Dreams Are Truthful Manifestations: Life, Death, and Despair at Waimea Bay
by Andy St. Onge
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Introduction by Peter Maguire
Recently, there has been a spate of well-written books about surfing in which heroic “I, me, and me” narrators tell long-winded tales of daring do. Unbacked by photographic evidence, or even credible eyewitness testimony, they are the modern versions of the “Fish Tale.” Andy St Onge’s essay, “Dreams Are Truthful Manifestations: Life, Death, and Despair at Waimea Bay,” is quite the opposite. I hope you enjoy it.
Dreams Are Truthful Manifestations: Life, Death, and Despair at Waimea Bay
By Andy St. Onge
Meditation on inevitable death should be performed daily. Every day when one’s body and mind are at peace, one should meditate upon being ripped apart by arrows, rifles, spears and swords, being carried away by giant surging waves, being thrown into the midst of great fire, being struck by lightning, being shaken to death by a great earthquake, falling from thousand-foot cliffs, dying of disease or committing seppuku at the death of one’s master.
—Hagakure Kikigak: The Secret Wisdom of the Samurai (1716) 葉隠聞書
According to the Hagakure “dreams are truthful manifestations.” Based on my personal experience, I believe that this observation is true. For decades I have had lucid dreams about catching the ultimate big, blue wave, coming close to death, but then bracing myself with courage, calm determination, and overcoming whatever obstacles I faced.
The events in this story occurred sixteen years ago and were the manifestation of dreams that foretold a series of events which only took seconds to unfold, but decades to fathom. It was a glorious winter day and the surf was pumping. Light east winds and a 20’ plus swell on Super Bowl Sunday. The only thing that matters to me about “the game” is that means that most surfers on the North Shore will be drinking beer in front of a television and not surfing. Fine by me, over the decades I have surfed many epic, uncrowded Super Bowl Sundays.
I drove down to Waimea Bay early that morning to check the surf. I stood next to the Kam Highway, high on the bluff cliffs on the southwest side of The Bay and had a clear, unobstructed view of big, perfect Waimea. There were about 15-20 guys out. I watched a young Jamie Sterling, who at the time was an up-and-coming big wave charger, take off behind the peak, and airdrop backside on a bomb. After the awesome drop, he glided across the massive wave at full hull speed, and kicked out in the channel. I could feel his stoke from where I stood a half mile away. Then, a young kid from Kailua, Dave Wassel, charged a bomb that was easily 20.’ His board seemed to stall a little as it plowed in through the ledge and sent him over the handlebars halfway down the wave’s face. He hit the water hard and got sucked over the falls. That got my attention. It was a heavy wipeout, potentially deadly. When he finally popped up 45 seconds later, Wassel was 100 yards from where he fell.
Standing next to me shooting photos was Bernie Baker, one of the judges of the Quicksilver Eddie Aikau contest. I said, “Looks like an Eddie day.” All blasé, without even looking up, he replied, “It’s not big enough.” I laughed out loud. It was plenty big enough. Less than a minute later, a solid 25’ (50’ + face) semi-closeout set feathered and broke across Waimea Bay. Nobody caught it and the entire Bay was transformed into a seething cauldron of whitewater and swirling rips. I said nothing. Neither did Bernie, who seemed to retreat into his lens, pretending that what was happening before us wasn’t. No matter.
I never liked all the hype, commercialism, crowds, traffic, and pretense of the Quicksilver contest anyway. In fact, I despise it and still do. The whole thing is a circus-show designed to promote the surf industry’s chosen flavors of the year and a company that is now bankrupt. Who got invited to compete and when the contest was held, were mostly political and commercial decisions. It always seemed to me that Eddie Aikau, from what I have heard about him from people who knew and surfed with him, wouldn’t have wanted much to do with all the hype either.
The fact that there wasn’t going to be a contest that day simply meant that I and the rest of the Waimea Underground who did it for nothing other than love and madness could go surfing — without all the hoopla. The rumor was that Quicksilver didn’t hold the event because their golden boy, Kelly Slater, was out of town. Again, no problem there.
I went home to Sunset Beach and got my board. I parked at the Church and walked down to Waimea Bay. As I cleared the bushes, I saw that The Bay was boiling with whitewater and massive lines of swell marched in from the outside. In a few short minutes, it had gone from big to giant. Now the roadside and beach were lined with spectators and photographers. Everyone was in awe.
I tried not to look out to the lineup and just focused on getting down to the sand. When I did take a peek, I couldn’t resist, I watched a colossal blue wall rise outside and surfers frantically scratching for the horizon. The giant wave broke across The Bay and closed out, top-to-bottom. Most of the surfers got over it and the remnants steamrolled into the gargantuan, explosive shore-break that water surged up the beach, into the river-mouth, and all the way up to the tree line.
There were dozens of people along the tree-line. Some of them were surfers who clearly wanted nothing to do with what was going on in the ocean that day. It was obvious that they weren’t paddling out. Staring out to sea, I saw the horizon shift as another set stood up across The Bay. A surfer airdropped backside into a massive double up. It was an insane drop — straight-up-and-down — and the surfer, Danny Fuller from Kauai, was fully-extended, on his toes. When he reached the bottom of the wave, the wave closed-out behind him, fully engulfing him in a mass of exploding white-water that shot 50’-60’ feet in the air. Miraculously, Fuller made it and shot out in front of the white-water, aimed for the beach, hugged the point, rode straight through the shorebreak, and washed in in front of the crowd of people on the sand.
As I made my way through the crowd, someone said something to me, a question perhaps, I didn’t really hear or understand it. I said nothing, stashed my backpack in the bushes, and tried to remain calm and focused on getting through the shorebreak. “Just breathe,” I told myself. Nothing else mattered now. I walked down to the sand, attached my leash, and prepared to paddle out alone.
It was a moment of truth where I was confronted with my fate and destiny. At this moment I felt alone, and of course, I was. I was anxious, to be sure, but not scared, although I probably should have been. Nevertheless, I felt confident. At this point in my surfing evolution, I was near my peak. I had just turned 37 years old, had almost 20 years of Waimea Bay and Sunset Beach experience under my belt, and had the best board I could possibly have — an 11’7” Owl Chapman single fin pintail gun.
I knew, or at least thought I knew, that I was capable of riding the set waves this day. I also knew that today I might get the wave of my life. Little did I know, but I was being drawn toward a moment of truth that would redefine the rest of my life. Confidence and self-awareness are fundamental to my approach to big-wave riding. Don’t go out unless you are prepared to catch and ride the biggest waves that come in, otherwise forget it. In the event that you actually are confronted with your dream scenario this is precisely when your fate takes hold.
I hit the water clean and true, glided over the crashing shorebreak and barely got my hair wet. Your first several strokes are crucial and set the momentum. My timing was perfect. I began to pray, as I always do, for prayer — Hawaiians call it a Pule —focuses and controls breath, calms the mind and heart, and summons the Divine as a guide and protector. Mine was and remains a prayer of awe and gratitude to Mana Kai Kanaloa (the Spirit and Soul of the Ocean). I’m not asking or wishing for anything — it is a prayer of thanks (Mahalo Ke Akua) and a celebration of the communion of life with all that is natural and divine.
My first objective is always to clear the church tower to the north. This marks an approximate half-way point between the shore and the lineup. This distance is about 300 yards, a lot further than it looks to someone on the beach, cliff, or roadside when giant close-out sets are coming in at regular intervals. The paddle out is absolutely critical. Truth be told, the primary reason it wasn’t and doesn’t get that crowded on days like this is because paddling out is so risky and treacherous. It is not uncommon for surfers, including the world’s best, to get washed in and pummeled by the shorebreak when it’s this big. In 2016, I watched this happen to Kelly Slater and Mason Ho when they tried to paddle out. While getting out though the shorebreak is a challenge, coming back in can be even more risky. These transitional moments are the real tests of true Waimea riders.
A 20’ set approached as I cleared the Point and neared the lineup. Waimea Hell-Man Brock Little (RIP) was on the first wave. Perfect positioning, he made the vertical drop over the ledge and into the pit as the wave threw top-to-bottom and exploded behind him. Brock glided effortlessly into the channel and kicked out just outside me. Clark Abbey — another Waimea regular and a charger — was on the next wave. No cord, clad in just a pair of shorts and t-shirt, Clark’s was almost a carbon copy of Brock’s wave. Fin out, free-fall over the ledge of a ruler edged wave the size of a drive-in movie theatre. Of course, he made it and kicked out right next to me. Clark smiled his pearly whites like only a Hawaiian can as his hazel eyes glimmered with pure stoke. We high-fived and stroked towards the line-up side by side.
I had made it out and was stoked! I got my bearings by looking north towards Ke Iki Reef, where 40’-60’ faced waves barreled down the coast. A mile or so out to sea, Outer Log Cabins reef was exploding. To my left, looking Southwest, I could see Outside Alligator Reef detonating like a thermonuclear explosion.
I was surrounded by about 10 other surfers, most of whom I knew and respected. There was Nick Nozaki, one of the original Japanese big-wave riders and my longtime neighbor. Aussie paddle boarding champion Jamie Mitchell, who won the Molokai Challenge — 33 miles — no less than 10 times, was out. Then there were Brock, Clark, and several others. Next, the enigmatic and possibly the world’s best big wave rider, Eric Haas, paddled out on Eddie Aikau’s old board.
Everyone was quiet and intensely focused on the horizon. It shifted as something ominous began to rise out of the submarine canyon a half-mile outside where we sat. It was a 30’ closeout set and as it approached, nobody wanted anything to do with the monster. The pack scratched over it and The Bay closed-out behind us.
It’s a strange, lonely feeling to be outside Waimea Bay when it closes out. One realizes immediately that you are now in a very precarious situation because there is no paddling in. Not only would it be suicidal to try to paddle in, it is impossible because of the massive volume of water moving out to sea in the ferocious 10 plus knot rips. Moreover, one realizes that other than getting rescued by a jetski, which most rely upon these days, the only way back to the safety of the beach is to catch and ride a wave all the way to shore. Talk about a moment of self-realization and truth. Anyway, everything became crystal clear. My mind and my body were totally focused on one thing and one thing only: being in the right place at the right time.
Another giant set approached, not as big as the previous one, probably 25’ (45’-50 face). I paddled over it and could see out of the corner of my eye that Brock was trying as hard as he could to catch this leviathan, but the ledge was too thick and he couldn’t get over it.
Eric Haas effortlessly caught the last wave of the set and as he dropped in over the ledge and disappeared from our view, his primal scream echoed across The Bay.
Then I saw what I was waiting for. Coming from the Northwest, a perfect 20’ set headed right to me. I was the furthest out, the deepest, and knew that this wave was mine, and no one challenged me for it as I stroked into it. I felt my board lift and was propelled by the mass of water as it rose. When it peaked, I leapt to my feet in a low crouch, ready for the wave to suck out and go vertical. Dragging both hands lightly, like I was stroking a dragon, as I tried to maintain a little purchase and balance. From nose to tail, my pintail gun locked into the face of the wave, I was in full-forward-trim and it felt something like control . . .
I made the drop from behind the peak, angled, a little off-center as Owl Chapman had taught me, rode halfway across the Bay, and felt like I was flying! The ice had been broken and I felt a surge of stoke and confidence. I wanted more and pulled hard to get back to the lineup. Within a few minutes another perfect set approached. I let the first one pass and there I was, again, in a perfect spot for the next one, which stood up tall before me as if to say, “Ride me.” I swung, stroked, and stood up. This drop was more vertical, but I was still in control. It felt easy.
Body, board, and wave felt like they were in perfect synchronicity as I laid my board all on the rail, projecting it out onto the flats to get around the waterfall of whitewater and reached the channel. I was in a rhythm now. “This is how it’s supposed to be,” I thought to myself, as I paddled back out, and watched Clark Abbey drop into a bomb, and Jamie Mitchell was on the wave behind his. This was big-wave Nirvana!
This was definitely the kind of day that Eddie Aikau would have loved and I honestly felt like his spirit, along with many others who charged out there over the decades—Buzzy Trent, Jose Angel, Kealoha Kaio, and Tiger Espere—were spiritually present, celebrating and reveling in the thrill and beauty of this glorious day. It was nothing less than Arthur Schopenhauer’s “complete impression of the sublime” that he believed was “induced by a glimpse of power incomparably superior to the individual, a power which threatens with annihilation.”
The horizon shifted again. A giant, ominous set approached. I was outside the pack and sitting deepest, resisting an overwhelming urge to paddle further outside to safety. It all became clear in an instant. I had dreamed of this wave before and could see and feel it all manifesting in this moment of déjà vu. All I had to do now was brace myself with courage, presence of body and mind, and meet my fate and destiny. This was going to be the actualization of a lifetime of dreams and the fulfillment of all my aspirations.
I held my position, and waited for what I believed would be the wave of my life. The set approached and I swung and paddled as it rose behind me and lifted me up. The wave caught me —I did not catch it. And, again, at least at first, it was smooth and, dare I say it—easy. I was calm and relaxed.
I got to my feet and beheld a vision of absolute splendor. What I saw before me at that moment was glorious, beyond sublime. It was everything I had dreamed of and strived for at Waimea Bay, manifested in this one wave. I was fully stoked, in perfect position, and even thought, “You got this!”
Then, in the next instant, everything began to change when the wave began to mutate as it hit the reef. It didn’t just double in size, it doubled in amplitude, mass, and velocity. Time stood still for an interminable moment as heaven began to turn into hell. The wave made a gruesome transformation and I felt impending doom. At once, I was terrified and consumed by panic with an absolute knowledge that emanated from my bones that I had bitten off more than I could chew. Going as fast as one can possibly go on a surfboard, the wave jacked, throbbed, and flared with ferocious violence.
As the wave went absolutely vertical, a crazy, unpredictable side-wave backwash came off the point and caused the Beast to turn into a seething cauldron of boils. Now I was standing on my toes, fully extended, and in serious trouble. Once again, time stood still as my brain processed the events as they unfolded. I was as late, steep and deep as one can be at maxing Waimea Bay. I don’t even know how “big” this wave was — does it really matter? As Buzzy Trent remarked infamously: “Big waves aren’t measured in feet but increments of fear.” C’est vrai, Buzzy.
So, to say I was “behind the boil” is a misleading understatement. I was behind a series of boils that I have not seen before or since. This wave wasn’t round, it was square, at once concave and convex, and seemed to pull in opposite directions. I felt myself both free-falling and getting sucked backwards at the same time. Everything happened very, very fast, however, I can clearly recall that terrifying moment of despair. Simply put, I knew that I was not just about to experience the worst wipeout of my life, I knew that it was a potentially fatal disaster. Although the laws of gravity had been momentarily suspended, when my board hit the ridgeline and disconnected from the surface of the water, I began to flying through the air at what felt like Mach II.
I hit the water head first. Hard. The sheer violence of the impact remains beyond words. The water might as well have been cement or stone. It was more like a Formula 1 collision or a train wreck than a surfing “wipeout.” Next came the pain — white-hot, electric, all-consuming pain that ran from my head and neck, down my right arm, and all the way down my spine. It was beyond anything I have ever experienced. Football players, orthopedic surgeons, and neurosurgeons call it a “stinger,” and it most certainly was. The worst was yet to come, I hadn’t even gotten thrashed in the Maelstrom itself. Yet. I did my best to relax as I felt myself getting pulled up from the depths — a curious, nauseating, weightlessness, and a foreboding sense of doom of what was to come. Next, I got hurled up and over the falls and brutalized once more. There are no words for the violent hydrodynamics of the extreme turbulence that I endured.
Then, as if by a miracle, rather than get pinned to the bottom, 30’ or 40’ below the surface, I just popped up. I did not quite “surface” because there was about 2’-3’ of foam on the so-called “surface.” When I reached the surface, I saw another 25’ Leviathan was rearing and about to break on top of me. I had just enough time to catch a shallow breath and watch Jamie Mitchell drop into this monster and draw his line across this giant wave. I was at “Ground Zero,” at the epicenter of a blast that drove into me with the same concentrated violence of the previous wave.
Again, I tried to remain calm and go into that quiet, peaceful, dark place within myself. There I reposed for the next 30 or 40 seconds of pure chaos. I forgot everything and became nothing (Nihil) but a fundamental element within the fusion of water molecules. This time, however, I had to fight and will my way to the surface. There was no “popping up.”
Despite the excruciating pain, which adrenaline mercifully spared me in these critical moments, I was somehow able to pull myself up from the black depths toward the light, but it was a battle. When I broke the surface, I was way inside, almost in line with the Point, half a football field from where the wave broke. Another miracle: my board was still attached to me and it hadn’t broken. Unbelievable. Still, I was in a bit of a double-bind. While I was fortunate that I was no longer buried under tons of water on the ocean floor, I was still at extreme risk of either getting caught inside by another close-out set or worse, getting sucked into “Coffin Corner” by the Colorado River-like rip-current. I would not have been the first to die in “Coffin Corner,” the rocks on the West side of the Bay.
Although I sensed that I was injured, I knew immediately what I had to do: I simply had to get back to the lineup as soon as possible. There was no paddling in, the rip-current was too strong, the shorebreak too giant, and the risk of getting caught inside by a close-out set was too great for a hopeless Hail Mary. I needed to get back to the lineup, catch a wave, and ride it all the way to the beach. No one was coming to rescue me. I was on my own. Another déjà vu . . . I had this vision before.
Adrenaline is a wonderful drug —natural, free, and probably my favorite. I had my fix and was 1000% focused on my objective. Somehow, I could still paddle, so, paddle I did, like Sisyphus with his stone. Within a couple of minutes, I was back to the relative “safety” of the lineup. Clark Abbey looked at me incredulously like I was a ghost or had returned from the Dead, which, I suppose, in a manner of speaking, I had. He had witnessed my wipeout from the shoulder of the wave, just shook his head and kind of laughed. I was in shock. Clinical shock, for sure, and whatever the first stages of PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) and TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury) are. I knew that, among other things, I had a concussion, and was rattled. Yet I was also in a different frame of mind and only had one aim—catch a wave and get what was left of me back to the beach.
A set approached. It was big and looked a lot like the one that had almost just killed me. Nevertheless, I swung and paddled for it. This time, however, I hesitated. I had the wave if I wanted it, but as I looked over the ledge some sort of survival instinct kicked in and my body overrode my mind. I pulled back and dragged my legs against the immense pull. Luckily, I didn’t get sucked over the falls. “Fuck!” I yelled because I knew that could have carried me all the way to the beach.
My body/mind-system was now completely out of whack, my wires were crossed, and I was shorting out. I tried to pull myself together and an internal voice yelled “focus and just catch the next set and ride it through the shorebreak” to myself. The adrenaline was still pumping hard, but with hot searing pain surging through my head, neck, shoulders, and arms like electrical volts, I was beginning to realize the extent and severity of my injuries. Moreover, I was tired, exhausted really, but understood that I was about to run out of both time and energy before my entire system just shut down. It was now or never—catch a wave and get to shore.
Another set approached. I couldn’t see or hear anyone anymore. I put my head down, pulled hard, caught the wave, and stood up in a low crouch. It was a smooth drop and a beautiful wave that I actually enjoyed riding. I laid into my bottom turn, tried to stay close to the curl and tried to not get too far out into the middle of the Bay. At the right moment, I straightened out, fading gradually toward the Point, and aimed for the corner of the shorebreak by the Kam Highway, the safest place to enter and exit on a giant day like this.
I iron-legged it through the shorebreak and washed up and over the sand berm into a crowd of people. When I tried to pick up my surfboard, I was overcome with pain and realized that my right arm was essentially paralyzed. It’s odd how serious injuries give one a feeling of something like embarrassment because one is so weak and vulnerable. I did my best to act nonchalant as I struggled to gather my board with my left arm and withdrew into the bushes. After I found my backpack, I collapsed, utterly exhausted, and began to take stock of what I had just endured.
I sipped some water, ate an orange, and after a toke from my pipe, I took stock of the gravity of my predicament. I was seriously injured and needed to get home, sleep, and begin to recover. It was a surreal experience. There were dozens of people all around me, many of them were nubile women in bikinis, laughing and frolicking on the beach. The atmosphere was charged. Every time someone rode a wave, the crowd roared with excitement, the blue, green, and brown colors of the ocean and flora and fauna were vibrant, as the powerful waves shook the ground. It was all rather intense and reminded me of the brilliance of life. I felt removed, a pathos of distance muted the splendid sights and sounds and provoked the self-realization that I was grateful to be alive. I had come very close to death.
Postscript
At the time of this wipeout in 2006, I didn’t have health insurance, and never went to see a doctor about the injuries to my shoulder and neck. In fact, I was back surfing big Sunset and everywhere else within a week of this. However, my injuries from that horrific wipeout lingered for years. I soldiered through the pain and it was probably a good thing that I never got a proper diagnosis. Ignorance has its benefits. As the years rolled on, the pain and dysfunction from that fateful day never went away. For years, I had trouble sleeping and struggled through endless nights in agony. Sometimes I had trouble simply turning my head or lifting things as small as a cup of coffee or a beer. Nonetheless, I adapted and learned to cope, figuring that this was the price of being a “big-wave rider.”
A decade later, I got health insurance and had a series of MRIs for my nagging shoulder injury and the pain I had suffered for years. What the images revealed was that I had broken my neck at C6-C7 and the resulting calcifications had formed into a “foraminal stenosis,” a narrowing of the cervical disc space in the spinal canal. In addition to this, I severed my Brachial Plexus nerve, which runs from the Cervical spine to my right arm and tore (blown out would be more accurate) my rotator cuff muscles on both shoulders. The doctor made it clear that this was not a good thing and the injury was beyond his expertise. The neurosurgeon he referred me to basically told me to stop surfing. He said, “If you have another wipeout, you risk paralysis or death.”
Of course, I understood what he was saying and I spoke at length with my father who was an orthopedic surgeon, but what was I going to do? There was no way that I was going to quit surfing. I had survived surfing Sunset, the Bay, Point Surf Makaha, and the Outer Reefs for 10 years after the accident. So it goes.
Still, death is always close. Legendary big wave rider Roger Erickson once said to me, “We all die out there a little sometimes.” Big Rog was referring to what he described as “big hits,” the wipeouts all big-wave riders experience sooner or later. It’s inevitable. Another time, while sitting off the Kepuhi headland waiting for a set at Point Surf Makaha, the late big wave rider Ricky Grigg told me that he had broken his neck out at the Bay back in the 1970s and added: “Most everyone who surfs Waimea probably has stress fractures in the neck and spine from the high-impact wipeouts.” True enough. Most of the Old Salts I know and have observed look a little stiff, to put it mildly. I guess it comes with the territory.
I was lucky that I survived. Lucky, too, that I was able to both make it back in on my own accord. This means a great deal to me. In my opinion, if one has to be rescued, not only is it a loss of honor, it is evidence that you had no business being out there in the first place. Of course, that’s all changed now. Today, Waimea Bay is overrun with human cannonballs from who knows where, kitted out inflatable flotation vests and jet-skis standing by to rescue them when they wipeout. This spares them the indignity of actually having to fend for themselves and perhaps get dashed on the rocks or drown.
Most are inexperienced and have little talent. They have not earned their places in the pecking order because there is none. They get in the way, drop in on the shoulder, and ditch their boards at the first sign of trouble. It’s all rather disgraceful in my view.
I understand well enough that places like “Jaws” on Maui, Mavericks in California, and Nazarré in Portugal, are very dangerous places. If only those who paddled out on their own, with no assistance or so-called “safety,” attempted to surf these breaks on their own recognizance, there would be no crowds. Some call it “progress” — I call it decadence.
Regardless, my reflections aren’t so much those of a bitter old man who is over the hill and out to pasture, but rather those of someone who came of age in a different era. I’m grateful for that. The standards and expectations back then — the “rules” if you will — were different. Pure. Simple. Straightforward. No shortcuts or excuses. One had to pay his dues and earn his stripes. It took time and there was struggle and conflict. I felt ashamed to wear a cord or even a wetsuit, much less a flotation vest with GPS comms, teams of jet-skis, and cylinders of oxygen. My idea of high-tech safety is a swim fin stuck in the back of my shorts.
Today’s big-wave riders are suited up in armor and armed with crossbows. My generation and those who came before us even more so—Peter Cole, Buzzy Trent, Tiger Espere, Eddie Aikau, Owl Chapman, Roger Erickson, et al.— had no armor, no bows, and not even shields, just broad swords.
The point I want to emphasize here is awareness of one’s mortality in the face of inevitable, certain death. It’s coming sooner or later. By no means do I, or have I, consciously courted death — although I’ve often dreamt of it — I’ve only tried to challenge myself, have some fun, commune with the wild majestic beauty and wonder of pure unadulterated nature. However, experiences like the one told here taught me to be intimately aware of and more comfortable with life and death. They are closely connected, indeed intertwined, in most everything one does. They are always there. Just a breath away. Like the Samurai, clear-eyed, calm and resolute, in a state of disciplined equanimity, approach all action and experience as if it may be your last. With this state of mind, one has nothing to lose and everything to gain. I keep this existential truth in mind each and every day and it has become a source of discipline, solace, humility, and wisdom.
Andy St. Onge is the author of Eternal Return on Substack.
Dreams are Truthful Manifestations is part of Sour Milk’s Survival Series. For more survival stories, read Riding the Crazy Train and Row Jimmy.