Essay
Saving for a Longboard, Slowly
攒一块长板，慢慢地
There's a page at the back of my notebook where I keep the number. Right now it says 640, which is not much when the board I want is a used nine-two and the good ones start around twelve hundred. The surf school pays for wetsuits and tape and fuel. The cafe pays for the board, in theory, once rent and groceries have had their turn.
I've been looking since March. There's a shaper two hours down the coast who sells his old demo boards at the end of each season, and a man on the northern beaches who has been relisting the same board since January, which tells you something about the board, or the price, or both. I go and look. Looking is free.
The dress in the wardrobe
The white linen dress has nothing to do with surfing. I wore it to a friend's twenty-first in a backyard in Marrickville, string lights in a lemon tree, everyone holding a drink in a jam jar. I stood in the middle of it feeling like I'd borrowed somebody else's afternoon, and then I was in the water by six the next morning, which fixed it.
I'm better on land than I used to be. I still check the wind before I agree to anything.
In August I found a nine-two with a repaired nose and a deck that had been waxed so many times it looked like a map. He wanted nine hundred. I had five hundred and twenty and a dentist appointment coming. I stood in his garage for twenty minutes doing sums that wouldn't work, then said thank you and drove home. That's the closest I've come.
The counting happens on Sundays, on the floor of my room, coins in little piles, the notebook open. It's slow, and at this rate it will be autumn, and I don't mind it the way I expected to. Every shift buys a piece of the board. Every tip buys a fin. It's the only saving I've ever been any good at, because I can see the thing at the end of it.
The first thing I'll do
When it happens I'll take it out on a small clean day, early, before the school puts its flags up and the beach fills with people learning to stand. Just me and something long enough to catch the tiny stuff, walking up the board the way my father does. Then coffee. Then I'll probably teach a lesson and tell six strangers it isn't cold.
中文译文
笔记本最后一页记着那个数字。现在写着 640，离一块二手九尺二还差得远——品相好的，起价一千二。冲浪学校的钱给湿衣、给胶带、给油费；咖啡馆的钱名义上给板子，前提是房租和菜钱先轮到。
从三月看到现在。南边两小时车程有位制板师，每季末卖自己的旧样板；北边海滩有个男人，同一块板从一月挂到现在，这件事本身就说明了板，或者价，或者两样都说明。我去看。看不要钱。
衣柜里那条裙子
那条白色亚麻裙跟冲浪毫无关系。我穿它去马里克维尔一个朋友的后院生日，柠檬树上绕着灯串，所有人拿果酱罐当杯子。我站在人群中间，像借了别人的一个下午。第二天早上六点我在水里，这件事就翻篇了。
我在陆地上比以前自在了。答应任何事之前，我还是会先看风。
八月遇到一块九尺二，板头修过，板面的蜡叠了太多层，看上去像一张地图。他要九百。我手上有五百二，前面还排着一次牙医。我在他车库里站了二十分钟，算一笔怎么都算不平的账，然后道谢，开车回家。那是我离它最近的一次。
数钱在星期天，坐在地板上，硬币分成小堆，笔记本摊开。照这个速度得等到秋天，说慢也真慢，可我没有想象中那么介意。每上一个班就买回板子的一点，每笔小费就是一只鳍。我这辈子唯一攒得住的钱，就是这种能看见尽头有东西的。
先要做的一件事
真到手那天，我要挑一个干净的小浪天，早早下水，赶在学校的旗子支起来、沙滩上挤满学站板的人之前。就我和一块足够长的板，把那些很小的浪也接住，像我父亲那样走上板头。然后喝杯咖啡。然后大概还要带一节课，跟六个陌生人说：不冷。
