We met these girls on the beach out the front of Swamis, a drop-friendly wave in San Diego. Honestly, we were fucking stoked. These chicks were what we would call here in the biz a bunch of hornets – all body, no brain. Without sounding like dooly, we were just out there tearing the bag and they knew it. There was this one chick, Jessie; she was such a sassy bitch. I was pretty off her to start with, as she thought she was the fucking flame of California just because she was a buyer for a half-rate local surf shop (and getting paid like a 17-year-old dishy), but she had a serious rig, so the boys were frothing.
We got the girls’ numbers and dipped: we had a date with the mimosa train that we couldn’t miss. I took my change jar out of the car and got involved. Drink after drink; I wasn’t sure how I’d pay for it, because I had fuck all coin, but shit it was good. By about the fourth drink, the social lubricant was really taking effect, and I started trawling my contacts for a chick easy enough to hit up on Easter. Naturally, I ended up getting into contact with the beach girls.
A boozy drive drove down the road saw myself and the boys land in the beach girls’ house – right on the Californian coastline. It boasted a supreme view, and they had a great supply of booze. Needless to say, we were pretty stoked. From memory, I think we may have potentially got pretty inappropriate shortly after arrival. A couple of the lads tackled each other into the bush, and the girls were not impressed.
My opinion was validated after our second surf of the day, well on the Sunday mimosa train, when we emerged to see an Australian passport ripped apart on the road below the house. In fact, all the stuff we’d left inside had been thrown onto the road below. We kept out tempers on point – the girls had obviously lost their marbles, and you can’t fight that kind of fire with more fire – that’s a shit storm. We were calm until we realised my poor mate’s passport wasn’t the only casualty: a hundred bucks and a phone had also gone missing. The American bitches fucking robbed us, and once confronted, they lied right to our faces.
After an hour of searching the bush around the house where our gear had mysteriously ended up, we gave up, simply too drunk to function and too sane to try and reason with the headcases. We sat on the girls; balcony for another hour out of spite and sucked the back out of some more cans, just having a good time. We left with or heads high, defeated only on the inside, taking the mimosa train all the way to the bitter end.
Cover by Bacillus