What a cute notion to fly a kite next to the crashing surf.
But these were not ordinary kites. The kites themselves were
little parachutes, and their masters were decked out in extreme
kite wear. The huge contraptions seemed to take great joy in
launching their captors high into the air and then dragging them
across the beach. As I recall, sandpaper is made from sand.

Fortunately, Brighton does not have sand.

Brighton has pebbles.

Imagine sandpaper made out of pebbles. Imagine this very
quickly passing over your face. Hence, the extreme wear.

Apparently, I was witnessing para-boarding, or sailing, or
some such thing. Put yourself on a surfboard (tricky), fly an
overgrown kite (trickier), and let it pull you across huge waves
without falling off (trickiest). Here we have a sport that
combines the best traits of frustration and humiliation with
random Pavlovian reinforcement of pain. I was surprised I wasn’t
instantly hooked.

This is a buddy sport. You steady your kite. Your buddy jumps
on you. You bound down the beach out of control with your buddy
affixed to your ankle. He’s not just holding you down but trying
to affix a surfboard to your flying feet. Just when you think you
have it, a huge wave crashes over you, buddy and surfboard. Do
not let go. Repeat, do not let go of the kite, despite pebbles
cramming deeper into your nasal cavity.

Eventually, our hero did get into the water. He sailed at the
speed of sound, hit a sea turd, and did a salty face plant.
Instantly he was yanked full out the water to do the face plant
again.

Yank!

Splash!

Oof!

Yank!

PLOOSH!

Ugh!

Yank!

Do not let go. Remember the mantra.

When he was far, far out, I begin to wonder about the kite
dunking itself. Maybe a 1/2 mile swim through raging surf
attached to leaden kite is good exercise.

Extreme Hazards

Our intrepid surfer would have a much easier time if it were
not for wild Brighton sea turds. Apparently the pipe from my
little commode (and every one else’s) leads directly to the sea.
Yes, folks, raw sewage, toilet paper and all, from a major
population center dumped directly into the sea. But it’s ok, the
pipe goes out beyond the swimming area so your chance of coming
face to face with this morning’s deposit are slim. Thanks to the
tourism board, they process it in the summer into a more
consistent paste to reduce chunkiness. Did I mention the
popularity of curry?

Extremely Commercial Weather

“And now the Barbados Tourism Authority weather: London -
Rain. South East – Windy and rain. Forecast – Dull, wet and
windy.”

It seems English weather is sponsored by Barbados Tourism.
It’s sort of the opposite of trying to sell fridges to the
Inuit.

I wonder if they take plastic? I’d like to order some wicked
sunshine for Brighton.

Extreme Behaviour

This morning greeted us with an exceptionally windy seaside
day. My morning tour to the sea was interrupted as I watched a
familiar face chase his hat down the block. I flapped my arms
lightly against the gale in sympathy. He retrieved his hat, waved
his hands in the air, let out a whooping yell, and marched up to
plant himself but inches from my face. I could see quite clearly
his two front teeth were mostly gold, which worked nicely with
whole rasta-man gig he had going.

My small demonstration of solidarity was all he needed. He
clapped his large black hand on my back and grinned even wider.
We were brothers against the storm.

“Oh what a crazy world it is, mon, ” he exclaimed loudly into
my face. It was genuine Jamaican-rasta with a British accent.
“Why can’t we all a just be happy, my friend? Why just a last
night night I was a singing and a laughing and a yelling MERRY
CHRISTMAS! And you know what?”

I stared into his face. I didn’t know what.

“Well, I tell you what,” he continued with another thunderous
pat on my back. “They came and tried to take me away. Oh, yes,
they did. They wanted to puts a me in an institution just for
being happy now. An institution!” Except he said
INSTA-TOOOoo-SHUN
.

I patted him on the backm and he was satisfied that I
understood. I’m now an unofficial rasta-storm-brother. I get my
secret handshake next week.

Extreme Conspiracy

I was greeted by an unusual sight when I finally continued
down to the ocean. A large section of the beach was sectioned off
with high fences and patrolled by plainclothed guards in bright
yellow pants. (On the beach plain clothes include bright yellow
pants.) Far beyond the fences on the beach were more men from the
yellow pants unit scurrying around several large, carefully
tarped objects. I had obviously stumbled across the covert yellow
alien space craft retrieval unit.

I approached the guard. I knew it! He was a dead ringer for
Mulder. Now where was that sexy Sculley?

He ran an unconvincing story about fireworks tonight.
Celebrate the shortest day of the year he said. (He really did
look like Mulder.) Even the English aren’t silly enough to
celebrate the lack of sun, are they?

That night we dashed out of the house into gale force winds in
response to several terrific bangs. The crowds were gathered
thick and sure enough… there were no fireworks. Instead, one of
the large towers, now untarped, was on fire.

Instead of launching fireworks into the sky, it simply fell
over slowly and burst into multicolored flames. <Fzzzz>
<Crackle> <Crackle>

The yellow pants unit scurried like…well, not like
ants…like British. They casually walked around the burning
carcass, as if nothing was wrong, and lit up the ground displays.
These were supposed to spin and sparkle like Chinese wheels. They
flapped madly in the gale, letting off streams of glowing
fireflies.

The second tower did a bit better. Instead of falling over and
catching fire it stood firm and caught fire. <fzzz>
<Crackle> <Crackle>

The yellow unit let the crowds watch the burning towers a
while longer, thanked everyone, thanked the corporate sponsors,
and bid us goodnight. As we walked home, I secretly admired the
cunning of the yellow unit as the alien crafts burned in full
public view.