more women in the surf means no more problems. 1 of a series
Women have their place, this is agreed. The bed, the kitchen and the second best seat in the house for watching TV.
Women cannot play rugby, or cricket – they risk the fractures of the boxing ring and their chess game is bloodless. Their body-surfing technique suffers as they are waaaay too buoyant to slip inside the body of a wave, they don’t drink schooners and are unable to swear continuously and coherently. In short, they lack a male relevance.
– so they say. Them being not us.
Women though do belong in the surf, and they belong all around it. This can be used to our advantage.
Take the early. If more women surfed than men then the early would be a lonely place. Where the man can just get up and take his bad air out with him, the woman has a inbuilt list of early morning grievances that must be settled before she leaves the house. Like making the bed. Women do that, and perfume.
Then there is the obligatory 35 minutes in the bathroom – this is both and expulsion and retention exercise that has an infernal and necessary rhythm whether the lady arises at 4 am or 11 pm. Braver men have remarked on the total absence of sound from a room where so much hard labour is being undertaken. Papers bottles and sprays. Brushes soaps creams and rinses. Scissors and files.
Certain research undertaken by the Ponds Institute has revealed that those relationships which involve both a male and a female surfer invariably end in serious commercial disrespect – a man can’t wait forever. To love and honour yes ..
Women don’t like to travel alone to some dark beach where half-naked men gather together in their early morning surf rituals. Some things you cannot witness without good coffee. That means that a car full of ladies with the same time demands as ^ may well take 5 hours to get to the beach for the early, given the feminine logistics – so how can this be bad?
And do you think that when they finally arrive at the beach they will tip out of the car like mad dogs, all in a frenzy to get out there and amongst it? This doesn’t happen, women are orderly – clothes that take 30 minutes to put on take 35 to take off. Plus fold and stack. The only disadvantage here is that the ladies insist on using the municipal facilities. No glimpses.
Upshot is, the more of them means the less of them – in the morning.
This is undeniably excellent, so good in fact that we can move on to the female surfing ‘ pack ‘ mentality. There is much to explore.
‘ Women, ‘ said Mr. Stephen Hawking, ‘ are a mystery.’
petebowes.com 
Women are much more than a mystery.
Going on 7am here with the first macking south swell of the season booming away in the darkness. Offshore wind swaying the palm trees as I load up the truck for the great escape up the road for some adventure. Sleep my pretty, sleep. Either that or start carrying stuff to the truck. You know the drill dearie.
It always interests me when “I” proceeds as a singular individual personality whilst the perceived “opposite” sex, whichever that may be, gets lumped into some amorphous group (“them”) and then sacked by the author-“I” for all the things they dislike (or like) by another singular individual. Says more about the author than it does about the group they (attempt to) discuss, I imagine. Mirrors aplenty.
You’re an American, right?
Irony. It exists…..
I’d like to say you are full of *&%#…but I can’t…
The gloves…
I recall standing beside my desk in Miss Moldovan’s third grade class on the first day of the school year, filled with fear and trepidation. I was a frail and bashful child who had already been enrolled in three different school systems. The proverbial new kid with no friends, trying hard to focus upon something positive to quell the churning in my stomach and put a halt to my overwhelming anxiety.
As I scanned the room, sizing up the other students, my eyes fell upon a vision of such beauty and resplendence my fears were soon forgotten. Her name was Sebi. She was a pert little beauty with blond hair worn in the Pixie style fashionable in those days. Her full lips and round face were accentuated by large blue eyes, one slightly askance, which sparkled like the surface of a sun-dappled mountain stream in early Spring. I was hopelessly smitten, and determined to get past my shyness and meet the object of my adoration so we could begin a life of blissful harmony together.
The weeks went by, and I could barely bring myself to look at Sebi, much less speak to her, but my love for her intensified like a pyrotechnic display gone out of control at a Great White concert.
I noticed that at recess many of the boys would play a game that involved a huge pack of kids chasing one with a ball, the object was to wrest the ball from it’s holder and attempt to keep it as long as possible. Sebi was the only girl involved in this rough and tumble pursuit, and she excelled. She could absorb a punishing blow as well as deliver one, a powerful runner who could outdistance most of the boys. This, of course, only further endeared her to me. I knew I must involve myself in that game.
I began playing, careful to stay on the perimeter to avoid injury, but always keeping an eye on Sebi, not sure what my next move would be. The answer came one afternoon when I got close to the kid with the ball and the group fell as one. I remember falling on my back, but instead of my head hitting the hard ground, it was cushioned by something soft and indescribably pleasant. I looked up and to my surprise and delight, I found that I had fallen with my head resting in Sebi‘s lap! It was a feeling of joy which I had never before experienced. All I could manage to do was look up into her face and smile the blissful, broad smile of a fool in love.
Within a split second, Sebi jumped to her feet, my head bouncing hard on the ground. She looked down at me, and with an evil sneer, delivered two savage and powerful kicks to my head. I still vividly recall the dull thudding sound with each blow as she raced off to find the ball and resume the game. I lay on the ground confused and bewildered, holding back tears.
In the subsequent days I found that the rising knots on my head, though painful, were nothing when compared to the anguish of my bruised and broken, eight-year-old heart. A heart which never fully recovered. Those two swift kicks pretty much set the tone for my romantic life, one filled with love-gone-wrong, failed marriages, child custody hearings and long, lonely nights spent masturbating to pictures of half-naked biker chicks in a hazy, NyQuil induced semi-stupor.
I still think of Sebi sometimes. I’m sure she’s very happy. Probably a full-blown bull dike playing forward for an international rugby team.
But, I’m not bitter.
She surfed better than me.
what’s more interesting than your waste of time/comment is,…. everyone surfs not only better,… but FAR more often than you, rottkamp.
still, one must wonder, will you rotty, eclipse the record MP set for the number of times spent in rehab, which currently sits at 30… or quite the opposite of Michael Peterson’s, those voices in YOUR head spewing the neggo junk.
“and eventually he was moved to Wacol Prison Hospital on 25 December 1983 for psychiatric treatment. His schizophrenia was, at long long last, diagnosed and he received Mellaril medication. He also took two electroshock treatments in the hope they would help (giving his own consent for that).
At the end of his sentence Peterson returned to the Gold Coast and lived either at care facilities or with his mother. His medication helped considerably but he lived those years almost as a recluse, rarely seeking out former friends. A poor diet and the medication (especially Clozaril) saw his weight balloon, to the point where those who knew him in his lanky muscular prime in the 1970s could scarcely recognise him.
Like most schizophrenics Peterson heard voices, but he was one of the lucky few whose voices are friendly and he could chat away to them, or sort of marshal the troops when trying to keep to a diet”.
“support various local mental health services like those who looked after him over the years.
He hadn’t surf since some time in the mid 1980s, but told Doherty “I haven’t given it away! Who told you that? Is that what’s getting around?”.
“His friends had hopes that maybe on a mini-mal somewhere away from prying eyes his spark might be rekindled; many of his peers (“Rabbit” Bartholomew say) still surf”…
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Peterson_(surfer)
Thanks for reading my comment.
I skipped reading your Wikipedia quote since almost anyone can edit Wikipedia and it’s full of as many lies as Steve Shearer (read the latest Outsider piece – first paragraph).
Steve Shearer aside Rottkamp, how many times have YOU attended rehab?
If it was the times Andy or MP attended, do you think that reaching the number 30 will do the trick for you?
Bru, I only wish you the best with your personal challenges.
motherfuckingwankingshitheadcocksuckingfuck!
my bet here is that ‘bec is paraphrasing the attacking cry of a full-blown bull dike breakaway as she bears down on the other team’s five-eight ..
Nope. Just swearing continuously and coherently. And that is a heavily edited version of my better efforts.
Enjoy!
It’s the homophobic words you guys are using that would leave a bad taste in my mouth if I lowered myself to use them.
.. who happens to be a gay muslim african with a good left foot fade-away gimp.
A person is perfectly entitled does to make a comment such as ‘bec has done here – if that is what you could call it – however, is that person likely to make similar comments everywhere and every time someone uses homophobic words on the internet, or just here?
Nope – that would be a full-time job! But in this case I did feel compelled to dissociated the linking of my words to homophobia. But I do speak against it when I hear it in conversations I am in. Absolutely.
I only commented because I thought it would amuse you, but it always leads me down a usual path that I find scratchy and muddy, so I won’t bother next time. Oh well. (shrugs)
(shrugs) not permitted – never a bother
Airless silver white
ripples spreading wide
green blue black
a beconing
warm enticing danger
a flash of colour
solid silver white
run to blue taken
flashing circles end
solid liqued flight
soundless wordless death
lifeless bloodied trodden
washed away
airless sliver white
ripples spreading wide