The price of surfing a Beater!

Bitch, you’ve got no ass. I heard the call from somewhere behind me. I was wiggling my way out of my wetsuit after a short evening surf. The scene included the usual California shit — swaying palm trees, glowing sunset, surfboards in the parking lot. I missed the green flash. Maybe I blinked.

I was at the kind of generic beach break that repeats predictably up and down the California coast. There’s a parking lot and a lifeguard tower and public bathrooms with an archeological dig’s worth of sand and who knows what else on the floor. There’s a lot of infrastructure, is what I’m saying. Concrete walls and boardwalks, these are somehow necessary to keep the beach where it belongs.

The disembodied voices of the lifeguards announce things with varying degrees of urgency. Tonight it was to ensure we all knew that they were going home for the day, and to be sure not to drown. I felt reasonably confident I could make that promise in the knee-high dribblers bitch-slapping the sand.

I once thought it would be pretty great to be a lifeguard when I grew up. Drive around in the red trucks. Zip along on jetskis. Squint at the sun and the tides. Know exactly where to place the flag that demarcates the swim zone from the wild, free waters for surfing. These all seemed like important jobs to eight-year-old me as I rode my boogie board in my favorite red bathing suit.

I didn’t grow up to be a lifeguard but there I was back at that same childhood beach. I slid along a tiny right on the edge of the swim zone, thumbing my nose at the authorities I’d once looked up to. I was on a softop, so I wasn’t breaking the rules. At least that was my argument. It’s just a little baby softop, what harm could it possibly do?

The Beater was supposed to be my boy of summer. When I got it, I wasn’t even sure I could ride it. Is this thing even surfable? Oh, but it is. It’s ridiculous and fun. I rode it in head-high, sloppy surf when the freeway was closed last month. It spins and slides and makes me laugh, which is a very good thing when the world isn’t as funny as it should be.

My goofball softop boyfriend was perfect for the evening’s dribblers and I giggled and slipped right on down the line. Before threading through the parking lot, I stood for a moment on the wall to watch the sunset. It’s a ritual I can never skip.

There were a variety of boards lounging around, including the usual allotment of Wavestorms. A pair of beautifully gloss-coated single fins looked like they’d just stepped out of a time machine from 1978. There was even a couple of shortboards. I applauded their optimism as I strolled by, softop swinging under my arm.

The car rolled up behind me as I shimmied out of my suit. Bass lines bumped and laughter spilled out the car windows. A solid crew crammed into a black compact, out for a cruise and looking for a party, as much a California ritual as sunsets and the rest of it. Bitch, you’ve got no ass. She hung out the window, all bright sass and spark, calling me out.

I laughed as I turned and caught her eye. She stared back at me. She looked a little embarrassed that I’d heard her, but also defiant. You know I’m right, she seemed to be saying.

And then she was gone. The laughter echoing on the evening breeze was the only trace that she’d been there at all. Oh girl, I hope you have fun out there tonight, I thought.

And it’s true, you know. I really do have no ass.