The salty old-timer remembers when all surfers were bodysurfers. Before leashes transformed surfboards into flotation devices. Before the crowds and the bad vibes and the meth-addled surf tribes. Before the creation of the surf industry and the contests designed to move surf-industry products. Before, even, the bodysurfer’s curse faded from memory.
“Beware!” the old-timer croaks at surfers who pass too close to his van in the parking lot. “Every time you drop in on a bodysurfer, that’s a season of bad surf luck.”