There is an interesting phenomenon going on in Manhattan Beach.
The wharf rats have invaded.
Before the SPCA is called, let me define “Wharf Rat”.
Most mornings, the downtown Manhattan Beach Starbucks is packed with two types of people.
Business people, the guys in their power ties and the ladies in their incredible business attire.
(Gone are the days of business women dressing like psuedo men. There is some HOT business wear going on.)
And then there are the work out people, the MMF’s (Manhattan Money Frau’s) who take yoga and simply MUST be seen, and the bicycle people, who just sweat and sit around with several thousand dollars of bicycle machinery.
And there has been a new athlete appearing in steadily larger numbers.
The Wharf rats.
They are always wet, but not in that “Sexy/Dirty” way.
Hair dripping, sweats have dark patches and they wear flip flops or crocs.
They don’t seem to care who sees them in their somewhat disheveled state.
So, they are not dressing to impress, and they are not spending thousands on machinery, so what the hell are they doing?
They are swimming around the pier.
Thats it. Thats all.
Swimming around the pier.
I don’t get it.
Where is the ego stroke there?
In the age of me, me, FUCKING ME! Everything is about self.
The bigger better deal.
Who are these people to be simply working out without all the trappings of the modern age?
No special trainers, expensive gear, special roll up mats made of an imported space age material?
Their just working out, for god sake.
But you would think they would clean up a bit more.
Or at least dry their hair.
There is nothing worse than stringy wet hair, when you are used to seeing something else at your local java speakeasy.
But perhaps I am being a little harsh, lord knows, I could use a little workout.
Maybe I should be out there at sunrise with the rest of them, dog-paddling my chunky butt around the pier.
Except for one thing.
Peter Fucking Benchley.
Some of you know who he is and some of you (The illiterate ones) don’t.
In 1975 I saw a gruesome little film called Jaws.
I was 9 years old.
I was reluctant to get into the ocean much after that.
And then the hammer dropped.
In the summer of 1985 I graduated high school.
I found a copy of Jaws at the book store and bought it.
It was not a quick read, Benchley loved him some details.
But the book fucked me and ocean for good.
Haven’t been underwater in the ocean since.
I will get my feet wet, but thats it.
Sad, in a way.
I realize that I could never move away from the ocean, I love it too much.
But I will never go in it again.
Because Jaws is waiting.
How sick is that?
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