“He Boo-boo!” He called from the surf, waves splashing over his head, easily body-surfing in waves that terrified me. He could’ve well been calling me, or the dog, in that charming, yea, fetching…indeed fetching, tone.
I rolled eyes up from my book and observed. The dog, perched near me, observed his master from a distance, looking as fearful of the surf as myself. I chuckled, rolling over, book in hand, unencumbered. Boo-boo seemed to have chosen his location as though he knew kin sat there: fellow common-sensers who realized they had no business messing with mother nature’s perfect sequence of splash and mash.
It was still a delicate and graceful process; the way those men succumbed to the surf. There was a deep respect, and therefore, survival mode, that went into knowing how each curl would break, and how fast before the next one came in. There was true dancing beauty to their craft.
I glanced down at my bikini and thought again. No, if I were to attempt such a thing, the pillows of my breasts would spring forth and the bikini top would possibly be lost forever. In smaller surf, sure, millions of times I’d done it. But not here. I sighed and rolled over again, becoming immersed in the incivility of wild-west lynchings and good ol’boy personas.