I own a Mini Cooper, but most of the time I cruise around town on a rumbling, saddlebag-laden scooter hog. Some believe this mode of transportation isn’t brawny or genuine enough, which of course is bullshit. It’s consistent, however, that when it comes to the Pacific Ocean that I would be a boogie boarder rather than a surfer. Used to be, I mean. I hit the beach a lot in the ’80s and ’90s. Especially when the kids were old enough to join me. Even on the level of boogie boards, which involves very little skill and is, of course, far below the realm of surfing, you can feel the spirit when you’re out there, bobbing up and down. You’re in church, a kind of natural church of swells and tides and that salty seaweed aroma. All you do is catch the crest of waves and ride the whitewater. A very elemental, simple-dick thing, but God, the hours I spent out there. Sun, sunburn, sparkling water. I had a yellow Morey boogie board, which in my mind was top of the line. The kids had a couple of smaller ones. All to say I just bought a new Morey board. A Big Kahuna 44-incher. I’ll be using it soon.