I want to be a surfer too (a satire)

Praia da Luz     Sat. 26.2.22     7.10 am

Sunrise, sound of the sea, I can see and hear the Atlantic from my apartment. The seagulls are already causing a ruckus on the terrace, fighting over the leftovers from last night's dinner, and intentionally pooping on the pool loungers as a thank you.

Every morning, the same ritual. After the first coffee, I grab the many small empty Superbock bottles (0.2 l ridiculous) and a few uncorked red wine bottles and walk the few meters down to the beach. There is a small parking lot right by the sea for about 15 vehicles - and there is also the recycling station.

The parking lot is empty, because sleeping in the bus is no longer allowed.

And here it comes, the first surf bus of the day. Cologne license plates - we know each other. I greet him, he greets me back rather suspiciously. Because he believes he can sense it - I simply can't stand them - the SURFERS.

He parks backwards, opens the trunk, takes out his guitar and wetsuit, and takes the board off the roof - that's it. Nothing more happens today, stereotype fulfilled.

By 9 am at the latest, the big migration begins. Dozens of buses try to find a nice parking spot. The rest have to block private driveways somewhere in town.

There they sit, outside behind the waves, like chickens on a perch. And not much happens.

At noon, they paddle back, then sit draped on small walls, cutting cucumber slices and drinking Coke Zero.

Those who dare not go into the water play the guitar. For chill out time, they emerge from the waves, excessively drying their toned bodies, brushing their long hair, applying lotion to their tattoos, and posing on the walls until sunset.

Then they are finally gone, the buses from the surfer hotspots Cologne, Hamburg, and Rosenheim.

But they don't do so much wrong after all, because on the way home, they suddenly have the most beautiful women in the world sitting next to them. I'm furious.