What a cute notion to fly a kite next to the crashing surf. But these were not ordinary kites. The kites themselves were little parachutes, and their masters were decked out in extreme kite wear. The huge contraptions seemed to take great joy in launching their captors high into the air and then dragging them across the beach. As I recall, sandpaper is made from sand.
Fortunately, Brighton does not have sand.
Brighton has pebbles.
Imagine sandpaper made out of pebbles. Imagine this very quickly passing over your face. Hence, the extreme wear.
Apparently, I was witnessing para-boarding, or sailing, or some such thing. Put yourself on a surfboard (tricky), fly an overgrown kite (trickier), and let it pull you across huge waves without falling off (trickiest). Here we have a sport that combines the best traits of frustration and humiliation with random Pavlovian reinforcement of pain. I was surprised I wasn't instantly hooked.
This is a buddy sport. You steady your kite. Your buddy jumps on you. You bound down the beach out of control with your buddy affixed to your ankle. He's not just holding you down but trying to affix a surfboard to your flying feet. Just when you think you have it, a huge wave crashes over you, buddy and surfboard. Do not let go. Repeat, do not let go of the kite, despite pebbles cramming deeper into your nasal cavity.
Eventually, our hero did get into the water. He sailed at the speed of sound, hit a sea turd, and did a salty face plant. Instantly he was yanked full out the water to do the face plant again.
Yank!
Splash!
Oof!
Yank!
PLOOSH!
Ugh!
Yank!
Do not let go. Remember the mantra.
When he was far, far out, I begin to wonder about the kite dunking itself. Maybe a 1/2 mile swim through raging surf attached to leaden kite is good exercise.
Our intrepid surfer would have a much easier time if it were not for wild Brighton sea turds. Apparently the pipe from my little commode (and every one else's) leads directly to the sea. Yes, folks, raw sewage, toilet paper and all, from a major population center dumped directly into the sea. But it's ok, the pipe goes out beyond the swimming area so your chance of coming face to face with this morning's deposit are slim. Thanks to the tourism board, they process it in the summer into a more consistent paste to reduce chunkiness. Did I mention the popularity of curry?
"And now the Barbados Tourism Authority weather: London - Rain. South East - Windy and rain. Forecast - Dull, wet and windy."
It seems English weather is sponsored by Barbados Tourism. It's sort of the opposite of trying to sell fridges to the Inuit.
I wonder if they take plastic? I'd like to order some wicked sunshine for Brighton.
This morning greeted us with an exceptionally windy seaside day. My morning tour to the sea was interrupted as I watched a familiar face chase his hat down the block. I flapped my arms lightly against the gale in sympathy. He retrieved his hat, waved his hands in the air, let out a whooping yell, and marched up to plant himself but inches from my face. I could see quite clearly his two front teeth were mostly gold, which worked nicely with whole rasta-man gig he had going.
My small demonstration of solidarity was all he needed. He clapped his large black hand on my back and grinned even wider. We were brothers against the storm.
"Oh what a crazy world it is, mon, " he exclaimed loudly into my face. It was genuine Jamaican-rasta with a British accent. "Why can't we all a just be happy, my friend? Why just a last night night I was a singing and a laughing and a yelling MERRY CHRISTMAS! And you know what?"
I stared into his face. I didn't know what.
"Well, I tell you what," he continued with another thunderous pat on my back. "They came and tried to take me away. Oh, yes, they did. They wanted to puts a me in an institution just for being happy now. An institution!" Except he said INSTA-TOOOoo-SHUN .
I patted him on the backm and he was satisfied that I understood. I'm now an unofficial rasta-storm-brother. I get my secret handshake next week.
I was greeted by an unusual sight when I finally continued down to the ocean. A large section of the beach was sectioned off with high fences and patrolled by plainclothed guards in bright yellow pants. (On the beach plain clothes include bright yellow pants.) Far beyond the fences on the beach were more men from the yellow pants unit scurrying around several large, carefully tarped objects. I had obviously stumbled across the covert yellow alien space craft retrieval unit.
I approached the guard. I knew it! He was a dead ringer for Mulder. Now where was that sexy Sculley?
He ran an unconvincing story about fireworks tonight. Celebrate the shortest day of the year he said. (He really did look like Mulder.) Even the English aren't silly enough to celebrate the lack of sun, are they?
That night we dashed out of the house into gale force winds in response to several terrific bangs. The crowds were gathered thick and sure enough... there were no fireworks. Instead, one of the large towers, now untarped, was on fire.
Instead of launching fireworks into the sky, it simply fell over slowly and burst into multicolored flames. <Fzzzz> <Crackle> <Crackle>
The yellow pants unit scurried like...well, not like ants...like British. They casually walked around the burning carcass, as if nothing was wrong, and lit up the ground displays. These were supposed to spin and sparkle like Chinese wheels. They flapped madly in the gale, letting off streams of glowing fireflies.
The second tower did a bit better. Instead of falling over and catching fire it stood firm and caught fire. <fzzz> <Crackle> <Crackle>
The yellow unit let the crowds watch the burning towers a while longer, thanked everyone, thanked the corporate sponsors, and bid us goodnight. As we walked home, I secretly admired the cunning of the yellow unit as the alien crafts burned in full public view.
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