MOSQUITO COAST
It’s my lowest point in surfing. Straddling my board with not one, but two middle fingers raised, a whispered f-bomb drops from my mouth. I lower my arms and hang my head in absolute shame. That is no way to behave to a fellow surfer, especially when they’re 12 years old.
But the end of my tether has been reached, all tattered and torn in bitter frustration. The ability to enjoy my daily surf has been continuously stifled by the little black dots buzzing around me like mozzies. Zipping to my inside, dropping in, or swinging around mid-paddle out and snagging their 11th ride to my none. The Michael Douglas Falling Down moment I play out in my mind, has me screaming over the sound of the ocean, asking if anyone has a can of the reddest paint possible to slather me in. If I’m going to get treated like a priority buoy, then I may as well look like one.
A few days later, when I’m once again in the lineup at my local, patiently waiting for my turn that never seems to come, my friend paddles
