10. Søren the Seal

Søren lived in San Francisco bay. He was a young seal, a seal pup in fact. But his fur was no longer white and soft as it had been when he was born. No, it was sleek and black and the water just dripped off it so Søren never felt wet or cold.

There were many other seals in the bay and lots of them secretly wanted a coat as sleek and shiny as Søren’s. But Søren himself never really thought about the way he looked. The one thing he was proud of was his name, Søren. It was a very rare name. He had inherited it from his grandfather. Søren’s grandfather was a great Danish seal who had swum all the way to San Francisco from Copenhagen a long time ago. He had to dodge the ice bergs in the arctic circle and escape from the Polar bears in the Bering straights.

Søren was very proud of his name. He knew that it was very unusual to have a line through the ‘o’. Also, he was very proud of the bravery of his grandfather. But the seals in the bay did not see things the way Søren did. ‘Why did your grandfather have to swim all the way here?’ they asked. ‘What a waste of energy. Just think of how many disgusting fish he would have had to eat along the way. Such a profligate use of resources.’

And that was another thing: all the seals in San Francisco bay were Californian seals. None of them ate fish. They only ate seaweed. But Søren hated seaweed, and he loved good Danish herring. Unfortunately, being a seal, he only had flippers and no hands, and so he could never brush his teeth.

‘Go away Søren, your teeth are totally gross,’ said the Californian seals whenever Søren wanted to lie down amongst them on the pier.

‘What terrible fish breath,’ said the tourists on Fisherman’s Wharf who came to photograph the seals as they were sunning themselves.

One day the Chief Sea Lion summoned Søren. He was very good at yoga and he liked to show off his flexibility to the tourists. ‘Really Søren,’ he said, ‘this has gone far enough. Either you change your diet, or you go elsewhere.’

‘Seaweed makes me feel sick,’ said Søren. ‘Please let me stay here. I don’t have anywhere else to go.’

‘Your bad teeth and fishy breath are giving us all a bad name,’ replied the Chief Sea Lion as he struck another pose for the tourists. ‘You are not wanted here.’

‘But I don’t have anywhere else to go,’ repeated Søren.

‘That is not my problem,’ said the Chief Sea Lion, lowering his bulk into yet another sun salutation. The tourists’ cameras flashed.

Søren slipped off the pier and poured himself into the water like smooth black oil. He was very sad.

Søren swam slowly towards the Golden Gate Bridge which spans the entrance to the bay. As he passed under the bridge he turned round to look for one last time at the beautiful bay and the skyline of San Francisco and the happy seals sunning themselves on Fisherman’s Wharf. A salty tear hung for a moment on the end of his droopy whiskers before being swallowed up by the salty ocean.





Søren turned back round and was about to strike out for the distant blue horizon when something on the bridge caught his eye. He had to squint in order to make out the figure on the side of the bridge. Søren saw a girl in a bright red pompom hat. She seemed to be tearing up a sheet of paper. Though she was a long way away, Søren thought she looked very sad. When she had torn up all the paper she threw the pieces into the wind. Then she closed her eyes, raised her face to the sky and lifted her arms.

‘Oh no,’ thought Søren, ‘she’s going to jump!’ Like all the seals in the bay, Søren knew that people sometimes jumped off the bridge into the sea when they were very unhappy.

‘I must try to stop her,’ he thought. So he swum as quickly as he could into the middle of the channel, right underneath the girl. Then he leapt out of the water and did a somersault and a back flip and all sorts of other tricks. He smiled and giggled and chuckled and laughed and made it look like he was having the time of his life. It was not easy because inside he still felt sad.

The girl heard Søren splashing in the water underneath her and she opened her eyes. She watched for a while and Søren jumped even higher and twisted and turned even more acrobatically in the air. Then, finally, the girl smiled. Søren waved his flipper at her and she waved back at him. Then she climbed back over the side of the bridge and was gone.

*

Søren was exhausted. Nevertheless, he felt he had done a good thing. He pointed his nose out to sea and began to swim. His heart felt lighter than before.

Søren swam throughout the rest of that day, and through the night, and through the next day. He didn’t know where he was going but, like his grandfather, he decided to trust his luck. By daybreak on the third day he was very tired indeed. He thought about sleeping for a while but he knew that if he slept the sharks could creep up on him unawares. Nevertheless, he felt his eyelids closing. He tried to fight the tiredness but eventually it was too much for him and he let his eyes stay closed. He was on the verge of dropping off to sleep when he heard a voice:

‘Oi, mate, I wouldn’t kip ‘ere. The sharks'll 'ave ya.’

Søren opened his eyes and saw a disheveled man sitting on a surf board with a broken kite in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

‘Um, yes, thank you,’ said Søren. ‘It’s just that I’m very tired and I don’t know where I’m going. But what are you doing here?’

‘Got blown off course didn’t I,’ said the man, rubbing his big hairy tummy. ‘Went out kite surfing and a sudden gale swept me away. Took me right up above the clouds. Quite a rush, I can tell you. I was up there a long time and the wind just got stronger and stronger until eventually it tore the kite, then I dropped back down. I’ve been here for three days now. No wind you see.’ The man paused to relight his cigarette. ‘So what’s your business out here?’ he asked Søren.

‘Well, I’m actually a bit lost,’ admitted Søren. ‘The chief Sea Lion told me to leave San Francisco, so I decided to swim out to sea until I found a new place to live. I haven’t seen anything yet though.’

‘There’s no land anywhere near here, I can tell you. I’ve seen it all from the sky. But why did you have to leave San Francisco?’

Søren felt himself blushing underneath his sleek black fur. If the man hadn’t noticed his oral hygiene problems, maybe he shouldn’t mention them? But then he reminded himself that it is always best to tell the truth. ‘Well,’ began Søren, ‘the Chief Sea Lion said that my teeth are in poor condition and that my breath smells. But that’s only because I like eating fish.’

Søren was cut off by the man’s raucous laughter - he had thrown his head back and was guffawing at the sky. His hairy tummy bounced up and down over his swimming trunks.

‘Oh that’s a good one,’ he said, when eventually he had stopped laughing. ‘Well my friend, you should come to England. Everyone has bad teeth and smelly breath there, and no one thinks anything of it.’ The man rubbed his tummy once more.

‘Really?’ asked Søren tentatively. ‘How do you know?’

‘I know because I am from England,’ said the man. He smiled and Søren saw that he really had very bad teeth indeed.

‘But where is England?’ asked Søren.

‘It’s a long way from here, that’s for sure,’ said the man. ‘I can use the stars to get me there but the problem is that with a broken kite and without any wind, I’ll never make it.’

Søren thought for a moment. ‘Couldn’t I pull you?’ he asked the man.

‘It’s a very long way and there won’t be much to eat,’ replied the man, ‘but I like the idea. Do you think you’re strong enough?’

‘I think so,’ said Søren. ‘My grandfather swam all the way from Denmark to San Francisco through the arctic circle. I think I can swim back.’

‘Well, we can use the Panama Canal now,’ said the man. ‘If you are willing to give it a go, I certainly am.’

So Søren took the kite in his mouth and started pulling the man along behind him. Occasionally the man shouted out directions. They traveled mostly by night so that the man could navigate by the stars. Fortunately they came across a huge school of herring along the way, so Søren was able to sate his hunger.

*

Søren and the man journeyed for many days. They passed through tremendous storms and huge rolling swells which made even Søren feel seasick. They swum between the towering walls on either side of the Panama Canal and were lucky to avoid being run down by one of the enormous oil tankers. In the windless Sargasso Sea, Søren had to battle his way through endless seaweed and through the nests of eels who make their home there. When they met the Gulf Stream, Søren's companion was badly stung by the trailing tentacle of a Portuguese Man of War. Søren had to pee on the livid weals; disgusting as it may sound, according to many people that is the best thing to do.

For a number of days they were able to float along with the current of the Gulf Stream. However, there were no more herring and Søren soon felt very weak. But just as he thought that he would not be able to swim much further, he noticed that the sea seemed to be changing colour. It was no longer the deep blue of the mid-Atlantic; the water was a bit greener and a bit greyer. ‘It’s not far now, I can feel it in my bones,’ said the man. And he was right. Shortly after sunrise Søren caught his first glimpse of England’s cliffs rising proudly above the waves.

Søren dragged himself and his companion ashore at Land’s End. They were both exhausted. However, Søren soon found himself surrounded by a crowd of beautiful Cornish seals.

‘Where are you from?’ asked one of the young seals. She was snaggletoothed but Søren thought she was the prettiest seal he had ever seen.

‘San Francisco,’ said Søren.

‘That can’t be true. He must be lying. No one could swim all the way from San Francisco,’ said one of the cynical older seals.

‘I think it might be true,’ said the pretty young seal. ‘He can’t possibly be an English seal. Just look how fine his teeth are.’

When he heard that, Søren's heart leapt. He staggered over to his friend the kite-surfer and embraced him. Then he lay down to rest. That evening he told his story to an assembly of all the Cornish seals, but he didn’t say anything about bad teeth or smelly breath because he didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.

Søren settled in the small, sheltered cove beside the cliffs at Land’s End. He married the pretty, snaggletoothed seal who had spoken to him when he first dragged himself ashore. On windy days he still goes out swimming and sometimes he bumps into his friend the kite-surfer, and then they talk about their great adventure together.

9. Strange Things

Quite a number of strange things have happened to me recently.

For my most recent assignment I chose to investigate sex addiction. I went to a couple of meetings of Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous – S.L.A.A. The open meetings take place at 7.30 in the morning, in the Mission district. A inconspicuous red door opens and self-confessed sex addicts start to arrive – quite possibly a number of them stop off during the matutinal walk of shame.

Once everyone is gathered around the table, the leader of the group reads out the 12 steps on which S.L.A.A. is founded (it is based on the Alcoholics Anonymous model). I was surprised by the spiritual nature of these 12 steps – at least 6 of them make direct reference to ‘a power greater than ourselves’ termed God. However, it is entirely non-denominational. Thereafter an egg timer is passed around and addicts introduce themselves and air whatever concerns they have for 3 minutes. They will say something like: ‘Hi, my name is Brad, I am a sex and love addict and I have not used pornography for a month.’ Brad’s introduction will be greeted with a volley of ‘Hi Brad’, a pattern which is repeated – somewhat disconcertingly – every time Brad speaks.

The main problem to emerge was the unhealthy nature of relationships. From the male point of view, both gay and straight, relationships often appeared to be variations on the Madonna – Whore complex. A number of sex addicts said that the men and women they were sexually attracted to were not ones they could ever conceive of having a normal, healthy relationship with. And they were not sexually attracted to those people they could have healthy relationships with – ie their partners or spouses. This was a big theme.

After the first meeting I asked the group leader why pornography was deemed such a problem. Personally I would have thought that pornography would be beneficial – a harmless way of temporarily exhausting sexual desire and hence avoiding destructive relationships. However, the group leader explained that addicts might go online at night and watch pornography solidly for 12 hours. Often they would masturbate to the point of self harm. That is the compulsive aspect of addiction.

As I was leaving the second meeting, a gay sex addict slipped me a piece of paper with his name and number on it. His name? Randy. I promise.


I have a Spanish friend staying with me. Last Friday we drove to Napa and went to do a wine-tasting at the Joseph Phelps vineyard. One of the ‘wine educators’ was a friendly silver-haired gentleman. He spoke some Catalan though he was himself Swiss. I told him that I had booked dinner that evening in a Swiss fondue restaurant in San Francisco called ‘The Matterhorn’. He asked me to pass on his regards to the Swiss owners, friends of his. Then he asked me where I was from. When I told him my name he proceeded to lecture me on my family history. Impressive people, wine educators.

That evening we ate at the fondue restaurant, then went on to a small bar called ‘Black Magic Voodoo Lounge’. I was standing outside when I thought I recognized a tall man in his forties. He had a German accent. I asked him if we had met before; he said no. Then I remembered having spoken to him in a lift descending from the Top of the Mark hotel, 9 months previously (when I was in San Francisco over Easter). I had briefly spoken to him on that occasion because of his accent, and because he reminded me of a friend of my father’s. When I told him about our first meeting he did recall it. Then he introduced himself: his name was Claus, and he was originally from Salzburg.

At this point a punk rocker standing next to us joined the conversation. He had a slight accent too. When I asked him about it he said he was originally from Germany but had been living in Brixton, near the Windmill, for the last 6 years.

I promise that I have relayed this with absolute fidelity. It is extraordinary.

We drank quite heavily that night, on my part to still the sense that I was in my own private Truman Show.

On the morning my Spanish friend had to leave, we went for an early morning swim in the bay, just as the fog was beginning to lift. The water was cold and we spent a while warming up in the sauna afterwards. There we met another German. He was a baker (no ‘n’) in the Richmond district, and an authority on Heidegger.

At a Schnapps and vodka tasting in the St.Geroge's distillery a few weeks ago, I met a charming Brazilian confectioner who has set up her own artisanal confectionary business - www.kikastreats.com She invited me to the inaugural International Body Music Festival - www.crosspulse.com - where a Brazilian troupe was due to perform. Body Music is essentially a form of physical percussion – making music using different parts of the body. It combines tap dance, singing, beat-box, slapping, clapping and using the mouth as a sort of human drum. What I saw at this festival fairly blew my mind.

The first performance was by two very beautiful Inuit Eskimo girls. They stood pressed together in the middle of the stage, holding each others hips and giggling girlishly. Both wore jeans and tight t-shirts and bright red boots. I was half expecting some Sapphic nose-rubbing when the most bizarre noises began to fill the auditorium – reminiscent of didgeridoos and tropical frog ponds. The program says:

From Northern Canada, these cousins perform the ancient art of Inuit throat-singing (katatjaq). Two women stand close together, using each others mouths as resonators, producing guttural vocal sounds through voice manipulation and breathing techniques, often ending in laughter.

The next perfomers were Oakland’s Slammin All-Body Band, led by the festival organizer, Keith Terry. Again using no more than their own bodies, they produced a Jazz/Funk symphony replete with haunting saxophone sounds. Beats were achieved by foot work and body slapping which was reminiscent of Austrian Schuplattler.

However, the Brazilian troupe truly stole the show. I had not thought it possible for them to be any more inventive than their precursors, but they were. What is more, they were led by the most extraordinary individual I have possibly ever seen. He was short, fat and ugly with huge lips and squashed nose, and a bizarre tonsure of unruly orange hair. He strutted onto the stage in pink trousers that were much too short even for his stumpy legs. He looked for all the world as if he had just wandered in off the streets. He made his way through the sylph-like dancers to the microphone. He began to make a few noises which sounded initially like farts and belches – he smiled leeringly at this – but soon the noises became lower and deeper until the auditorium reverberated with bass sounds so deep they made your body shake. Then he seized the microphone and stomped up and down spitting and rapping in Brazilian. He was phenomenal, better than anyone I have ever heard.

Later I realized that he was the incarnation of Silenus –

The Silenoi (Σειληνοί) were followers of Dionysus. They were drunks, and were usually bald and fat with thick lips and squat noses, and had the legs of a human. Later, the plural "silenoi" went out of use and the only references were to one individual named Silenus, the teacher and faithful companion of the wine-god Dionysus. A notorious consumer of wine, he was usually drunk and had to be supported by satyrs or carried by a donkey. Silenus was described as the oldest, wisest and most drunken of the followers of Dionysus, and was said in Orphic hymns to be the young god's tutor. This puts him in a company of phallic or half-animal tutors of the gods.
(from Wikipedia)

The Brazilian band is called Barbatuques. This does not do him justice, but watch Silenus here -

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_E0EJLRkysM