The Beach Diaries #10

Previous: #1, #2, #3, #4, #5, #6, #7, #8, #9

* Two guys and a woman rollerblade along the prom. One of the men has a pointy magician’s beard and black fingerless weightlifting gloves, like a bad guy from an 80’s movie about BMX kids foiling some uber-rad skate thieves. The girl one, in a baritone worthy of classic erotic soul, exclaims “It was a tree root that had me over last time!” Placed outside the vault of a bank by the Cowabunga Highschool BMX Gang, no doubt.

* Overheard conversation snippets. Mother, to a pair of five-year-old boys:

“Talk about something nice, don’t talk about shooting.”

Boy: “Yeah, but only Dad died.”

* Tons of people about, but the lifeguard shack is locked and empty, and nobody appears to be on duty. I’m going to have to assume that Hot Lifeguard is having sex with BSR right now, on crumpled printouts of the previous entries of the Beach Diaries. And as they do it, they are laughing and laughing and laughing.

* An elderly man passes, with a paperback tucked into his waistband like a handgun.

* Why do parents of small children always refer to themselves in the third person? It’s never ‘I’, always Mummy this and Daddy that. Who are you, The Rock? Sorry if this observation is all a bit Michael fucking McIntyre.

* Oh shit, FBI! Wait, it’s okay. It’s just the Female Body Inspector.

* Overheard conversation snippets. A dad, behind me (I do not turn around).

“Cover your willy up, buddy! Cover your willy up! Go on, cover it up! Your willy! Quick!”

I’m pretty sure he wasn’t talking to me. 85% sure. 70-85%.

Alright, fine. *covers willy up*

* A bald, tattooed man of about fifty, with a filthy roll-up hanging against his bottom lip, places a clump of seaweed onto his head like the hair of a lady. He poses and preens for his buddies as though he’s a sexy mermaid.

#whenseasidepostcardsbecomereal

* Overheard conversation snippets. A crazed, lizard-looking man in glasses, to himself, loudly, while maniacally scratching at his neck and face, and marching very briskly, and totally alone:

“Fuckin’ ain’t right, mate. Fuckus. Ain’t right, I’m tellin’ you. I’m staying away from him; always fuckin’ do somethin’ I shouldn’t.”

* Walking further down the beach, I see the lifeguards. They’re not off duty; they’re training up the new recruits. Hot Lifeguard wasn’t having sex with BSR after all! Lawks a lordy, what a fool I’ve been! At first, I don’t see Hot Lifeguard among them. Maybe she’s hidden behind that needlessly curvy and scarily lifelike medical dummy, which wears a wetsuit and gets moved into the recovery position by a bunch of male trainee lifeguard hands, and…oh. Oh.

On my way back, Hot, wet, wetsuit-clad Lifeguard lays on her back on the shingle, surrounded by new recruits, as an aid to teach them the correct way to administer mouth to mouth. I consider rushing to the coastguard station and demanding a late sign-up form. “I haven’t been swimming since the mid-90s, but I’m eager! By God, I am eager!” I’d yell, through tears, stood priapic by the window where you pay for inflatable dolphins and fold-up scooters. Instead, I sit down with my little notepad like a prick and write all this, while fifteen lifeguard cadets probably learn the best way to make a hot chick in a tight wetsuit squirt like a breaching whale.

I’m aware this whole turn of events will sound made up, but it’s all true. Consequently, as I leave the beach for the miserable trudge home, I do so accompanied by the only appropriate soundtrack.

~ by Stuart on July 4, 2011.