Post zip sprint. Thank you, kind stranger. We shall be forever friends. Photo: Trevor Moran
There are only two of you in the deserted beach car park. “G’day mate,” you say, sidling up to the complete stranger in a state of partial nudity. “You think you could give me a hand with this?”
He knows what you want.Who cares if you’ve never met him before? It’s ok, we’ve all done it. We’re all friends here. He’ll put his hand on your shoulder, grab your zipper from behind and wriggle it around a little before he pulls it up with a delightful zip.
You’ve got to admit, it’s a great way to meet people. The ice is broken as he pats you on the back. “All finished,” he tells you. You turn around and look him in the eyes to say thanks, but of course, he averts his gaze. You say thank you anyway. You both know you will never be the same. You will never be strangers again.
Part of me doesn’t want that to be over. Part of me doesn’t want to be a lone wolf in the car-park. Part of me doesn’t want to be independent and able to dress myself. These moments can be special, so what’s the reason for the contemplation of my fears?
It’s chest zips. Yep, chest zips. Chest zips, as opposed to back zips. No one ever really wants to come to grips with a couple of realities, but I will. I will because in the wetsuit buyer’s guides, you won’t find the truth.
I am browsing for a wetsuit to replace my ten-year-old back zip steamer. There is nothing really wrong with it, but it has a couple of rips and tears from the odd barb wired fence and my son is getting bigger. He’ll probably fit in it soon, and it saves me from buying him a brand new one. Besides, he doesn’t even want to surf anyway, leading me to wonder if there’s something wrong with me as a father. But back to the point.
So, I see these new chest zippers! In the front! On the chest! No more body arching and shoulder-clamming alone in the car park! No more Swan Lake pirouettes as you spin around in despair trying to reach the zipper cord, only to find that it’s stuck!
Imagine a pulsing swell: a sweet offshore breeze fans a pristine, razor-sharp sandbar as empty runners peel off it perfectly. You are bouncing around the f*cking park doing backhand yoyo tricks with your wetsuit, trying desperately to get out there. Eventually, you rip the thing off in disgust because nobody came to help you before the wind and the low tide annihilated everything. “NO MORE!” you howl into a 30-knot sea breeze with your head thrown back. Then you man-sob all over your steering wheel for the entirety of the drive home. Imagine. God forbid that the cat is in the driveway (AGAIN) when you get home. I am joking. I am a vegetarian.
Therein lies the quandary.
I am looking for people to surf with – not only to do up my wetsuit, but to share a wave and a smile. But forever I am chained to the car park of broken dreams waiting for somebody – anybody – to lend a stranger a comforting hand.
The chest zip should free my soul: Lone Wolf style, I shall dress myself in the car park, regardless of who is attending! It’s so exciting, I will probably pee in in my suit before I get to the water!
So if you see someone come up to you in a lonely car park in Tasmania, with his front zipper open, leaving mysterious wet footprints, catching your eye and tentatively asking, “do you think you can grab this for me?” …I only want to be friends, alright?
