Under a Winter Sun

I like me some kelp. With a full moon comes wide tide swings. Yesterday, it hit 7 feet and change in the morning, then skedaddled on out to a minus by the late afternoon. As the tide goes out, the kelp reaches up and wraps around fingers and toes and surfboards. Nothing like blowing the take-off, because the kelp grabbed your fin.

Yesterday was some good surfing. An overcast, grey sort of day, the sea the color of the sky, or maybe it was the sky the color of the sea. I’m never quite sure about such things. A decent little swell brought out the full cast of characters.

There’s the guy who always wears a white hat tied under his chin. There’s the guy that rides each wave all the way to the beach, then walks back up the point for the shortest possible paddle back into the lineup. Is it really easier to walk than paddle? There’s spastic paddler guy. His hands churn egg-beaterlike, his elbows high and dry. Who knew it was so hard to make a surfboard go. There’s the wave hog. Got it! Outside, outside, got it! He likes to give a little whistle, just to be sure. I mean really, if you’re that badass, go to Jalama or something. Tarantulas. Now there, my friends, is a great name for a surf spot.

But I am being digressing.

There’s the dude who can’t steer. Um, if you’re going to take off from the top of the point, try not to run everyone over, mmkay? There’s the spastic kid on the short board who’s watched far too many surf vids. There’s the woman who must have spent years at ballet school as a child. She stands on the board in third position, the feet placed just so, the arms floating all graceful like. She can’t turn either, but she looks pretty doing it. I suppose there’s something to be said for looking pretty. There’s dad, teaching his kid to surf. He knows just where to sit in the lineup, and he launches his little missile into the perfect wave. Of course, junior falls over and gets worked. There’s ugly pink surfboard guy. Pink. I hope it was free.

Me? I caught me a few waves and watched the sun dance off the peaks, turning grey to silver, each rolling swell a wrinkle in rippling silk.

Intermission Talk amongst yourselves. Topic, the weather.

Alright, I’m back now. Didya miss me?

The espresso machine called. Of course I answered. Now, where were we? Thanksgiving happened. Bikes were ridden. Nappage was committed. Coffee was consumed. People were watched. Pizza was eaten (with red wine, natch). Relatives were phoned. Slacking occurred. Fun was had.

The passive voice was massively abused in the writing of this post. Forgive me oh Chicago Manual of Style, I know not what I do.

Respect my Authoritay Was it me, or did the cop who pulled over the group ride bear a striking resemblance to Cartman? This coincidence made it terribly hard to take seriously the earnest lecture about behaving well and traffic laws (yes, kids, the red sign with the letters on it does mean stop) and such. Terribly hard not to start giggling at exactly the wrong moment. Congratulations, sir, you win the prize for Walking Caricature. Come on down, you’ll find your prize behind door number two: A dozen jelly donuts. Mmm, donuts. Stop sign? What stop sign?

Maybe the local ride just needs a donut sponsor. Pass the sprinkles.

In other news, I managed only six points on last week’s round of trivia. Alas. I need to work on my guessing skills. Or, um, learn something about bike racing. Right, I’ll get right on that.

How ’bout that weather?