Yours Truly hopes to make another “Surf Director” run to Folly
Beach this week. It’s an easy job: Sit in a big canvas beach chair next to a cooler. In the foreground, my blown out knee. Beyond that, 20 yards of hot sand dotted with bikinis or at least bikini bottoms. Out beyond the bikinis, Malibu Nick will be on a wave or under one. And beyond him, the thin pencil line of my horizon: worlds I left behind and others that await.
It’s good to listen to the sea (aka Jimmy Buffet’s “Mother Ocean”). Usually, we pick up right where we left off. A familiar voice. Familiar dialogue. Familiar points of view. Mother Ocean and I go way back. Splitting up when we did a few years back was a necessary evil (it turned out my first wife, from Cleveland/Philly, absolutely hated “The Sunshine State”). O well.
Malibu Nick’s my brother-in-law. His wife/my sister wants me to bring binoculars for spotting the kind of sharks that eat surfboards and surfers.I’m not going to. That would be spying. What happens on Folly should stay on Folly.
Besides, if a fin or two actually popped up out there, Malibu Nick would never hear me, never see me waving my arms. And it’s not as if I’m going to run up and down the beach upsetting the tourists, not as if I’m going to call in an air strike.
At that point, a trip to the Folly would no longer feel like a day away from the office.
PS: Apparently there’s a band of thieves on the loose disguised as middle-aged housewives from North Dakota…
Now I know what happened to my other sandal last month.
And I owe Malibu Nick an apology –guess it wasn’t him that drank my last two beers.
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If you see me surf directing on Folly, don’t be afraid to stop by. You won’t be interrupting much. You can have a melted peanut butter sandwich. We bring a big bag of them and some peaches too.
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Surf Director at Pineapple Hill