When we arrived at the beach today I heard the following question coming from a rather well-worn silver BMW:
“Did you catch the swell?”
I looked out at the ocean. There were waves. I was dry, carying a board in a board bag — headed in the general direction of the ocean. I was confused. Apparently the swell was “on” and I hadn’t been on it; what the hell did he mean by “Did you catch the swell?”
As I attempted to make sense of his seemingly inappropriate question, before offering up a paltry “come again?”, I thought: Is he asking if I had an errection? What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?
“Come again?” I asked.
“Did you catch the swell?” I heard him ask again. I was still confused.
“No,” I answered. “No, I didn’t catch it.” I waved at him, half-heartedly and now totally confused. Then I headed off to set up our little spot on the sand, shaking my head in bewilderment.
Does he know that my wife is a sexologist? I wondered as I paddled around trying to find a shoulder amidst the close-outs.
Roughly an hour later my sexologists’ husband-addled brain managed to piece it together. He was asking if I had caught the board swap — which happens on the first Saturday of every month here in paradise.
He saw me carrying a different board than he saw me with last weekend and he wanted to know if I picked up a new board at the board swap. Duh.
Fortunately my answer was correct either way: No, I didn’t.
He had no idea that I’m married to a sexologist. Nor, do I imagine, is it likely that he cares.