My name is Devon. I do just about everything in a square mile radius, but I get to have wild, wild adventures because of three things: my family, my notebook and a piece of foam.
I used to tell my story from a cold footstool in the back stacks of my high school library. It was therapy for me then just like it is now. I add to it in my head while I’m surfing and with calloused fingers on silky keyboard keys while my daughters nap.
I don’t know if my story is worth reading. I don’t think it’s any more important than anyone else’s. In fact, most days I think it’s the opposite, but I write it down anyways because I believe stories are important-the embarrassing ones, the beautiful ones and the ones that are hard to tell.
My dad taught me to surf in Waikiki when I was nine. He’s been surfing before wetsuits and the leash were invented. He eagerly signed me up for a surf camp that same summer, even though my cousin and I just pretended to drown so the *hot* instructors would save us. My dad and I still surf together every Friday, but I do the opposite of trying to make the boys think I need their help now.
I can’t give my dad full credit for my love of the ocean, though. My mom used to take my sisters and I to the beach every week. She and her friends would tan and talk while we ran around burying each other in holes and riding the waves.
I was born and raised in Orange County, California, in a town known for its beaches and art festivals, but not for any of its sports teams.
My husband, Scott, was born in a valley in Central California and grew up down the street from the local high school. He played baseball, following after his grandfather, father, and uncle, but ditched his mitt (and school sometimes) for boardshorts and swim fins.
We met in a drafty garage next to a keg of beer while attending school in San Diego. He called me out for my bad tan lines and now supports all of my Amazon Prime orders (and more). We have two daughters named after our favorite islands off of California. When I look at them, I think the same thing I think when I look at the ocean: What a bunch of work.
Just kidding, I think: What a gift.
These days my story is told from a tiny house with cold wood floors, warm white walls and a broken fireplace. Thanks for reading.