A thirty mile morning to Floyd, VA by trailways astride a seafoam Schwinn. A friendly woman named Christina who delivers the CSA suggested I make the trip. Lodging courtesy of a surfer turned farmer who winters in Hawaii. It seems he forgot I was coming but is delighted to see me nonetheless. He insists I take a load off--I insist I assist. Rinsing lugs outside the equipment shed as prep before plucking okra and pulling potatoes in the afternoon with the WWOOFers. Come sunset and dinner is assembled from the day's odds and ends. Five of us in his house. Walls adorned with creased surfing posters. A monthly calendar showcasing waves and riders--heavily annotated with scrawls I wouldn't understand anyway. September provides a photo of a shadowy figure crouched in cresting wave. He tells me he wants to leave and not come back. He started the farm on a lark with the mother of his daughter who has since left him. He visits them in Hawaii every winter. 'Just two, three more years here tops.' After dinner Christina and I fumble through the dark to a firepit tucked just beyond the treeline and get some roughcut logs going. Wind picking up. Last year she had moved back to the states from Slovenia as her father had succumbed to cancer brought on by exposure to defoliant during the Vietnam War. Not hiding the grief. She had been living in Slovenia for six years and involved in a long term relationship. We take turns extolling and cursing international romance. The wind turns to gale and she offers me the second room of her two-room tent. 'It wouldn't hurt to anchor the other side of the tent anyway.' I oblige. Thanks. I'm the last to awaken and everyone's already deep in their daily duties. I clip my panniers on their rack. Thanks so much for letting me come out. What a beautiful place. 'No problem, brother. Anytime.'