The Summer Fling.

The Summer Fling.

By Dallas Singer.

Last week we featured an article about the laying to rest of a beloved board. (Read here:

Is this follow up piece, Dallas Singer picks up where our last story left off.

The old girl had her ceremonious burial. The sessions and memories stored away in the old Bailin board bag that will likely decay in the garage roof cavity for the next few years.

She’s in the past now, because the new whip has just arrived! Ring of the door bell, a signature-less drop off by the local courier.

Pealing back the shrink wrap is like lifting the curtain on a new season F1 livery. The stamps look fresh, the colour way is modest; black with a touch of contrast through the pin, classic white. Like something he might have remembered Joey Clarke riding in the early 10’s.

It’s certainly an upgrade, the recollections of the last ride quickly replaced by the potential of what’s currently in front of him.

No idea what Quad triple concave channels are but fuck who cares – this is the most expensive thing he could find, nothing’s going to stopping him now.

She’ll sleep next to him tonight.

The first session starts little awkward. The decks a little slippery to begin with, but he wasn’t about to scar the body of her with a cross hatch job, boards don’t come back from that sort of treatment.

After a while he starts to recognise what boards are supposed to feel like, tight across the lamination, tough in the deck holding 3x speed to what he’s used to. Still not sure about that quad bipolar channel system but certain it’ll kick it when needed.

Mid way through the surf he’s bagged out on some of the deepest cones he’s experienced, now completely convinced this thing is a red hot banger. The rest of the session is a blur, standing in the carpark nearing twilight it’s a quick change at the car and headed back to base.

Considering another early night in, he pops the hatch but to his horror the new lambo is gone! His vision goes blurry from the adrenalin shooting through his body as he frantically tosses the old towels and clothing around in a desperate attempt to uncover what in his heart of hearts he now knows he left in the carpark 20 clicks south.

The recovery mission in the dark doesn’t fair well. She’s lost, she’s gone and she’s not coming back. He wiped out the last of his bitcoin windfall on that block of foam, it’ll be a good few months before he can lay out that sort of cheddar on a luxury item again.

He knows today’s swell was only the start of things to come this week, not enough time to scrounge up another seven fifty (looks like boog’s are premium once again) and he’s not about to blow it tomorrow.

The garage fluro flickers on, he spots that garlic bread board bag at the back 5 years too early. He pulls out the ex, not as beautiful as he remembered, was that rail always delaming there? A quick flex, yep stringer definitely gone. The two run-of-the-mill channels in the slick stirring little enthusiasm, how could anyone have ever loved this piece of shit?

What happens next?

You tell us!

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