things that only a surfer knows – the mentawi lacerations
A month in the Mentawis.
< – – – without her.
Now you have a problem.
A surfer is a fine young man who can be trusted just about anywhere; those instances that come by and tempt lesser men pass a surfer by unseen. He is a different mortal. A prince among men. A quality person. A mother’s joy.
The surfer has the thousand-yard mind. He is always out there either physically or mindfully, and he has the original two-track mind. One there and one back. We have read the phsychology, done the research. This is a learned article.
Three days ago he was enjoying Macaronis, big and shallow. The last session of the last day and of course this was the only day in four weeks that he bumped the reef and lost a little bark off his left and right shoulders. Shallow cuts, about four or five each side. Remarkable how symmetrical they looked after the boat quack* cleaned them up, almost like deliberately carved tribal scars.
Nice. A Mentawi Titi.
She’ll be impressed.
Women distrust just about everything. The label on the new dress, the clarity of the diamond, the year of the champagne, the origin of the fur and the boyfriend who has just come back from a month in Indonesia. A month on a boat with eight other men and no women, and Indonesia being next to Thailand almost. Thailand ..!
Women know about Thailand, they know to avoid any male who holidays up there regularly and who comes home tired and pale – and itchy. They know those men. Like that single GP in North Bondi (are you with me here sis?)
^ She knows too. She’s read all John Burdetts’ novels.
The trouble started on the dance-floor. Party time in some city establishment, everybody very happy and loving, everybody so busy having lotsa fun until she dug a long red fingernail a little too deep into one shoulder and you yelped, just a little. But that’s ok, she didn’t hear it, too much going on/in.
The real trouble started when you took her back to the bar and turned to order a couple of Green Vespers, that’s when she saw faint traces of blood on the back of your shirt. But that’s ok, Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.
The extremely serious trouble started back at her flat. A month is a long time you see, for everyone, this is human nature – so things sometimes get a little hurried at that stage of the evening. Read Kinsey, this is not new ground.
Assertive women in the throes of passion are a joy to behold (Kinsey again), particularly when they forgo the shirt buttons and riiiiip the thing off your back – so much to do and so little time. And of course all the cuts had their protective scabs peeled off as well and this time she certainly did hear the yelp and when she turned you around and saw the double-handed fingernail rips all down your back the night was over.
Explain all you like.
Thailand … !!
*doctor (kind of)
When a bloke tells me he’s vacationing in Thailand – what’s most transparent – are all the facial tells… as he tries to convince me its just about Phuket’s beaches and discount shopping…
“Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder” – ha ha ha! Tell me you haven’t been waiting years to use that line, eh, Pete?
I’m being fair dinkum here Steve, but it came out of nowhere and I didn’t realise the link between absence and absinthe for quite some time – but I do fancy it
Jeez, Pete! Spontaneously witty as well as brilliant. Get thee to a publisher….
“the single GP in North Bondi” -: Max Guymer was long gone by the times trips to Indo and SE Asia came along yet he was always good with the certificates especially, for wharfies, fireys, Qantas air crew and Garden Island people. Otherwise he may have satisfied part of the “those men” description in a perverted sort of way.
my lad was another lad Ted, mystery why blokes do that – it always ends up tears at bedtime