Our hotel butts up against a pretty amazing little beach. The waves come rolling in with a touristy style ferocity that makes it perfect for boogie boarding.
To break the monotony of not being able to have sex with guests, the hotel lifeguard offered to teach Elijah how to boogie. Like his father, Eli his intimidated by alpha males, so he politely declined.
I was instructing the boys on the proper method for peeing in the ocean without getting caught (Rule 1: don’t take off your swimwear) when Eli asked me to teach him how to boogie board instead.
The last time I attempted to boogie board or surf was an ill-fated lesson circa 2005 in Australia. I made a solemn pact with God that if he spared my life I’d never surf again. I also think I threw in some junk about not drinking and helping the poor too.
I steadied the boogie board and Eli balanced himself on it. I tried to give him some instruction.
“I’m just asking your 90 seconds of your life, Johnny. If you want the ultimate, you’ve got to be willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. 100% pure adrenaline.”
With that, I shoved him head first towards the shore. He toppled ass over teakettle into the wave, sustaining minor injuries. In other words, he was hooked.
He spent a couple hours getting shoved into the white foam. And on one glorious occasion he glided all the way to the shore, even though he was riding the boogie board sideways the whole time.
Diana arrived a little while later and asked how we were doing. Elijah told a little white lie about his proficiency and I told the big white lie that I was so good I didn’t need to demonstrate to her.
Like all surf brahs at the end of an epic day, we dragged our board to the sand and drank strawberry banana smoothies.
On our way, I gave our hotel lifeguard that thing where you knock fists together. He said, “Pura Vida.”