13 – Monkey’s Wedding
Around 2pm, when we’ve dragged the morning out as long as our stomachs thought possible, four of us walk the half hour to the supermarket to get the standard packet of crisps and rolls. Nothing happens quickly and it takes a full half an hour at least to negotiate money and orders from the others. Even negotiating the route there takes time as it’s vital that we find the grassiest way, since none of us have thought to bring our slops and are forced to sprint some sections of the hot-coals road in our bear feet. Inside the supermarket we alternate cooling our seared feet on the cold grills of the open fridge. We walk around through the aisles, talking loudly in our worst Afrikaans surfer-imposter accents and pay with great handfuls of coins.
After lunch the beach gets more crammed with the tourist crowds moving along the walkway beneath us. Bored we walk among them, pretending they weren’t there, getting in their way. In the middle of the footpath we make an ever widening circle, booting a football between ourselves until we’ve forced the circle wide enough they have to walk on the grass to get past until the no-car-police amble slowly up to us and tell us to move off which we do.
We rush onto the pier when the lifeguards change over at 3.30 with our boards and fins in hands. The new lifeguard see’s us and runs out onto the pier, blowing his whistle. Hopping around, we attach fins to our feet, climb the rail and throw ourselves off the end of the pier onto the top of the swell two metres down before he can get to us. The backline more or less matches up with the end of the pier anyway so once in it’s not too much further to paddle out.
The water is brown, muddy and warm and briefly refreshing until you acclimatise. We stay out for a while, bobbing on the swells, sitting up on our boards trying to keep balance as the slow swells break a couple of metres in front of us.
The sets are fairly constant and break at roughly the same place as they role in. Occasionally our tranquillity is broken by the sudden onset of a large swell far beyond the backline and we have to paddle frantically back to duck the looming wash.
Bored and having reasoned that the lifeguard must be sufficiently preoccupied with drowning or sunburnt Vaalies, we paddle across the pier to launch ourselves on another beach with another life saver. In turn, we catch our first wave of the day back to shore.
By the time the sun should be in your eyes it’s as dark as night and pouring with rain so heavy it’s a continuous stream. My neck and back feel tight under my shirt from today’s sun and my feet feel hot where I’ve burnt them on the hot tarmac. We have the beach to ourselves now and the air smells smoky from steamed rain on hot paved streets. We huddle under a bus shelter, boards all dumped together in one corner of the shelter as if it’s just as important they stay dry as it is us.
Vicky, gorgeous straight red hair, crush material, running back from the toilet to our shelter, trips on the stairs and gashes her shin open. It splits open below the knee like a massive leer and I can see bone and fat.
When the rain lets up a little and the sun bursts rainbows, I head off to find my bus, avoiding the drying pools of blood.
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