New Year's Day - A Very Short Story

New Year’s day came around, and of course there was only one way to see the new year in. Various members of the crew gathered in the dark on the beach. When I got there at 4.30 The Shredder, Deluded Devotee Of The Useless Shortboard, was already there, thoughtfully studying the ocean in front of us. Within seconds we were joined by The Snake Catcher, Scourge Of All Illicit And Un-Authorised Wave-Snatching,  Snaking And Dropping In. In the darkness we congregated, congratulated and contemplated the movement of the water in front of us, and democratically agreed that we couldn’t see the square root of fuck-all. So I myself, The Baboon, Expert Of The Arse Pointing Uselessly Skywards On The Surfboard, climbed the steps up to the look-out that sits on top of a rock at the water‘s edge. I faced into the wind blowing from the north, not usually a good sign for surf conditions here on our beach, and I stuck my bagpipes under my arm. Blew a goodly amount of air into them, punched them gently but persuasively in the guts to make them behave, let rip on the world. The plaintive skirl of the pipes drifted into the air, facing and mingling with the wind blowing over the sea, and I played the traditional air of the new year, Auld Lang Syne, into the face of the Brand New World, made new all over again. Below on the beach my mates stuck their fingers in their ears and shuddered in terror. Encouraged by this I followed up with a tune about the beauty of the earth, wich very appropriately and fittingly I could see nothing of in the dark, before offering a happy bouncy sea-shanty, derived from the pleasures of the daily experiences of the sailors of the olden days of the tall ships, such as scurvy, slave-running and syphilis. After half an hour of that I deemed it enough of a dedication to the new year, exchanged my pipes for my board and wetsuit, and headed into the water, joined by more members of the crew. I waded into the water with Full On, Queen Of Ripping Waves To Pieces And Wearing A Bikini In The Middle Of Winter Time. Hot on our heels were Mr Kamikaze, Champion Of Shooting Suicidally Close Past Rocks, and Rastaman Vibration, who had recently exchanged a sixteen year growth of dreadlocks for a number one all around. He has confided in us that he now weighs ten kilos less. The nefarious north wind, dreaded flattener of surf and destroyer of waves, bent in acquiescence and deference to the sacrificial offering of brain-melting bagpipe music that had been made to him, and decided to relent and back off for a bit, just while we were there. So it became almost wind still, the waves cleaned up and smoothened out, and we got great rides with some excellent drops. My favourite wave was one where I landed a perfect steep drop into a decent-sized hole, that grew into a clean wall of head-high to just overhead. More of the crew came out to join in the celebration. There were The Racer, riding his fire-engine red board like a telemark skier form the 1930s, The Pyjama Banana, Catwalk Model Of Eye-Watering And Migraine-Inducing Floral Shorts, The Phantom Menace, Silent But Deadly At Paddling To The Inside And Snatching Waves From Everyone Else, and Kneel O’Kneel, King Of The Kneeboard. We ripped it up in great style until, inevitably, it was time to wake up the north wind again. So I laid aside my board, picked up the pipes again, climbed back up the steps and devoted one last set of tunes to the Big Sky Country. On cue, the wind returned and blew all the holiday makers to the shithouse. And so we left, to Take A Cup Of Kindness Yet, For The Sake Of Auld Lang Syne.   * THE END *.


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