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from the window

One could be seen on nearly every Saturday morning of the 1959 summer, walking determinedly down Hardy Street with his board on his head and one hand supporting a rail.

The board resting on a wad of his towel that usually slipped out at least once and had to be refashioned before he could descend any further.

The board too wide to be carried under his arm. He’s tried it once or twice and nearly dropped it onto the road. Splinters on the rails would rip away at his skinny arms.

He was barefoot under a pair of colourless shorts that ended just above his knees and an untucked T-shirt washed thin. He was all bones and big-footed.

He folded the towel, settled it onto the middle of his head then stooping he retrieved the nine foot six-inch slab of balsa with its prize-fighter’s bruises and soft pouches of degraded fibreglass that oozed water when pressed, swung it up onto his head and continued down Hardy Street on his resolute way to the surf.

A mile distant.

header pic by Alexandra Antigna, Child Looking Out the Window.

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