LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPTalk: Ready...Set...Sit! |
by Bill Sievert |
There really ought to be a lot of gay surfers out there. Our people are involved in pretty much every imaginable form of athletic endeavor; we tend to spend a lot of time at the beach, and the entire concept of surfing has got to sound tempting to many a gay male. I mean, in what other sport do you begin by greasing up your long board with Sex Wax? So, I decided to search the World Wide Web, hoping to come up with the strands of an idea for a column about a cool summer pastime. I expected to find all kinds of surfing clubs for gay folks who want to participate in their preferred sport with one another. (After all, many of us flock to gay softball games, track meets and square dances.) But when I typed in "gay surfing," I came up only with a list of sites dedicated to "surfing" the Internet for other gay people. I already knew about most of those. There were also several pictorial sites dedicated to the hero worship of surf-star-turned-would-be show-biz-celebrity Kelly Slater. Strike a pose, Kelly. You're not exactly what I'm looking for, at the moment. Even with our penchant to spend so much time at seaside resorts, surfing may not be such a gay sport after all. In my many years in Rehoboth, I only met one gay surfer, a chef and then co-owner of a local bistro. The one time I accompanied Siri into the waves, he asked me to help him drag his heavy board out of the water during a rough undertow. As I struggled with the danged thing, it struck me in the leg, leaving me with a permanent knot on my calf. Since that day, none of my friends-gay or straight-has ever suggested going surfing. Instead, whenever we get together on the beach, we partake of a sport we like to call "chair-fing." It's not that we actually invented the concept for "chair-fing," but we named it, defined it and gave it rules. We spread its popularity to friends in the Carolinas, Florida and Australia. (Siri even introduced the game in his native Thailand.) But then we decided to shut up about our special sport, hoping to find a publisher for a picture book with illustrations of us performing all the key maneuvers. (Coffee-table book publishers, please e-mail soon.) It's actually quite easy to get down the basics. First, each player pours a refreshing beverage (paper cups only, please) and positions one of those low-rise, stubby-legged aluminum-and-mesh beach chairs at the shoreline. Beginners start in only a few inches of water; pros go much deeper. All contestants' chairs must be lined up in a straight-and-narrow row. That is the official starting point. Okay, ready... set... sit! (Careful not to slosh your drink.) A sport best played when the tide is rising, the object of chair-fing is to be the last man standing...er, seated. And, contrary to what you may be thinking, this is not a competition for sissies. As the rushing currents slam into you, your swimsuit quickly fills with sandy grit, making you want to leap up in itchy disgust. But, no; to survive, you must persevere. Within a very few minutes, the tide begins to erode each chair's footing, tipping over less agile competitors. Meanwhile, slaps of angry surf begin to sting your face, threatening to knock you off your seat. One by one, players succumb to the harsh elements, or are eliminated for losing their pina coladas. Sometimes they just need to go to the restroom. As with any sport, there are many variations. One of the more exciting (for experienced competitors only) is to play with the chairs facing away from the ocean. This version adds an element of surprise, as you can't see the next wave coming. At game's end, the exhausted sole survivor joins the losers for a post-game repast-bagels and brie are nice-on a beach blanket known to true chair-fing enthusiasts as "the nosh pit." And for those younger dudes who think they'd rather throw down the gauntlet against the sea with a long board rather than a lawn chair, just keep in mind that hanging onto your throne is the true sport of kings. Gay surfers and all chair-fing enthusiasts can e-mail Bill Sievert at allforthecause@aol.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 12, No. 06, May 31, 2002. |