And Lord, were they fetching, those boys. They stood in small bands along the beach, tanned and bleached and orthodontured. I overheard the California guys bitching about it as breaking in water too shallow: Not worth wasting the wax on, dude. Then they were running down the immaculate white sand with their boards - Doonie and Dave, Quinn and Easy and the quiet Forsythe.īut by Orange County standards, the surf sucked.
I'm gonna carve those waves up like your mama's Christmas turkey. From the time we'd hit the state line, he'd been going into phone booths to skim directories for the guy's name.ĭoonie tucked his board under his arm, saying, y'all little bitches stand here and fight it out. His sole source of pride was the obvious lie that his old man had invented the water bed, then tragically had his patent pinched by some California engineer. Blond as Jean Harlow, pimply, he was also skinny enough to crash a junior high dance.
We called him Quinn the Eskimo, since he'd just moved to Leechfield from the Alaskan oil fields where his daddy had worked. My hair was three days without soap, and my baggy cutoffs were held up with a belt of braided twine a pal of ours made in prison. The crotch of it hung down so low that for him to walk, he had to cowboy swagger. He zipped up his outsize wet suit with force. Quinn spat in the sand and said, She's always like Miss Brainiac, or something, or like she's fine.
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