Never Go After the Ball

The other night, after work, I got a friend of mine to drive me to a nearby beachside village called “undisclosed town near my home town” with my new rodeo kayak attached securely to the newly-fitted roof bars of my tiny little car. (She dropped me off and drove my car back home for me).

I proceeded to kayak around the coast, back to “undisclosed town where I live” (I think about 3 miles by sea) which was a bit of a frightening experience, rodeo kayaks being built for manoeuvrability, not long-haul ocean treks. Frightening and tiring.

When I arrived, about an hour later, at my beach (I say my beach; what of it?) there were a bunch of young, trendy, attractive surfer-types in the water being all cool and shit. I always try to stay out of their way; if there’s one thing a surfer hates more than other surfers, it’s anyone else in the water in/on any other kind of floating contraption. Surf-kayakers are particularly despised.

So I picked a nice clear spot and headed for shore. I was tired and sweaty, but slightly elated at having made it in one piece.

Just as I was approaching the beach, a really nice little wave started welling up around me, so I figured: “What the fuck dude?” and decided to enjoy it. Then I got cocky, which is the whole theme of this post. I Dug in my right-paddle to bring my bow side-on to the wave and, like, “ride it” dude. But I over-compensated, sent the bow too far back into the wave and was barrel-rolled to shore, which was as refreshing as it was embarrassing. but dry land under my arms and face was a relief.

I felt like standing up and shouting at the smirking surf dicks: “Yeah?! Well I just paddled here from St Agnes you assholes; I didn’t come here to surf!” But I didn’t. For I was in a good mood.

Having returned my kayak to my abode, showered and changed, I thought I’d head into town (on foot) to buy some pizza, Stella and some basic fridge supplies like milk and yoghurt. On the way back from the grocery store I noticed that a kid had kicked a football and that said ball was now rolling towards a parked Land Rover.

“Ha ha!” I thought, for I often think thus, “I can prevent that ball from going under that vehicle, for I am closer to it than they; and I can get to it and kick it before it is trapped beneath the Land Rover!” and for good measure I added another “Ha ha!”

My friends, never go after the ball. Unless the ball rolls directly to your feet, leave it alone -it’s not your ball. Too much could go wrong.

Long story short: I slipped, bashing both elbows hard into the tarmac, shattering my 1 Litre glass bottle of Stella and sending cherry yoghurt all over my groceries.

Which kind of shit on my picnic, if you know what I mean.