If you’re in above your head, you’re not ready for the wading pool
KEANU STOOD AT THE EDGE OF THE SURF with his board planted in the sand along the Boca Chica shoreline. The wind blasted his heavily moussed hair and rippled the backs of his shorts like flags.
His wife Jean scanned the horizon with her hand shading her brow despite the clouds crowding the overhead skies. “Are you fucking nuts?” The rain battered their faces, their bodies, dug pits in the sand. Her voice was barely audible over the gale force winds.
“I’m a surfer, babe. These are the days I live for. The challenge. How many guys even try to catch a wave in these conditions?”
Jean tossed her head back and groaned. “How many guys are thick enough to even consider it?”
Jean scanned the horizon with her hand shading her brow despite the clouds crowding the overhead skies. “Are you fucking nuts?” The rain battered their faces, their bodies, dug pits in the sand.
He thrust his finger over the water, pointing to the swell climbing in the distance. “Babe, that swell could reach 70, maybe 80 feet. Who could pass up a chance like that?”
She counted on her fingers. “Your best friend Bob. Your work buddy Cal. Brad, the surfing trainer. Oh, and the surfing pros who haven’t bothered to drive to the beach today because it’s a Category 5 hurricane. I’m driving home before the storm gets closer.”
Keanu didn’t even look her way. “Then it’s a good thing I brought my e-bike, isn’t it, babe? Cause I want to rush home as quickly as possible to deliver the news when I best that beast.”
The TV news later that day reported the wave crested at 97 feet, the highest recorded on the Boca Chica coastline.
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