沉默寡言的人是最好的人。——莎士比亚，亨利五世
我现在寻求平静，在后半生说的话要比前半生少得多。我希望，我可爱的、爱说话的孩子们现在能有效地学习柔和的口语，免得我浪费了数百万个单词。在我冲浪的地方(当我不在迈阿密的时候)，总能听到一个人的声音凌驾于其他人之上，武断地向世界灌输他的思想。我们会大声叫他的。他是一个熟练的冲浪运动员，他可以是愉快的和合群的。然而，我对大声的一般问候是一个沉默的，中性的点头，因为大声也斥责那些他认为在某种程度上损害了他对海浪的享受。他毫不犹豫地用“红色代码”的声音枪回击他们。Cleary，如果海洋里(或任何地方)的其他人被迫听到你的私人谈话，那你就错了。最近的一个早晨，洪亮不断升高的高音再次嘲笑我们的专注和海洋对人类沉默的默认。然而，这一次，是我拿着大声的来复枪对着他。显然，是我的错误让他失去了信心。但即使有，我们每天都在这里。我的错，下一个是你的，朋友!但没有，我的声音很响，眼睛像着火一样，像一个被揍了一顿的醉汉一样尖叫，抱怨我的性格和缺乏礼仪。“你为什么大喊大叫?””我问。“我不是大喊大叫!”他大声说。“冷!“我敦促。他的音量只升了一点，我与其说是觉得冒犯了他，不如说是为他感到难过。我划着桨走开了，想起了那句格言:“永远不要和猪摔跤，因为你俩身上都沾满了泔水……而猪喜欢这样。”第二天我在重置机器的时候在水里撞了他，因为我不相信大声是个坏人。我曾看到他向水中的孩子们，包括我的孩子们，传授善良和冲浪技巧。事情回到了基线，他的分贝水平是我们都忍受的背景。然后上周，在一次会议结束后，我走回停车场，发现他的卡车就停在我的旁边，正在大声擦干身上的衣服。我收起我的冲浪板，把我那鲁莽的护板拉过我的头顶，当我从板上拧出海水时，我问道:“你从哪里来，大声?”他告诉我他早年的生活，在国外长大，和妻子住在加利福尼亚和中美洲。我用毛巾包住腰，问他有没有孩子。顷刻之间，他的脸像一个特写镜头的波浪一样塌了下来。这个喧闹的男人随后轻声地说，他和我分享他是多么想要孩子，但他们却不能。他们现在正在考虑收养孩子，并希望开办一所儿童冲浪学校。我清楚地记得我们自己在生养孩子方面的困难。绝望。在那个尘土飞扬的停车场里，我开始与这个复杂的男人产生了共鸣。那天晚些时候，我把Loud的故事告诉了我的孩子们，并解释说，当我的热情占据了上风时，我也倾向于大声讲述我生活中的许多事情。“小声点，”我已经被告知很多次了。我想让我的孩子们看到，人们很少像他们表现出来的那样，并问他们:我们凭什么评判?第二天我又看见了，第二天也看见了，因为我们是海洋的兄弟。但现在，当我听到他洪亮的声音，无论是开玩笑还是尖叫，我真正听到的是他对生活不公平的喉音反应。他怒吼着，以反击他渴望已久的孩子的沉默。在冲浪板上，当冲浪者打断他唯一的心流状态时，他会把愤怒转向冲浪者。我看到你了，大声。我希望你能再安静一点;至少体积小一点。但现在我能感觉到你灵魂深处汹涌的波浪下隐藏着什么。后记:在写完上面的文章后不久，我就看到了一个很吵的声音。从他的一个朋友那里偷了一个波浪，继续骑着波浪，他的朋友骑在他的后面，大声地叫着跳下去，这是标准的礼节。不仅Loud继续乘风破浪，破坏了他朋友的体验，而且他还回到了那个被他冤枉的人身边，对着他大喊大叫，最后他从冲浪板上下来，和他温和的伙伴开始了一场打斗。这是最糟糕的情况，它使我相信，尽管他有正当的痛苦，有些人还是避开比较好。这也是我和我的孩子们分享的，这让我看到了人际关系是多么的混乱和非线性。希望他们能听到我的声音，响亮而清晰。
Men of few words are the best men.” – William Shakespeare, Henry V.
I now seek tranquility and will say far fewer words in the second half of my life than I did in the first. Hopefully, my lovely, loquacious children learn the efficiency of soft spoken language now, to spare them the millions of words I’ve wasted.
Where I surf (when not in Miami), the voice of one man can always be heard above the rest, pontificating and force-feeding his thoughts to the world. We’ll call him Loud. A skilled and balletic surfer, he can be pleasant and gregarious. However, my general greeting to Loud is a silent, neutral nod because Loud also berates those he deems to have somehow compromised his enjoyment of the waves. He rarely hesitates to paddle back at them with code red vocal guns blazing. Cleary, if others in the ocean (or anywhere) are forced to hear your private conversations, you’re doing it wrong.
On a recent morning, Loud’s ever-rising tenor once again mocked our concentration and the sea’s unspoken default to human silence. This time, however, I was the one at whom Loud’s rifles were pointed. Apparently, my error had blown his wave. But even if it had, we’re here every day. My bad, next one’s yours, amigo! But nope, Loud came hard, eyes aflame, screaming like a sucker-punched drunk about my character and lack of etiquette.
“Why are you yelling?” I asked.
“I’m not yelling!” he yelled.
“Chill!” I urged.
His volume only rose, and I felt more sorry for him than offended, as I paddled away, remembering the adage, “Never wrestle with a pig because you both get covered in slop…and the pig likes it.”
I fist-bumped him in the water the following day to reset the machinery because I don’t believe Loud is a bad man. I’ve watched him bestow kindnesses and surf tips to children in the water, mine included. Things returned to their baseline with his decibel level a backdrop we all endured. Then last week, walking back to the parking lot after a session, I found Loud drying off at his truck, parked right next to mine.
I stowed my board, pulled my rash guard over my head, and as I wrung seawater from it, asked, “Where you from, Loud?” He told me of his earlier life, growing up abroad, living in California and Central America with his wife.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I asked if he had kids. Instantly, his face collapsed like a closeout wave. This boisterous man then spoke softly, as he shared with me how badly he wanted children, yet they couldn’t. They were now looking into adoption and hoped to start a children’s surf school.
I remembered so vividly our own difficulties having children. The hopelessness. In that dusty parking lot, I began to relate to this complex man. Later that day, I shared Loud’s story with my children and explained how I, too, was prone to speak loudly much of my life, when my enthusiasm got the best of me. “Keep it down,” I’d been told many times. I wanted my boys to see that people are rarely as they appear, and to ask, who are we to judge?
I saw Loud again the following day, and the next, because we are brothers of the ocean. But now, when I catch his booming voice, whether joking or screaming, what I really hear is his guttural response to the unfairness of life. He bellows to counter the silence of his wished-for child. Redirects his frustrating rage at surfers who interrupt his only flow state, on his board. I see you, Loud. I’d appreciate a bit more silence from you; at least, a bit less volume. But now I feel what lies beneath the surface of the turbulent waves within your soul.
Epilogue: Not long after writing the above, I watched Loud drop in on (i.e., steal) a wave from a friend of his and proceed to ride the wave with his friend riding just behind and hooting for Loud to jump off, standard etiquette. Not only did Loud continue to ride the wave, ruining his friend’s experience, but he then paddled back to the man he wronged and screamed at him, eventually dismounting his board and starting a physical fight with his mild-mannered buddy.
It was the worst of Loud at the extreme, and it made me believe, notwithstanding his legitimate pain, that some folks are simply better to be avoided. This too I shared with my kids, a glimpse at how confusing and nonlinear human connection can be. Hopefully, they heard me, loud and clear.
