THE ONLY MATTER THAT MATTERS IS THE SURF'S UP
I had always
snorted with disapproval whenever an ad appeared on television depicting my brethren of the waves as braindead. Two gentlemen in a Kombi uttering three words a minute as they watched a point break unfurl across a bay seemed to be the general idea, and I was incensed.
In this enlightened age, surfers seem to be the only demographic you can pick on with impunity. You can no longer suggest that the French reek of garlic, or that Nigerians can empty your bank account with an empty Coke can and a piece of sticky-backed plastic, and heaven help you if you suggest that two fully robed ladies might turn to each other on the London Underground, compare backpacks and ask, "Does my bomb look big in this?"
This is one of the marks of a civilised society: that it is unacceptable to discriminate on any broad-brushed generalisation, and long may it last. Yet the politically correct ideal is suspended when it comes to surfers, and after a solid 10 days on the waves, the impact on myself may suggest why.
The ooze between the ears is operating at about a quarter of the normal speed, which may well be enough to have some of my more vigorous detractors sending great squads of undertakers around to the beach and having me hauled off to the morgue.
This is a rather alarming concept since I do not have my affairs in order. The idea of mouldering away in some gloomy graveyard has about as much appeal as being chucked into the über-Weber and decanted into a pot. I know the outcome I'm after, but have yet to find a taxidermist prepared to rise to the challenge of stuffing me in sporting pose and preserving me in a glass case for future generations to admire.
I have a sneaking suspicion that the dearly beloved might rebel post mortem, so this is something that must be tied up in black and white by a crack team of lawyers. Otherwise she might well nail me with a compromise , such as having just my head mounted on a trophy board and stuck up amid a mixed collection of wildebeest, surely a fate to be avoided at all costs.
But no matter how alarming the consequences, we are having too much fun to be distracted. Operations HQ is the Surf Shack on the Muizenberg beach front, where David Chudleigh runs the best school I have ever seen. There you will find serious surfers, some representing SA in the junior world champs, others winning practically every prize on the local junior circuit, who are not only happy to take my five-year-old out for a session but approach the whole thing with so much enthusiasm that the youth brigade lights up with pure delight the moment we approach.
The pavement outside is suffering a little after this morning's attempt to demonstrate a few skateboarding tricks to the admiring crowd, culminating in six foot two of hack hitting the deck with the impact of some of the Pentagon's more exotic toys, but I can make no stronger recommendation to anybody who wants to sharpen up their holiday than to grab a board, get on to the water and worry about the grey matter later.
