The stairs don’t belong to you, bro. Photo: Nikolaos Anastasopoulos
Nice to see you again, boys! I’ve missed you since yesterday morning, I must say, and I love the matching flannels almost as much as the coordinated way you all lapse into silence as I zip by, board in hand.
Let’s back it up. I appreciate that your tightly knit cluster of local denizens “hangs loose” at the very top of the steps on the daily, with seemingly no commitments of any kind. Am I wrong to assume that your cohort are surfers? If so, I can only hypothesize that over the last few weeks, you have not quite seen a wave to your liking, since you have not gone near the ocean.
Perhaps you’re only here to check on the safety parameters of the oft-slippery steps, or to ponder the beauty of the morning mist. Yet, based on your pre-broken-in Rainbow Sandals, Land Rovers stacked with boards, and SURF 4 LYFE hats, I’m convinced that if you are not surfers, you must indeed be sarfers.
Plus, there’s the matter of the overheard comments from your brethren: “It’s so blown out,” “that cross-wind is killin’ it,” and everyone’s favorite, “looked way better yesterday, Bra.”
The thing is: I was here yesterday. It was about the same as it is today. So was your insightful vibe, that eloquently exudes a pure feeling of: “I’m angry at these waves and everyone else who’s headed out to ride these waves, and even though I sort of want to ride these waves, I refuse to…but I’m not sure why.”
Many of us enjoy a good wave report, and we appreciate how you leave no physical space whatsoever for anyone else to check the waves. Even while trying to peer around your shoulders, I find myself admiring your patient, “let’s take a close gander at the next 400 set waves before we decide that it’s time for In and Out anyway,” philosophy.
I also commend your commitment to Big Tobacco! You’re sticking it to The Man, if The Man is the health nuts, the pesky kombucha brewers, the non-alcoholic beer makers (what a waste of West Coast hops, amiright?) and those ridiculous “I’ll just fire down five bananas before my session to fight cramps” enthusiasts. I’ll tell you what fights cramps: Marlboro Reds, Baby!
Anyhoo, Toughness, what I dig the most is the way that you and your clan stand in the way of the surfers who are trying to get down to the water. Often, we must squeeze by you as you all stick us with charming glares that say: “I’ve lived here 1,000 years, and can’t you see it’s not double-overhead and therefore there’s no point in surfing?”
Ah, the sweet awkwardness of squeezing by you on those slick steps, bare-chested, never gets old! Next time, I’m thinking I’ll ask you for the slightest drizzle of SPF 50, if that’s cool? Just a squirt, right between the ol’ shoulder blades. Oh, and if you’re offended by my chest hair, hey, you’re not the only one, big guy.
By the way, I dig the fact that you took the skateboard out of your car just to walk it down to the stairs. This way, the skateboard gets to catch a glimpse of the waves too! Keep trying to ride it as little as possible and keep the grip-tape pristine, you Salty Warrior.
This might seem forward, but I’m hoping someday you’ll open up your tough exterior shell and we can go over what it was “really” like to grow up in this neighborhood. Apparently, the come up was rough, amid the Porsches and Lambos, eight-dollar lattes, succulent stores selling local weeds for $40 a pop, pimped-out golf carts because rich people enjoy buying unnecessary vehicles, e-bikes that cost more than my old Jeep, and 10-year-olds on said e-bikes.
I’d be careful around that group of local groms, though. They call themselves the “Giggle Gang?” I heard Ocean tell Reef who told Lil’ Timmy Cutback that he thinks their crew is tougher than yours. Maybe next playdate, you can tussle, make up, and exchange hemp necklaces for Airheads and Sticky Bumps.
I remain hopeful for you, Angry Dudes Always Sitting on Top of the Stairs, and your eventual first duck-dive of 2023. Just this past morning, you almost looked as though you were getting really, really close to ditching that winter hat and suiting up.
Why not just come surf with me, Buttercup? You can even borrow my poncho, since I know you get a little chilly when the air temp dips below 80.
Fondest Regards,
A Non-local but Logistically Local Sarfer, otherwise known as The Soon-to-be-Cranky-Old-Man-at-the-Break
PS: When I looked you straight in the eyes, I saw right into your soul, and it was pure Kookadilly.
PPS: I know which truck is yours and I’ve seen the Wavestorms still IN THE BOX. You’re outed, Buddy Boy!
PPS: Logic dictates that if you smoke menthols, Little Timmy Cutback has a higher chance of beating you in a footrace out to the swells.
PPPS: Actually you can’t borrow my poncho. It’s a one-man poncho, Pal.
