From dp025@seqeb.gov.au Sun Dec 01 06:17:29 1996
Newsgroups: alt.surfing
Subject: D.J.Files...scraps of a surfin life #68 Wunch of Bankers - djwunch.68 [1/1]
From: dp025@seqeb.gov.au (Bear)
Date: 1 Dec 1996 06:17:29 GMT
  
  Disclaimer :  The usual b.s., with a smidgeon of reality.
                

                  The D.J.Files #68

        "A Wunch of Bankers"

         At 60, Ben Jones could retire. If he wanted to. Today he had made
 a couple of hundred thousand dollars for a client in a very astute move. Even 
 after all his years in the business, he could still get a thrill from this.
     His home was at the coast, an hour-and-a-quarter away on the Grayhound.
 He sat on it waiting for it to pull out. It was Friday evening. A couple of
 teenagers were below his window, having their surfboards stowed in the locker
 underneath. One had his head shaved almost completely, except for a pony-tail
 and a crop at the front. The other had long, uncombed-looking hair, but with
 an undercut well above his ears, which showed thru the almost rasta-like
 strands of the longer stuff. Ben shook his head and smiled, turned back to
 his magazine. He chuckled at a little joke in it that said the collective
 noun for bankers was 'wunch'. Repeat quickly "wunch-of-bankers,wunch-of-"
     A minute or so later, the two youths flopped down on the seat opposite
 Ben. One got out a surf mag.; the other a walkman-style cassette, so that
 Ben could hear a tinny "tffph-tu-tu-tffph" coming from the guy's ears.
     ...

     The bus pulled up on the coast hiway and Ben got out. The two young
 surfers were getting off at the same stop. They walked just behind him,
 until  they turned into the yard of an old chamferboard home, just at the
 start of Ben's street. He heard one of them say
     "You'll be like  that one day - all pinstripes and briefcase"
     "No way! Surf ya life away!" retorted the other. Ben smiled to himself.
     He'd had lunch with a client, so as usual he stuck to a light 'tea' of
 orange juice, avocado,tomato and onion on toast, plus coffee. He checked the 
 answering machine. A client-come-friend had rung to say the floodlit tennis
 courts had had a cancellation so  they could "play that game, after all".
 He rang the guy back to confirm, showered and put on his tennis-wear.
     When he got to the courts, he saw a few people he knew: the Welsh guy
 from down the street and the solicitor, who used to live around the corner,
 but moved to more 'up-market' housing. Both were in their 40s. Both surfed.
 Ben liked to let this opponent win, the guy was the sort who needed to. Ben
 always made it look like it was a genuine loss.
     Back home, he poured a scotch...just the one, which he drank while he
 listened to Four Seasons...we're talking Vivaldi here, not Franki Valli.
 He fell asleep listening to it, but eventually wandered off to bed.
     ...

     The following morning, just after sunrise, he sat on the veranda, enjoying
 his first coffee of the day and a quick look at the paper. The two youngsters
 from the bus came past, with their state-of-the-art shortboards, rash vests
 and color-zinc faces. They loped on by, and Ben went inside.
     Several minutes later, Ben emerged. He had a 2mm spring suit on and an
 8'6" hybrid, waxed and ready, under his arm. He preferred it to his 9'3",
 since he could crank his turns quicker. He only took that out in slow stuff.
 He'd already checked the surf, before the young whipper-snappers had raised
 an eyelid probably, and knew that by now it would just be hitting the sweet
 spot on the bars. There were 3-5' faces and no wind.
     It was a nice easy paddle out. Ben's only real problem was his eyesight.
 He could hardly recognise his own hand at the end of his arm, so he had a
 job picking the sets. He had a couple of short, easy rides. Then as he
 paddled about, he found himself next to the youngsters from the bus. One of
 them took off on a wave, got a couple of turns in and then fell in a heap.
 His mate backed off a wave. Ben caught the next one.
     He cranked a bottom turn, eased off a top turn. Just as the first
 youngster paddled over the wall, Ben slid his front foot forward and shot
 thru the fast section as it peeled over his shoulder. It chomped him on the
 inside, but he didn't care. He paddled back for more. What was it the kid
 had said? - "Surf ya life away!" - ah yes, thought Ben. A top idea.

                               ***

-- 
Bear