marrying a surfer – category 2
- Stockbrokers 1929
More Mature Category (Too late to change)
Aged anywhere between twenty-five and forty, members of this category write their choice of surfing destinations for the coming weekend in their work diary only after they have completed extensive Internet research involving reading synoptic charts and interpreting wave models, all on their employer’s time. They network on the matter. They Skype each other.
This in itself is a distinctive act of corporate defiance that betrays some remnant sign of rebellious youth, a time long disposed to the backlot of memory, where it lies dormant and overgrown, never to be watered back to life, for the children’s sake.
None of who incidentally show any sign of wanting to follow anyone’s’ footsteps into the high surf, whether it be summer or winter. Northern Rivers or Northern Beaches.
Pale and unwholesome, these children spend their days closeted indoors in darkened rooms crouched over keyboards or control gadgets, hoping for a winning outcome or an addition to their collection of Very Good Friends – not unlike Stockbrokers. They (the stockbrokers) are the ones out there on the $3,000 per each Stand Up Paddle Boards; ungainly contraptions built to harness the imperfect vagaries of a natural tumult – which is unapologetically and with respect, yet another stockbroking allegory.
This lack of physical potential in their children may be viewed as the first of an unwelcome series of failures that will dog this category all the way to The Declining Years, but that was yesterday’s, and this one’s now.
The More Mature usually arrive at the beach in a convoy of SUV’s direct from the coffee bar, and if it is a brisk winter’s morning they remain inboard and talk to each other through their windows or over their Blackberries, in summer they head for the sun and the council benches.
They do not hurry.
The More Mature, you see, equate haste with indecision, and sloth with circumspection.
A lifetime in a large corporation will do that to you.
Later, and after some considerable consultation, they may decide to embark upon the raging waters, and it is here we begin to see the damage done.
That chap over there, the heavyweight Barrister with a shaven skull and Taiwanese Atayal tattoo circling his atrophied tricep, the one sliding out his dimpled 5’6” Indo Pintail from his dimpled 2.4 litre Land Rover Defender. The board bought new in 1975 from a trusted source better known for his ability to deliver good quality Bangalow Bushy, back when Eric Clapton was still speaking to Ginger Baker.
Just the shot for an overblown Palm Beach shore dump.
The fellow beside him, the suave grey-haired old boy, the Accountant, the CPA, the one who seems to have some perennial affliction with his genitals – always the little tug, the little adjustment, and all done without any overt pleasure. Not unlike his professional instincts. Always looking for the right fit, be it financials or testicles.
The More Mature suffers greatly from the ravages of gravity. They are known at times to observe, in a Socratic moment, that unlike death by Hemlock – a slowly cold expiration that creeps upwards – death by gravity is the opposite, in that the deflagration tends downward, towards the undug plot.
Later they gather around the surfclub showers in their weighty confluence, unhaired and flatulent, pale spectres of their unbounded youth, bound now by relative wealth and position. Hardbreathers and big eaters, reasonable men swept clean of all those wild and youthful idiosyncrasies.
Sometimes they may catch the eyes of their wives over the firelight, and know that the sheen of tears she wears is for boy she has lost, not the man she watches.
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