being in the nude
The bastard had it coming.
The way I see it is that surfers are a pretty modest bunch. Plenty of boofheads amongst us, lots of economy priced egos but a modest bunch of bastards above all.
Board shorts seem to exemplify this exemplary trait. We don’t expose.
This bloke could have used a pair.
Now board shorts didn’t just happen; way back when you blokes were just tadpoles in your granddad’s plumbing we figured out the only way to combat the inner thigh rash you got from sitting on a balsa log was to wear long shorts. Footy gear just wasn’t up to it.
You see, we never minded fifty blokes falling off the same wave back then, and with all those rails banging together and all that abraded fiberglass tearing away at a blokes’ inner thigh someone had to come up with an answer.
Board shorts.
Not this bloke though.
It happened this way.
I like to run on soft sand, a lot of blokes do, and the soft sand is usually best just at the top of the dunes next to the fence.
Palm Beach has a regular crew slogging the miles up there, men and women, young and old, fit and fast, old and slow.
Mick Slater (ex -Australian opening batsman) struggled past the other day, chasing some woman twice his age.
So I’m just at the top of the run, coming up under the BJ cliffs, and just off to my right is this bloke sunbaking.
In the bollocky.
On his back and in the bollocky.
Now am I the first man since Adam who reckons that a front on glimpse of another bloke’s wedding tackle is a little on the unnecessary side?
And that’s what got me cheesed off is that this bloke is laying bait here, on my track, up at the end of the best place in Sydney. He’s exhibiting the orchestras and hoping for an encore.
Everyone uses this track! So why doesn’t he chuck a nudie down on Barrenjoey road? He’s got to be able to strike it lucky down there with all the holiday traffic around.
So I stopped and walked over to him; youngish bloke he was about 30+, slim and brown all over, legs wide apart, oiled up like buttered chicken.
Eyes closed.
First I reminded him that this was a public beach.
No eye movement.
Then I suggested that a roving crew of clubbies might find his behaviour immodest (kids everywhere and all heading for the Big dune as usual) – and notifiably illegal in a public place. (Ask Mr. Lewthwaite)
No eye movement.
Then I told him to piss off, a couple of times, loudly, insistently.
Here and at last we got plenty of eye movement, and as he slowly reached into his bag for something (gun? undies? money?) I did the completely forgivable necessary thing.
I dug my foot into the dry sand and kicked a bucket full of the stuff all over his glossy nude hide and the little bits hanging in between.
So, how was your day?
