How do they know?
I left my two surfboards in the backyard for the first time (or second, maybe the third) and, well, you can figure out the rest and my subsequent stream of expletives this morning when I found that they were gone. What happened? Take any of these verbs – took, stole, nicked, ripped off – and put a bunch of bad words before it (well, not too, too many because my mother reads this) and add in my boards at the end and you’ve got it.
They took my fucking boards.
I always keep my boards – an 8’6″clear Becker longboard with a drawing of the Silver Surfer on the bottom, and a 6’7″ Atlantico Sur thruster with my name written along the stringer on the bottom by the skegs – in the house. So how did they know that last night this wasn’t the case?
No doubt they probably spied them from the road as they passed by, the opportunistic poachers.
And how careless I was.
I also blame the dogs. They – my four-ton canine and a visiting and much tougher Doberman-mixed with something – slept through the ordeal in the coolest corners of the house (and probably the off-bounds sofa) while the thieves snuck through the side gate and made off with my boards, leaving me half way through summer without nothing to ride and forecasts, no doubt, of the best waves to hit these shores in a century. The shit is that I have but a month left of full-time living on the coast before another eight months of being holed up in a crappy apartment in the big city four hours away and only thinking about the surf.
Go to the police? Definitely, even if only to expose the force’s appalling capacity to keep crime under control.
Search the neighborhood and beach? I already have, feeling that all eyes were on me, the fool who lost his boards.
Put out a red-alert via SMS? My wife did that for me, bless her.
Blog and social media the fuck out of the incident so that maybe, just maybe, the culprits can be found via the cyber-world and brought to justice by chopping off their legs so they can’t ride (and probably mis-ride) my boards.