Yesterday, I went surfing in a fairly remote place with Karl.
The conditions are neither what we expected nor hoped for. The waves are small and mushy and it hardly looked worth going in.
I was there with Carol we were in the middle of nowhere so we went anyway. Karl, I thought, had the right board - a great big log of a longboard. It has more float than a farting duck. I was riding a mid-length board. It made writing these waves more like mixing a McDonald's milkshake. I wasn't going anywhere.
With no small amount of envy I watched Carl catch wave after wave after wave.
I've got the wrong board, I shouted to him. He smiled and kept on paddling.
I eventually reached it tipping point. I was frustrated, irritated, and ready to get the hell out of the water. Then something important happened.
Fuck it.
I hit a fucking point. I decided to start belly riding on waves. I just started to start writing on my knees on my surfboard. Essentially I decided to just start playing with what I had, rather th…
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