Fatty Don't Surf

We've all seen movies and TV shows glorifying surfing and surfers. Tanned, toned, men and women who learn the ancient art, and with Zen-like calm, master raging waves. Who can shake the image of Bodey and Johnny Utah hanging ten in "Point Break", or hearing Robert Duvall, in full combat gear, yell out, "Charlie don't surf" in "Apocalypse Now"? Those images have been seared into my brain. I always knew that someday I would join the ranks of surfer dudes, and I figured what better place to claim my spot than Maui.

"Daughter" and I signed up for a two hour surfing lesson on Wednesday. Part of the pitch was that the academy "guaranteed" they could get everyone standing in one lesson. It's pretty easy to make that claim on paper, it's another thing to live up to it when Big Daddy comes rolling up to your surf shack. I quickly realized there's a reason all surfers have the same body type. They're all slim, cut, and young, three things I am not. They also are very small. Yeah, I missed on that one too. Our instructor, Gene, called us back behind a curtain at the side of the building to give us our surfer wear. There was another couple joining us for the class. "Wife", showing herself to be the brains of the family had decided to be the Annie Liebowitz of the excursion.

Gene got busy passing out the wet suit shirts, or "Rash Wear" and the aqua socks to protect our feet from what I would later find out was a very rocky beach floor. Everyone got fitted pretty easily, then it was my turn. Gene gave me the biggest shirt they had. What a joy. It was about two sizes smaller than what I normally wear. Nothing says hot surfer stud like a giant man squeezed into a tiny neoprene shirt. I felt like a sausage that had been in the microwave too long. Now I know why women stopped wearing girdles. When it came time for the aqua socks, my options were to wear some that were three sizes too small or brave the surf in my sandals. Since I was having so much fun breathing in my tiny casing, I opted for my sandals. At least I would be able to walk to the beach.

We all walked about two blocks to the beach, like a gang of surfers looking for a good time. Once we arrived, Gene got us all boards. These were not the high end wood long boards of legend, but some blue monsters that had seen a few classes. It didn't matter, we were all jazzed to hit the water and get totally tubular. Not so fast grasshopper. Gene gave us a brief lesson on how to actually stand up on the board and what to do if we were heading toward rocks, or if Jaws popped up and wanted to make us a tasty treat. I knew from the minute I laid on the board that I was in trouble. We were told to arch our backs, then quickly bring up our knees, keeping our hands on the board. Sure! Once we were kneeling, we were to put our front foot in the middle of the board, bring up our back foot, stand up, keep our hands on the board and look forward. Sounds simple right. Try dragging your knees across a dry, sand covered surf board about ten times when you have the mass of a small Beluga. My knees know have so many scabs, that I can map out the entire archipelago of the Hawaiian islands. Now Gene told us we were ready to hit the surf.

Tomorrow....The Big Kahuna gets wet. Later...Brian