A Friday afternoon in mid-November, sunny, a warm north-east wind raising minor chop on the waters. South-east swell dying its typical weary death in the background.
At a quarter past four, my kids pull their cars into various spots at the south end of Newport beach carpark, and saunter around to the beach side of the surf club, carrying craft, eating after-school junk food, flirting, talking shit.
Other beachgoers engage in subtle double-takes -- who are these young bronzed gods? -- and shift slightly here and there to let these kids, my kids, hefting racing skis on their hips, sway and swagger down to the low tide line. These kids, casual, powerful, longlimbed, so easily carrying the long slender spears. Competing to see who can be most casual, who can…
