Classic lineup shot from South Africa’s most famous right. Photo: Scholtz / WSL
Clayton du Toit stood smiling in the dim morning light as the fresh offshore wind whipped salty hair into his face. The sun had yet to sneak over the snow tipped mountains in the distance and a thin blanket of clouds spread over the horizon, spitting a fine shower of drizzle along the coastal plain. The waves had picked up overnight.
He was the first one there, as usual. Sucking cold air through gritted teeth, he prayed there were no large razor-toothed visitors lurking beneath the murky grey-green surface of the water, shivering as he slid a warm foot into the leg of his damp wetsuit. The put, put, put of an old dilapidated Ford Escort made itself heard above the sound of the sea and grew louder with every wave peeling across the bay. Jerry chugged around the corner as fast as the Ford would go – which wasn’t very fast – and pulled into a space next to Clayton’s bright white Hilux 4×4 double cab. The driver’s door squawked open, imitating the sound of a dying seagull.
“Hey boet, looks good ‘ey?”
Clayton pulled his wetsuit up to his waist. “Cooking!” he said, pulling on his wetsuit, “wind’s supposed to change in a few hours, better get on it while it’s hot.” He zipped up the back of his wetsuit and applied a fresh coat of wax to his lemon yellow board, a happy nervous concoction, crawling around in his stomach like spider’s caught in a glass jar.
“Man, did you hear about Barry’s new board?” Jerry’s voice came from the open rusted boot of his car.
“Nope, what happened?”
“Stolen, bru.”
“No way,” Clayton looked at Jerry with slack-jawed shock pasted to his face.
“Yes way, one time. Just like all the others.” Jerry held his own board in front of him. ”Never thought I’d say this, but I’m sure glad I got this piece of crap. No one would steal this in a million years!”
Clayton shot him a grin and laughed, “True.” Jerry gave him a wink in return and started forcing
his way into his wetsuit, which appeared two sizes too small and had a big hole right in the crotch. Clayton chuckled and shook his head. He locked his car, placing the key into a hiding place in his the bulky chassis. “See you out there!”
“Ya, check you in a sec,” Jerry said, before shouting, “and make sure you keep that stick with you at all times. I can imagine the thief might be looking for something just like that!” Clayton raised his free hand in a friendly one-fingered gesture and ran into the shallows.
After three dozen waves and nearly three hours in the icy Cape water, the cold shower felt warm. His toes tingled and itched as the blood started to flow more freely again in his feet, and his fingers could just about grasp the zip of his wetsuit. He stood for a couple of minutes, eyes closed, savoring the jets of water slightly stinging his scalp and face, before running down his gooseflesh covered torso and into the legs of his wetsuit.
Clayton reemerged from his brief reverie and turned off the rusty tap. He turned around and stopped dead, frozen to the spot. “Where’s my board?” he swiveled three hundred and sixty degrees. “Where’s my damn board?”
He wore a forlorn look on his face as he ran back and forth surveying the beach in every direction. By now the parking lot was packed. Clayton ran up to a group of three local guys he’d recognized. “Hey Jake, did any of you guys see someone take my board?” He was hopeful but desperate. ”It was right over there, on the bench.”
“Nah dude,” answered a short slightly built youngster with sunbleached thatch for hair. “Didn’t see anything. ”
“What about You Matt? It’s a yellow 6’4” pin tail.” Clayton scratched nervously at his scalp and then his left eyebrow. A short and stocky surfer in his late twenties with a beefy clean shaven head stepped closer to him. “Yeah I know the one, but no, sorry man I didn’t see anything.”
“Yeah I know the one, but no, sorry man I didn’t see anything.”
“Ahh man, this sucks. That board was custom made by my uncle.” He was rubbing his temples now. “It sucks big hairy ones, bru. Had my 6’1” taken last week, and Toby over here, he’s had two boards stolen in the last couple of months.”
“Shit man, who the hell is doing this? I can’t believe no one has seen anything.” Clayton kicked the pavement in frustration, realizing just too late that he was barefoot, the pain compounded by the thawing process in his toes.
“Ya, we keep our boards on lock-down now, and one oke is always watching when we put them down anywhere,” said Jake, patting the stack of boards tied to the roof racks.
“Well, thanks anyway guys. I’m gonna check if anyone else around here has seen anything. Catch you okes later”
“No worries.”
“Cool bru.”
“Good luck, hope you find your board.” They all spoke at the same time as Clayton jogged away along the pavement to the next bunch of surfers, who were standing around having a post-surf chew of the fat.
A few minutes later he ran back from the train station at the end of the car park, just in time to catch Jake and the boys before they hit the beach. He was clearly distressed and out of breath. “Hey guys can you come help me quick? I found them! Three, maybe four scumbags up there by the railway station,” he panted.” I reckon it’s too dangerous for me to tune them on my own.”
All of them were already in their wetsuits, boards waxed. Matt poised to push the button to lock the BMW X5. They looked at each other, all waiting for somebody to speak up. It was Toby who eventually did. Tall and ginger haired, he had no right even stepping into the sunlight with his pasty white skin, let alone surfing.
“Sure Clayt,” his eyes shifted from Jake to Matt and then back again. “Let’s go, guys.” The other two nodded, cutting short their pre-surf rituals and springing into action. Matt thwacked his fist into a fleshy palm and bit his bottom lip. “Let’s get these fuckers.” Clayton was already running ahead of them, towards the train tracks. Nearly everyone, from the people in the carpark to the customers at the colorful restaurants and cafes lining the beachfront watched in confused amusement. It was a comical sight: three men squeezed into neoprene like big black sausages, sprinting after another man in skintight neoprene, across the red bricks.
“Where are they?” asked Matt, who clearly wasn’t the fittest of the three.
“I think they must have gone to the other side of the tracks.” Clayton jumped off the steps of the beachside platform and didn’t break stride as he moved down the stairway that led down to the subway tunnel. A train passed overhead with a rhythmic thud as it left the station. Perfect, he thought. The others followed his lead and disappeared after him into the echoing concrete passage that smelled of old piss, shitty cleaning fluid and trapped exhaust fumes. They reached the top of the steps on the other side, ran into the station building and burst onto the platform, earning a few alarmed looks from commuters. They all came to an abrupt halt, scanning the terminal for Clayton and the thieves.
They spotted him sitting under the awning outside the station master’s office on a dark green bench. He was holding his foot in his hand and wincing, blood trickling onto the concrete floor.
“Ah shit dude, what happened?” said Jake. “Fucking big piece of glass,” he sucked his teeth in
pain, “gone in deep man.” He took away his hand, but there was so much blood that you couldn’t see the wound.
“You can’t walk on that, bru. Come on. Toby, you take that arm,”
“No guys, we have to catch them. They got on that train. Someone get my car and we can stop them at the next station.” Clayton tried to jump to his feet, but gave out a sharp growl of agony, slightly losing his balance and sitting down again.
“They will be long gone by then Clayt. Who knows if they get off at the next station anyway,” said Matt, helping Clayton slowly to his feet. “He’s right,” said Toby,” let’s just get you back to the beach, maybe Roxy has a first aid kit and some tweezers at the shop.”
“He’s right,” said Toby. “Let’s just get you back to the beach. Maybe Roxy has a first aid kit and some tweezers at the shop.”
“Shit man! Bloody bastards! I swear if I see them again I’m gonna…” He looked around, his attention drawn to the passengers waiting innocently for the next train glaring at them, and raised a reluctant hand in apology. Clayton hooked his arms around Jake and Toby’s necks, hopping back from where they had come.
Once they had reached the car, Jake and Toby helped Clayton onto the low concrete wall that separated the beach from the carpark. “Noooooooo. Shit. Son of a bitch. Fucking…. aaaaaarrrghhh!!”
“What the hell?” Jake swung his head in the direction of the violent outburst. Toby ran to see what the fuss was about and arrived to see Matt on his haunches burying his huge bald head in his hands.
“What’s wrong Matt?”
“Gone bru,” he said softly,”fucking stolen.” Toby looked around, a sick sinking feeling squeezing his stomach like a hungry python. “Three boards in two months! no fricken way!” Toby sat down where he stood and pulled at his red hair in disbelief.
“I can’t believe this. I CAN NOT BELIEVE THIS!!!” Jake kicked the car tire and pulled out his cell phone. “The cops better do something about this, man. People can’t go around stealing shit all the time without getting busted! This is our spot, man! Ours!”
“This country gets more fucked up by the day. Now you can’t even go for a surf without worrying about getting robbed. I’m telling you, next thing they’ll be holding us up at gunpoint to get our stuff” Matt said, shaking his bulbous head. During the commotion, Clayton found an old t-shirt in his car, wrapped it tightly around his foot, and hobbled over to the three men.
”Sorry guys, if you hadn’t been helping me, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Nah bru, it’s not your fault. You would’ve done the same for us. It’s these beggars and car guards,” he made inverted commas with his stubby index fingers, “always hanging around here, eyeing our shit, our girlfriends and whatever else their drugged up eyes can find.”
“Ya, I always told you okes those guys are dodgy, but you said I was being racist,” pointing a finger at his mates. Toby pulled his wetsuit off his big feet and threw it in the boot of the car.
”We don’t know it was them for sure, Matt. Could have been anyone.”
“Shut up, bru,” Jake said, still waiting for the police to pick up.
“Yeah just shut the hell up, fricken Mr. politically correct. Fuck that. We all know it was them. All working together so you can’t catch them. Check how they took his board, and then their buddies saw us leave and took ours.” Matt stood up, dusted his hands off and then started peeling off his wetsuit in disgust. “If I see any of them tomorrow I’m going to donner them until one of them brings back my board. I don’t care if I kill someone.”
The police eventually arrived half an hour later. Stolen surfboards were not exactly high priority, considering the murder rate and rape statistics in Cape Town. They looked bored as they took the four men’s statements and said they would look into it. Every single one of them, cops included, knew this was not going to happen.
Once the police had left, Clayton thanked Matt, Jake and Toby for their help and apologized again for their boards getting stolen. He climbed gingerly into the car and the door almost fell off when he slammed it closed. He pulled slowly out of the carpark and made the short drive home as fast as he could, which wasn’t very fast at all. The weather had cleared up nicely. He rolled down the window and rested his elbow on the door frame. He shoved a mix tape into the old stereo and hummed along to Alive by Pearl Jam, wondering what would happen tomorrow when Matt confronted Roland, Elroy and the rest of the poor buggers that hung around the beach. Hope they’ll still be alive tomorrow night, he thought, trying to beat away any guilty feelings by singing.
“Oh I, I, oh, oh, I’m still Alive, Oh….” He rounded the corner of Bath and Recreation Road, and spotted a jovial looking Jerry in front of his house. He was clutching two green bottles in his right hand and a yellow surfboard in the other. The big smile that was spread across his face widened even further as the old car chortled passed him.
The electric gate shuddered open and Clayton pulled into the driveway. He turned off the sputtering engine and got out of Ol’ Trusty Rusty, the black iron gate clanging closed behind him. He walked up onto the small half moon balcony at the front of the house and sat down on a long sun bleached bench. He watched as Jerry ambled through the small wooden front gate and joined him after laying the surfboard gently on the red terracotta tiles. Once Clayton had removed the bloody t-shirt from his foot, Jerry handed him an ice-cold Amstel.
“Cheers!”
“Cheers mate!”
The bottles clinked in the pleasant afternoon sunlight. “Heard your board got stolen today,” Jerry grinned. “I did warn you, bru.”
“Yes you did, Jerry. Yes you did.” Clayton nodded his head and then shook it solemnly,” Bad bad people about. Bad through and through.”
“Terrible, just terrible.” They both burst out laughing. Jerry looked down at Clayton’s red stained foot. “That was a nice touch, Clayt. Very nice. Gave me plenty of time.”
“Thanks. My pleasure, bru.” Clayton leaned back and took a deep satisfied breath of sea air, emptied the contents of the bottle down his throat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
“Hey! Hi Ant, yeah, we got three more beauties for you. I’ll bring them over in an hour or so.” He was still smiling when he hung up but Jerry watched as it gradually turned into a frown. Clayton marveled at how easy it was to get away with this, week in and week out. No One suspected the well-off white guy, who didn’t even need the money.
“What’s with the sour face, boet? We did good today.”
“Yes we did. We did good today. Racist bastards. Thanks for the ticket to Bali.” Jerry nodded his head self-righteously and said, “Prejudice is worse than stealing.”
“Wow Jerry, I’m impressed. Where’d you read that.”
“Made it right now.”
“Whatever man.”
“Hey don’t you start with the stereotypes. Surfers can be very intelligent people, boet.”
