Magic Seaveed the Wall In a dimension parallel to ours, magic was the essence that bound the universe together. It flowed through every living being and object, connecting them in ways unimaginable. However, there was a great wall that separated our world from this magical realm. For centuries, scholars, mages, and adventurers had tried to breach the wall, eager to uncover the mysteries on the other side. Many believed that unimaginable power and knowledge awaited them beyond the barrier. But their efforts were in vain, as the wall remained impenetrable.
The Falcon was the same car in which my dad had taught my mom to drive, the station wagon, three-speed manual transmission. This was the car she used to drive her two boys to swimming lessons, and church, and to my appointments with a string of different doctors; and to the beach; surf mats and Styrofoam surfies and whining Freddy, maybe an annoying friend of his. The factory installed (optional upgrade) roof racks were now pretty much rusted in place.
This was the car she used to drive her two boys to swimming lessons, and church, and to my appointments with a string of different doctors; and to the beach; surf mats and Styrofoam surfies and whining Freddy, maybe an annoying friend of his. A predicted swell, this gleaned from other surfers and pressure charts in the Marine Weather section of the newspaper, hadn t materialized, and a south wind was blowing.
But their efforts were in vain, as the wall remained impenetrable. Legends spoke of magical artifacts, hidden spells, and secret rituals that could grant access to the other side. But no one had ever successfully harnessed the power needed to cross the wall.
Is Seaweed Actually Magical? And…
…and another “SWAMIS” cutback. FIRST, here on the Olympic Peninsula, buoys, designed to help ships not sink or crash, somewhat helpful for surfers trying to determine if some portion of some swell might find its way into the Strait, have been ripped from their anchors, set adrift, lost, found, or, we don’t really know, put out of service. Putin? One theory. None of the downed or drowned bouys have been put back into service.
SO, surfers in, say, Seattle, have been relying on surf forecast sites before making a decision as to whether to invest the increasing amount of gas money, wait in line at ferries, face traffic slowdowns if ‘driving around.’ NOW, it must be mentioned that there are always waves of some sort or shape or size on the actual PACIFIC COAST. Almost always. AND the most characteristic condition on the Strait is flat. Flat with east wind, flat with north wind, flat with south wind, flat and somehow blown out with west wind.
STILL, surfers get desperate. So, trying my best to glean something positive from whatever sources I could, I went up Surf Route 101, looking. I wasn’t alone. More to not get skunked than to satisfy my surf lust, I ventured into calf-high curlers, my fin popping across rocks. PERHAPS BECAUSE I had paddled out, three more adventurers joined me. PERHAPS BECAUSE they had believed some forecast site, I passed many surf rigs on my way back down Surf Route 101. NOT ONLY THAT, but a friend of mine texted me, asking if I had scored bombs. AFTER ALL, Magic Seaweed was saying…
NOW, maybe it got awesome. Somewhere, for some brief period. MAYBE. YES, I did look at various forecasts. Not looking good for the Strait. Depressing. I must now upgrade my most recent session to “Pretty good. Didn’t break a fin.” Again, there are always waves on the actual ocean.
The rocks at Swamis, someone dropping in on someone. Taken from some hotel brochure.
MEANWHILE, I am trying to find some time to continue cutting my manuscript for “Swamis” down to a reasonable and, hopefully, saleable length. Tightening it up. I am up to the days after Chulo is beaten and set alight next to the wall of the SRF compound. This is a (copyrighted) version from the second completed draft. I might mention that, if you have any experience surfing on the west coast, you know (a snippet of a quote from Miki Dora about Malibu) “The south wind blows no good.”
CHAPTER 14- SATURDAY, MARCH 22, 1969
Three full days after Chulo’s murder, the burn-scarred section of the wall was back to white, visibly white even in the minimal pre-dawn light. I wasn’t sure if I had actually slept. I got out of bed at four, got to Swamis early enough to park the Falcon in the choicest location; front row, ten spots from the stairs; the optimal view of the lineup.
The Falcon was the same car in which my dad had taught my mom to drive, the station wagon, three-speed manual transmission. This was the car she used to drive her two boys to swimming lessons, and church, and to my appointments with a string of different doctors; and to the beach; surf mats and Styrofoam surfies and whining Freddy, maybe an annoying friend of his. The factory installed (optional upgrade) roof racks were now pretty much rusted in place.
The difference was the Falcon was now my car. A surfer’s surf wagon. Hawaiian print curtains hung on wires, a “Surfer Magazine” decal on the back driver’s side window, a persistent smell of mildew. Beach smell. With my boards now shorter, I usually kept them inside, non-hodad-like, but, for several of the reasons a hodad would do it, I kept the nine-six pintail on the roof for a while longer. “Just in case the waves are really small,” might have been one excuse.
A predicted swell, this gleaned from other surfers and pressure charts in the Marine Weather section of the newspaper, hadn’t materialized, and a south wind was blowing. Cars with surfboards were passing each other up and down 101. Surfers were hanging out in parking lots and on bluffs and beaches, talking surf, watching the few surfers out at any spot bobbing in the side chop. Maybe it would clean up, maybe it would actually get bigger. And better.
I would wait. Waiting is as important a part of surfing as trying to be the first one out or paddling out before the best conditions hit. Just before. My shift at my weekend-only, for-now, job didn’t start until ten-thirty; about the time the onshores typically get going. Different with a south wind. Sometimes it would clean up as some weak front moved inland or simply fizzled. Sometimes.
If I went out at nine, I could get a good forty-five minutes of surfing; maybe ten waves or more. I had my notebook, college-ruled; I had the four and eight track tape player under the passenger’s side of the seat; a collection of bargain tapes purchased at the Fallbrook Buy and Save; and I could do what I always did, study. My father’s billy clubs sized flashlight, four new d batteries, provided the lighting.
Read, recite, memorize, reread. That was my system. Less important details fall off with each attempt to memorize. The facts and details best remembered, by my logic, would most likely be the ones on the tests. Any quirky anecdotes, something that amused me; yes, I remembered those, too. I had another system for multiple choice tests and standardized tests. Two of the four choices were obviously incorrect, fifty-fifty chance on the others. Best guest. The system worked surprisingly well, well enough that California’s supposed Ivy League university accepted me.
My father hadn’t understood why I couldn’t go there.
I was a faker, kid with a system; it never would have worked; not in that bigger pond, every student top of some class somewhere.
No studying on this morning. I had to sneak over to the crime scene, the wall that surrounds the Self-Realization Fellowship compound. There was (and is) a wrought-iron gate in the higher, arched (former) entrance, around the corner, facing 101. As with the other breakpoints in the wall, that section is topped with the huge gold sculptures, each one representing a blooming flower. Lotus blossom. They could as easily represent a flame, not dissimilar to the one on the statue of liberty, not dissimilar to the burn marks on the wall my friends had described.
The SRF compound is a place where people, on their own, go seeking enlightenment, a realization of the true self. Seekers, seeking.
At about seven-fifteen I did walk over. Had to. I expected more. I expected some instant and obvious explanation. There was a man by the wall, wheel-barrowing soil from a pile near the highway to the wall, raking it in. I had seen him before. Dark skinned. East Indian, I presumed. He was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, white, with faded blue workman’s pants, rubber boots, and heavy leather gloves. Most of his face (and I knew he had a beard) was covered in what appeared to be an overlarge (plain cloth) bandana, a standard bandana (red) around his nose and mouth, and a tropical straw hat (quite different from the cowboy style Mexican farmers and landscape workers preferred). He dropped the new soil around newly planted but full-sized plants.
There was no evidence that something horrific had occurred. The new paint blended perfectly. The plants looked… it all looked exactly the same as it always had; as it did even in the late 1950s, before I surfed, when my father took us there just so my mother could see the gardens.
If I blinked, I thought, it might be like taking a picture. I might remember details. I might remember better. Image. Catalog. File.
I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being. Your soul and my soul once sat together in the Beloved's womb playing footsie. Your heart and my heart are very, very old friends.
It seemed as though the wall was safeguarded by the very magic it held back. As time passed, the wall became a symbol of both fascination and frustration. Some viewed it as a metaphorical representation of the limitations of human understanding, while others saw it as a force that must be conquered. Regardless of one's interpretation, the wall remained an enigma. Then, a group of brave explorers embarked on a perilous journey to unravel the secrets of the wall. They were determined to find a way to cross, to see firsthand what lay beyond. They believed that their continued efforts would eventually reveal the truth. Months turned into years, and still, they persisted. They delved into ancient texts, sought council with mystical beings, and experimented with powerful incantations. Finally, their dedication began to pay off. Through a combination of ingenuity, unwavering determination, and a touch of luck, they discovered a forgotten incantation that unlocked the wall's defenses. As they recited the words, a surge of energy pulsated through the air, creating a rift in reality. The wall trembled, cracked, and ultimately dissipated. What lay beyond was beyond imagination. Colors more vibrant than anything seen before, creatures that defied imagination, and landscapes that defied the laws of physics. The explorers were in awe of the magical realm they had uncovered. However, they soon realized that their newfound discovery came with a price. The magic that flowed freely here was rich and volatile. It tested their survival skills and challenged their ability to comprehend its intricacies. It was a realm of beauty and chaos, where danger lurked behind every corner. But despite the challenges, the explorers relished in their triumph. They celebrated the breakthrough, understanding that they had forever altered the course of history. Their names would be etched in the annals of discovery, forever associated with the liberation of the magical realm. The wall was no longer just a barrier; it was a symbol of human perseverance and the unyielding pursuit of knowledge. It reminded us that sometimes, the greatest rewards lie on the other side of our limitations. And while magic seaved the wall, it was the relentless spirit that crumbled it, revealing a world of wonder and enchantment to all who dared to dream..
Reviews for "Unearthing the lost rituals that activate the magic seaveed wall"
1. John Smith - 1/5 stars - I found "Magic Seaveed the Wall" to be incredibly disappointing. The plot was incredibly confusing and poorly explained, leaving me feeling lost and uninterested in what was happening. The characters were also lacking depth and development, making it difficult for me to connect with any of them. Overall, I was left feeling unsatisfied and regretful of my decision to read this book.
2. Emily Johnson - 2/5 stars - "Magic Seaveed the Wall" had an interesting premise, but it failed to deliver. The writing was clunky and filled with unnecessary details, making it difficult to follow the story. The pacing was also off, with moments of intense action followed by long stretches of tedious dialogue. I found the characters to be bland and forgettable, and the overall execution of the plot left much to be desired. Unfortunately, this book just didn't live up to my expectations.
3. Sarah Thompson - 2/5 stars - I had high hopes for "Magic Seaveed the Wall," but it fell flat for me. The world-building was confusing and disjointed, with no clear rules or explanations for the magic system. The dialogue was stilted and unrealistic, making it difficult to believe in the interactions between the characters. Additionally, the plot seemed to drag on without any clear direction, causing me to lose interest as the story unfolded. Overall, I was disappointed by this book and wouldn't recommend it to others.
4. Michael Davis - 1/5 stars - "Magic Seaveed the Wall" was a complete waste of my time. The writing was poorly edited, filled with grammatical errors and repetitive phrases. The characters lacked depth and the dialogue felt forced and unnatural. The plot was predictable and unoriginal, with no surprises or twists. I struggled to stay engaged with the story and ultimately regretted picking up this book. Save yourself the trouble and choose something else to read.