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Show Blue Run/4 ass. Drawings show these hilarious stick figures drowning, blue zig-zags pulling them under. People are always getting sucked under and spat back up, sometimes breathing sometimes not. On stray dunes, crosses are decorated with plastic flowers to mark drownings. But if you're strong and have the patience to ride the thing out, just hold your breath until it spits you up, then you can make it, that's what I believe. With a little luck and patience, you can ride out a rip. Sharks are another story. They'll come at you from behind and attack in rounds, and once you're hit, Katy bar the door. Melbourne Beach surfers have rituals for sharks, like never ever eating their flesh or calling them shitheads, or generally speaking ill of their presence within sight of ocean. Rocky and Bet, Renee's brother and sister-in-law, have dances and necklaces and shark mantras They beat drums, light and jump through hoola-hoops soaked with gasoline. Oh hell, sharks, I'm thinking sharks and let saltwater sluice through my mouth. They've never bothered me. I body surf a wave into a late afternoon after fishing the blue run, clean now, all the blood washed away. When I get out, the bull-chested men charge me, full-sprint, throwing sand in little puffs Son-of- a-whore, one yells The other's face is white, his lips moving. He's making damn good time. The boys haul ass as well, at me-and what've I done in this world*? To get charged out of the clear blue? That's how it seems, standing there with water dripping off my balls. They're good runners, screaming higo de punta-full of piss and vinegar and conviction. A good sprinter can do a hundred meters in eleven seconds, add a few ticks for the sand. It can be a long time-much time for thinking, hearing your own heart beat in the vacuum of middle ear. Believe me. I've run the 100 enough to know. The spring of the big tornado, we'd travel to Stuttgart or Tupelo or Lonoke Jackrabbit Relays, with buckets of chicken and dirty sanitary socks |