty or more years seems a bit daunting to most of us. When we weren’t expected to live past forty there must’ve been an intensity and imminence to procreation and child rearing. People had children and died a short while after their children were old enough to have children. All this living has confused the issue and the rhythm. I told them to just hang out with women who were fun and didn’t expect much.

The guys keep saying “classic.” Has special meaning for them. If you look through early surf publications, California Surfriders 1946, early Surfer Magazine and they had me watch “Endless Summer” before the trip, you’ll start to get the idea. There’s a thread of simplicity that runs through all of them. Good surf, sun, a few friends and later, some good food and beer. Windansea and San Onofre were a couple of the early meccas. Thatched huts in the Hawaiian style, cars pulled right up on the beach, fish caught from the sea and maybe a lobster from a submerged reef, guitars and ukuleles. And more good surf, clean water, purity.

It’s still here in the Mexico of 1979. Gone by the wayside for the most part in California since the 60s. Pockets of it here and there. But it’s everywhere in Mexico, a brotherhood and sisterhood of pura vida.

I envy the red ant of Baja,

though it cannot surf,

it doesn’t get stepped on

as much as I do,

in the city.

Trent’s poem. He’s a bit of a soft touch really. Needs a girlfriend but they’re all on the road so much, just got back from Australia by way of Hawaii. Surf contests and spreading the ambassadorial goodwill of their sponsors. If it weren’t for that guy in Portugal and my knowing, he’d make a good partner, terrible poet, but that could be helped.

Rob the photographer has a way of making things sour, bad attitude, sort of snobbish. Otherwise, the crew is good, the surfers. Traveled 1400 miles with them now, 150 to go for Cabo, then back again. Too much here that can’t be written, only experienced. Baja is a place.

Woke up around two this morning, killer headache, dehydrated. Unseasonably hot, close to 100 degrees. First time out in the water I dry-docked my board. We’re in tropical waters now, urchins everywhere. I didn’t want to get off my board so when the waves receded I stayed on. Guys were good about it and they have resin and stuff for patching. After that I cooked up two gnarly batches of fried potatoes and everyone was pretty stoked. Cooked some killer fish on the grill last night as well, bloody radical.

Second paddle out was good and I won’t tell where we are, you’ll just have to find it for yourself. Trent and I were on the inside cove. Five-foot lefts, nice water color. Then we packed up and headed for La Paz. Picked up another tire on the way. Homemade tires can be a bit iffy. La Paz is a strange mix of the new and old. Sometimes it seems that Mexican architects took a bullet train through California and got a blurry view of the place. Shopped there and hung out in a bar. Signage around town was a bit dodgy so we had a hard time getting back on the main highway, Mexican One, a grey pearl snaking its way like a sidewinder.

“with a little luck… we can make this whole damn thing work out.” – Wings

Sitting now just outside of Todos Santos. It’s about 10 p.m. The bus has broken down again, tie rod or something. Sitting on a dirt road without the means to get it off the ground. Trent’s pulled out the cooler for refreshments.

Three days later:

Past three days’ve been quite involved. Slept in the dirt road the night of the great tie rod. After a couple of beers I figured out how to fix it. How’s that then? The next morning we split for the tip and hit Cabo around 9 a.m. Surf was flat so we shopped in a touristy section of town. All the trinkets and bobbles, kind of stuff grandma would send you if she were here. Sent postcards home then decided to head for San Jose Del Cabo. No potential for surf there either, at least not that day. Found a cheap motel room ($5) and took our first hot shower in nine or ten days. Ate tacos and drank beer like it was the last supper or maybe the first.

San Jose Del Cabo is a beautiful town and it makes me wonder why it doesn’t get the same press as Cabo San Lucas. They are complete opposites. Cabo is run down and funky, nostalgic for some maybe but San Jose has all the romance of the Age of Exploration and “Western” films combined. The architecture in the square was designed with great care and attention to detail. One feels a part of something next to spiritual. We ate a pizza there.

There are some low-lifes in the next room to us. They come from Santa Cruz and are apparently running from the law. Tried to sell us drugs and told us of how their baby ate a peyote button off the dashboard. They laughed as they told it and Tristan was the only who managed to express our collective repulsion. The pair showed up the next morning to look at a board of ours but we decided against selling it to them, bad karma.

There’s a dirt road alongside town that leads to surf spots and a place called Shipwrecks. Here we’ve come across the Australians again, Timbo, Twiggy and Taj. Stopped for a big party in the middle of the desert. Still close to ninety-five degrees. When we couldn’t drink anymore we headed back to town for supplies and ordered twenty-one tacos and at least as many beers. Exchanged cash at the El Presidente Hotel and got back to “Shipwrecks,” (there really isn’t one), around 6 p.m. and lucked into some small but fun surf. Another sort of rock reef/point break, this place has great potential, probably much better in the summer. 4 cases of beer and 2 bottles of Tequila later, Twiggy was dancing around with a box of “Zucaritas” (Fruit Loops) on his head and was dubbed King Zucarita. He then fell down the cliffside and rolled down to the beach.

It’s amazing how quickly you come to know people on the road. The Aussies are three of the coolest people any of us have ever met. Even Rob has warmed to them. They have an uncanny ability to stay in the moment. All of them left their jobs before coming here and haven’t a worry about what lies ahead. They’re here for two months and reside within each minute of the day as if it were made for them. Next to them we, Americans and Britons, seem like worrisome old ladies.

This morning a tram showed up with pampered surf enthusiasts from the El Presidente Hotel. Mind you I haven’t called them surfers as I’ve come to understand that you can surf but there’s more than that to being a surfer. Surfers know tides and wind direction, swell direction and seasons; they feel these things instinctively and are much like captains of the old sailing ships. They have saltwater in their veins and grow uncomfortable with the smell of the land. Brine and a seawind is their morning coffee. These folks from the El Presidente are and have, well, none of this. At the risk of sounding elitist, it would be nice if neophytes, or better, wannabes knew their place in the hierarchy. Deckhands don’t expect the comforts the First Mate enjoys. While it’s not, perhaps, entirely democratic, there’s an understanding within the greater surf tribe that newcomers are expected to show respect for the elders and allow themselves time to advance to a point to where they’re not a hazard to others around them. Most surfing areas have unspoken boundaries within which it is understood that you do not move on to the advanced section of a surf break until you can do it with grace, style and a proper command of your surfboard.

Days End At Land’s End

Went down on the beach after the tram left and hung with Twiggy for a bit. He gave me a “Coronita.” Coronitas are miniature bottles of Corona and Twiggy said to hang on to it, souvenir from a good time. Jay came up and told us it was time to do the wine thing. We decided the night before to bury a bottle of wine in the sand and promise we’d all come back some time and dig it up. So with very little ceremony we walked about fifty feet off the trail, dug a hole, and buried it. Someday we’ll go back.

We headed back toward San Jose and on a particular rise in the road we could see Lands End.