Thursday, March 19, 2009

Dairy rights

(the brief and inconsequential lead in)

After the on-shores came up and the crowds would get in their cars and drive home. The tide pushing or pulling enough water between jetty and sandbar, over the long-forgotten broken, rusty stems of another era.

Reformed white water waves hit the bank and threw over themselves, square little pegs that gurgled and spat ugly. But before they met the rip along the pier that closed the loop you could hold a line as true as any Surfer cover star had shown you how it was done. Right before the inside rail of your board met the roof of the wave and you went ass over tea kettle, hoping not to meet the sand or rock or god forbid the rusty remnant of the city's past experiment in safe bathing enclosures.

As the wind blew harder and the little jetty battled to give you any cover from the surf destroying wind, brief nuggets of free-fall made it worthwhile to try and dodge blue bottles and closeouts. Until the tide took the wave out to the edge of the jetty where it now became one wall of water after another and it was your turn to leave and pack the car.....

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