A six-foot wave at Long Beach, New York, took my
manhood and made me an object of derision…
cuck·old
nounarchaic
noun: cuckold; plural noun:
cuckolds
1. The husband of an adulteress, often regarded as an
object of derision.
verb. (Of a man) make (another man) a cuckold by
having a sexual relationship with his wife.
Its true. Kinda…
In 1936 Ernest Hemingway published an amazing short story called
The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber. In it, Macomber
and his wife travel to Africa for a hunting safari. Their guide is
a strapping, rugged and emotionless stud (a fear in and of
itself for every belly bulging, hair-line receding hubby) called
Robert Wilson.
Macomber hits a lion, but it doesn’t die. It stumbles into a
heavily wooded/grassy area. Their guide, Robert Wilson, tells
Macomber he can’t leave the lion that way. He needs to go into the
bush and finish the kill. Macomber becomes terrified. Wilson says
he will go with him. Macomber’s wife, Margarate, is watching this
all unfold. That is to say, the first piece of her husband’s
masculinity starts to fade when she senses his fear.
They go into the bush. Macomber succumbs to fear. Wilson kills
the lion. Macomber is stripped of his manhood. His wife, Margarate,
on the ride back to camp, kisses Robert Wilson right in front of
her husband.
There’s more.
Later, Macomber wakes in the middle of the night to find his
wife absent from her cot. She walks in some time later. He calls
her a bitch. The next day she “accidently” shoots him to what
Wilson says “will be a certain amount of unpleasantness at the
inquest. The gun bearers will serve as witnesses …but you should be
ok.”
A six-foot wave at Long Beach, New York, took my manhood and
made me cuckold.
(It wasn’t big. Pretty good form from the higher tide.
East-south-east angle. The water was cold though. Around
forty-one degrees.)
Actually, now that I think back on it, that bulging swell of
salt water did look like a lion rushing out of a tranquil bush.
Long Beach (NY) locals (who rarely surrender a set wave) posed as
the gun bearers and surrogate wives watching and waiting for me to
turn and pop up. The current had drifted them toward the end
section of the lineup. I had just paddled back out.
So I sat there alone. Waiting.
I paddled toward the peak. The hoots continued. I turned toward
shore, dug my hands into the water and started paddling. As I
looked down the line, a cadre of NY locals staring through me, I
realized I did not like the look of the wave. Looked like a
closeout. Didn’t feel like getting pinched by fifteen cubic yards
of ice cold Atlantic with a fraction of possible Hep C. Sorry.
Eight hooded black rubber suits bobbing at the end of the
line slowly making their way back to the take-off point. Watching
me sit there. Detached. About 60 yards out to sea, we all saw the
peak of a set wave begin to pyramid. It marched closer.
In the ocean, amid all that expanse, there are no buildings or
cars to muffle noises or calls. Especially when your sitting there
alone and the signals are meant for you…
“YEWWWWWW……”
“YEAHHHHH…..”
“EEEEEUUUUUU…”
These howls translate to “YOU BETTER GO PUSSY!!!”
There was nowhere to go. There was no other surfer around to
relinquish priority to.
I paddled toward the peak. The hoots continued. I turned toward
shore, dug my hands into the water and started paddling. As I
looked down the line, a cadre of NY locals staring through me, I
realized I did not like the look of the wave. Looked like a
closeout. Didn’t feel like getting pinched by fifteen cubic yards
of ice cold Atlantic with a fraction of possible Hep C. Sorry.
The pull back was awful.
Open mouths. Shaking heads. A couple of “un-fucking
believables.”
Whatever……
However way you try to play it off like it doesn’t bother you,
like Hemingway and Macomber, there is a side of us that is sickened
when we cower. When we shy away from the reality of a manhood
challenge. I felt that tinge of nausea in my belly.
I walked back to the car some time after.
Hoping my wife was not on the beach. Hoping the ammunition store
was not open yet.
