Chapter 6 - Gliding on Water

The Hollow Bell — A serialized memoir, published chapter by chapter

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My deeper education began in 1986—not just in academics, but in surfing, freedom, and life itself.

Mike and I had moved to San Diego to attend UCSD. It had a prestigious computer science program—that was our reason.

But what mattered more was the campus itself: it sat high above Black’s Beach—a legendary, powerful wave that broke just below the sandstone cliffs of La Jolla.

Black’s wasn’t just a beach. It was a baptism.

To reach it, you had to descend the cliffs—sandstone ridges eroded by time and wind, pathways carved by feet that had come before. There was the long, safe route: a winding dirt trail with a few makeshift stairs nailed into the rock. And then there was the goat trail.

Mike and I always took the goat trail.

It hugged the cliff face tightly, narrowing to a foot’s width in places. One misstep, and you could fall a hundred feet—straight down.

Sheer drops on either side. No room for error.

But it was faster.

And we were young. Impatient.

We took the goat trail because it got us there quicker.

I didn’t think about the risk. Not then.

But maybe that was the first lesson:
speed has its cost—and the path down is always easier than the climb back up.

One foggy winter morning, Mike and I took the longer trail.

The drizzle had turned the dirt to slick mud, and visibility was near zero.

As we rounded a corner, the fog lifted just enough to reveal the surf: clean, overhead lines marching toward shore like rows of corduroy.

I had class that morning.

But every part of me wanted to be in that water.

I started running. Jumping from one muddy wooden step to the next, board under my arm. As I landed on a slick patch, my feet went out from under me. My board slammed into the steps, and two of the fins snapped off.

Mike looked down at me, shrugged, and said, "Well... that sucks," before trotting down to the trail.

I sat there, stunned. Watching the fog part, the waves peel, and the board in my lap become useless. It felt like punishment for urgency. Or maybe just a lesson in surrender.

That morning on the stairs stayed with me. The broken board, the perfect waves just out of reach—it felt like a warning I didn’t yet know how to read. A lesson in surrender.

But I didn’t slow down.

I sped up.

Between surfing and the freedom of independent living, academics began to fade. Mike got a girlfriend. I drifted. Not on purpose. Just slowly, like something loosening its grip. I didn’t change majors right away. But something in me had already started to give up.

I met Sawyer during my first week at UCSD. We had dorm rooms in the same ten-person suite and immediately clicked.

Late nights, pot, beer, and exploring the city in his brand new, jet-black sports car.

The engine screamed.

We were nocturnal. Cafeteria by noon was a win. Attending class was optional.

By sophomore year, computer science had lost its shine. The core classes repeated what I’d already learned in high school. The advanced ones—calculus, organic chemistry—required a kind of sober discipline I didn’t yet have.

I looked around at the other students. Many from cultures that valued discipline, structure, precision. They studied every day. They didn’t seem to be crushed by their own minds. I felt like I couldn’t keep up while living the life I wanted. So I stopped trying.

I swapped science for art.

It wasn’t a strategy. It was a soft landing.

I had always loved creating things. In high school: drawing, ceramics, miniature models. As a kid, I’d lose myself in tiny painted figurines for hours. Making things felt like a portal—a way out, or maybe a way in.

At UCSD, I took a modern art history course. It turned out some of the artists we studied were faculty. The art department was prestigious. Prestigious enough to seduce me out of my ambition.

And so I skated. Took studio classes. Wrote thoughtful essays. Realized that most students only revised their papers once. I revised mine three times. That small extra effort often put me at the top of the class.

One semester, I got an A in a class without ever meeting the professor. I didn’t go to a single lecture.

I wasn’t learning how to learn. I was learning how to get by. And I was proud of that. Max return, minimum effort. It became a kind of art in itself.

Outside class, the experimentation deepened.

What started with weed and beer grew into mushrooms, MDMA, even meth. Not as addiction. Just experience. Meth for finals. Cocaine like candy. But psychedelics—mushrooms and LSD—those were different. Those felt like keys.

San Diego offered the perfect stage. Balboa Park’s Spanish Colonial buildings. The El Prado promenade. Gothic architecture wrapped in fog. And the Desert Garden—a surreal patchwork of succulents and sand paths, tucked behind the rose garden like a secret.

That’s where Sawyer and I would go, late at night, under the moon. High on mushrooms, wandering for hours. The cacti looked like they were breathing. The eucalyptus groves sang. It felt like we were inside a dream, or maybe dreaming the world ourselves.

One night, after eating far more mushrooms than planned, we found ourselves watching the sunrise at Pacific Beach. Waiting for the sun to rise over the ocean. It took us a while to remember it rises in the east.

We laughed. Sat on the retaining wall, legs dangling. Quiet. Faded.

When we got back to Sawyer’s place, I laid down on the crusty carpet of his apartment floor. Pizza boxes nearby. Sunlight stabbing through the curtain.

“Do you ever feel like there’s a hole inside you that you can’t fill?” I asked him.

He looked at me, confused, and wandered off.

I closed my eyes. And the darkness swept through me.

Rushing to fill the gaping hole that had never gone away.

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