MY SURFBOARD

Oh, I'd have one. If I were forty years younger. If I lived near a beach.

I wouldn't have to surf or take lessons. I wouldn't bother with a wet suit. But I'd have a board.

Just to carry. Just to park on the beach by my towel. Just to look the part.

Movie makers have long been convinced that actors and actresses (yes, I'm old school: I still distinguish) look good smoking cigarettes. It gives them something to do with their hands. It allows reflective pauses. It provides an opportunity to contemplate.

To me, that's what a surfboard does. It provides an opportunity. To look cool. To look risky. Athletic. Brave. Daring.

Oh, once in awhile you'd have to take it into the ocean. But somehow that perfect wave would never come. So back to the beach with your wet board, wet swim trunks, wet hair. And you'd just wait.

Hey, if nobody would come along, you'd still be cool. You'd leave the beach carrying your board. People would see you. And think you were The Duke himself.