Passion Comes in Waves
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LOOKING BACK LIQUID SPLENDA


We find use in artificial things, don’t we? We ingest man-made sugar though it causes cancer in rats and gas in men. Artificial flowers can be convincing, yet we invariably touch them not to be fooled. What a blessing is an artificial limb but not so much that we’d voluntarily swap out one of our own. And, when your mother dies, the mortician will do an expert job with various fluids and heavy makeup, but the night of the viewing, let’s face it, that’s not mom. Artificial is not our preference.

Are wave pools? Boticelli’s naked Venus rides ashore in 1480 on a scallop shell. Had there been a wave pool on hand, perhaps on account of a week of low surf, would he have painted her there? It is a great and beautiful stunt, this thing we do called surfing, but the miracle is not in the surfer, even in the best of us. It is in the wave. It is exactly this, not just to surfers, but to painters, poets, and playwrights throughout history, perhaps even to god himself. An argument can be made that there are not enough waves to go around and that scarcity creates the need for the wave pool, a scheme we, or its marketers, might call Liquid Splenda. But scarcity is married to beauty. As for short supply, how much do we need of anything? A guy can get all the poontang he ever wants if he uses a blow-up doll.

The predictability and sameness of the machined wave is apt to spoil things after the excitable have had their first go or two. Then what will be done to juice it? We might send 10 guys out into the wave pool at once. Three must be friends who talk only among themselves and the rest strangers. Throw in some manufactured rain, wind, two reefs, one visible, the other submerged, perhaps secretly movable for a greater challenge and an extra fee. A toothless shark might be a nice touch. For sure, lets have busty models in bikinis who lie on a truckload of sand and are directed, as the actresses they are, to never be seen looking directly at the surfers.

And when the day is done and the machine is switched off, what then? Will we sit on a tarpful of sand with a friend or our lover, warm ourselves by the rented fire and drink supplied wine while we watch the sun dip beneath a sea that has never suffered a tide?

What is it we love?

By Bill Reinecke