ON THE PROWL

MAVERICKS STYLE INSANITY AT A JOINT THAT IS REAL HARD TO GET TO, TRICKY TO READ AND INCONSISTENT AS HELL.

- DYLAN STOTT

The first time they surfed Prowlers, it was without me. I was kissing a stranger on a beach, making out actually. It was awkward. Not just because of the wetsuits, the fine sand getting in, and the rolling cameras. It was the wind, the howling, gusting November wind, more so than the shouting director, or the lack of spark between us, or the cold water on our feet.

Though it was awkward, the howling wind kept me satisfied, kept me going. The wind meant, in my head, I wasn’t missing Prowlers, as it’s exposed in all directions to the slightest breeze, the gale meant I could snog away at this stranger, with faith that the entire west coast was awash in giant slop.

Making out with the strange woman was part of the premise for a short film. A surfer happily drives her classic car to her local wave sliding spot only to find some foreigner, some yank, some dude out there. The pouty surfer is less than pleased to share her waves, so she seduces him. A make-out session ensues on the beach, but it’s a trick, and the yank is left all tied up with his wetsuit, arms behind back, helpless, lying on the sand, leaving her to surf her Irish waves sans the annoying American.

It was pitch black at six-o-clock when the RTE news came on above the production table. The crew of the short film was about to order their wrap party dinner.

“The west coast of Ireland has once again enhanced its reputation as a major tourist destination for surfers following the rise of major surf tubes known as prowlers.”

Behind the news lady was Al Mennie, soul arching through a bottom turn on a wave that I had seen break only in my imagination. The newscaster got the lingo embarrassingly wrong, of course, but no matter how weird the words, the news just told me I missed it.

I swerved right then, excused myself to mope in my comfortable-enough-for-the-tourists room and curse my bad luck.