"I know as a lifelong surfer that I am not part of the beach-going scene, but I resent it now more than ever."
A series of peaks refracted beyond the jetty shadow.
The rights broke cross current elbowing toward shore while the lefts ran a fair bit straighter.
Each side featured a hit on the oncoming section, super fun.
The water had cooled and there were other people out, a surprise that only Covid could supply. I didn’t mind, I had three peaks to myself and the incessant chatter from the chickens just south of my position was being suffocated by a crisp offshore.
I milked the morning dry and took a photo before I left.
Forecast was more of the same and I settled into the potential of a week with something to do, however illegal it was to park or cross the sands of this quiet beach.
I love eyeing up an oncoming left, dropping into the forward trough, squaring off the bottom and burying my fins through a bang.
Love love love.
The drive home was becoming so usual, another empty highway and nowhere to eat with pretty waitresses.
Decided to check the parkway on the incoming tide.
Another lonely drive except for the six sheriff SUV’s strategically parked every mile… more than I’ve ever seen on this stretch of road. Police tape must be in as short a supply as toilet paper because this six-mile section of road is taped off against parking on both sides of the two-lane road.
To even slow incurs a visit from the bored sheriff.
Points were not worth that stall, but the sand above one point looked promising and I had to have a quick look.
Where the two Sheriff on bikes arrived from I do not know and I left the scene before our conversation.
Roadway signs on the highway flash “Closed Beaches”, but the reality is in our town, the coppers will not enforce any sign.
“Signs, signs, everywhere the signs, do this don’t do that can’t you read the sign.”
Arriving home, the estuary bar deserves a check so I grab the pup for a stroll. All of our parking signs now include caustic warnings, but all the cops are on the empty stretch of road leading into town.
Beach is packed with fuckwits. I know as a lifelong surfer that I am not part of the beach-going scene, but I resent it now more than ever.
Our town is asked to distance and the closure of beach parking just means inland hordes parking on our streets instead of city lots. To call the plan counterintuitive only justifies the strategy as an actual plan.
And did I mention, unenforced.
Distancing is as unheard of as gas conservation or recycling to these mindless fucks.
The bar looks wonky, backwash from the seawall is making cheddar of the wind swell.
I missed the tide here by an hour.
Coop is happy as fuck though and she prances back to the house having successfully pooped and peed. She makes me happy.
As is my process, I check in with email as I feed her a sweet potato treat.
Client for August wants me to explain the “Act of God” clause in my retainer contract.
Shall I mention my Atheism?
Gay boys for Labor Day weekend want to know what their cancelation opportunity may be; it appears the Ritz Carlton isn’t returning their deposit?
But the third email floored me.
As of April 2019, my health insurance premium with Anthem Blue Cross is rising again for the third time for 20%. Haven’t seen a doctor officially for more than four years and the deductible renders the policy unusable except for disaster.
I call a trusted doctor. I’ve been on some sick boat trips with him and although we don’t agree politically, he and I have shared moments that define our lives.
“Doc, what do I do?”
His take was, seventy percent of Yankee Doodles will contract Covid and hiding in isolation only delays the inevitable. His only lament was I missed my annual trip down under. He wanted to go, but is suffering from a recent divorce.
I look at Coop again and she is smiling.
How do dogs do that? So content to eat and shit.
We curl up in a ball and I resist looking at porn for at least a nap.