What is it? The effects of two years of disruptive lockdowns, climate change, imminent meteor strikes, government-sponsored spiking of our drinking water with a Vicodin-peyote cocktail? Whatever the actual cause; the fact is, our beachfronts have become petri dishes for cultivating insanity.
It all began a month ago.
Trident had just finished surfing. One of those fun but most unmemorable sessions (we say this as we absolutely forgot how the session actually was) and we had just finished rinsing off at the shower. (Ed’s note: see the above-mentioned comment on our drinking water.) Anyway, moving along. As we began walking back to our car, we noticed a pretty average dude alone in a pretty average car parked an average distance from the beach proper.
Now, Trident normally probably would’ve ignored said gent altogether, but he was moving rather wildly. Yes, Trident knows what you’re thinking, but that would at least be somewhat expected albeit completely foul. No, this guy was thrashing about in his front seat, trying to pluck his nostril hairs like he was defeathering a live goose. Now, we all groom ourselves (or at least we should – Filthy Furry Ol’ Al, we’re talking about you bru) but there’s a time and a place to do it.
“famously weird beach spheres” by wockerjabby is marked with CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.
Grooming oneself in public. The beach is not the place.
And the time and place to groom oneself is not in the relative tranquility and serenity of a sunny afternoon at the beach in your damn car. Although no doubt many ladies would quickly apply make-up at the beachfront in a pinch, Trident doubts they would say, shave their legs on a towel on the sand. And once again, we could be wrong, but Trident doubts they would do their bikini wax while wading in the shorebreak.
Surfing’s popularity exploded during the lockdowns. Fact. We therefore share the lineup with all kinds of souls these days. From the big muscular jock flapping around in the shorey on a boogieboard, to the cult members seated on their longboards, chanting at the the rising sun while giving praise to Ra, or Ishtar, or Cthulhu or Bob the Unholy, Lord of all seaweed shorter than 30cm in length.
The lineups are weird enough of late, true. But the car park is where the real lobotomy victims seem to hang out. Drooling. Like the family who drives all the way to the beach, only to sit next to their car, eating supermarket rotisserie chicken and listening to music in camping chairs. Which said family could have done in their own garage without subjecting the entire parking lot to tunes which sound like a hippo farting with a whistle stuck up its bum.
“26/12/2008 (Day 2.361) – Boxing Day Body-Boarding” by Kaptain Kobold is marked with CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.
The car park. The Arkham Asylum of the surfing world.
The car park is the spot you generally first see other surfers. They’re either your mates, your enemies, faces you know but don’t know the names of. Or strangers. Like the one car pulling in, hardcore expletive-riddled rap blaring from its windows at 100 decibels. Trident just had to see who came out. It was a baby-faced suburban dude, notable only to Trident as the idiotic bodyboarder in the lineup who tried to ride everyone’s wave so close they could’ve been mistaken for a remora fish.
A few weeks ago, in Trident’s headquarters, some moron crashed his car before proceeding to strip completely stark raving naked and casually stroll down the beachfront road in oncoming traffic. All the while happily singing and waving at everyone (with more than just his hands) for the almost 3 kilometres it took for the authorities to apprehend him.
Like we said, is it just us or is the beachfront becoming seriously weird lately?
