Riders on the Storm

August 24, 2009

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?Tis a weekend in late August and two non-indigenous tribes have descended on the twin forks.

The 34th Hampton Classic Horse Show attracts a crowd of aficionados. For the week-long event a field is converted into a micro-village. The show is a striking affair. The owners of the fabled beach front properties are in attendance. The crowd is sleek. Men wear linen, women mostly in white. One super-hottie sucked up all sorts of attention in silver shorts that barely cleared her perfect bottom, high chunky heels, and a tiny, floaty, black thing for a top that mostly worked to advertise the product beneath.

The summer sun is hot like a sauna. A leaden humidity is infused with ladies perfumes and wisps of horse stench.

Riders in tan jodhpurs and spit-polished knee high leather boots, cling in clusters, evoking Degas? dancers.

Horses and riders alike are daunting in their perfection. The equestrian world is an art form of its own. Only diehard PETA-heads could fail to note the magnificence.

Meanwhile, Hurricane Bill sent pre-storm threats by manner of line-backer-sized chunky waves. Local surfers pride themselves on tackling the beast at their shores. But a hurricane will draw surfers from long distances, like firemen to a 9 alarm.

After a hard day of paddling and defying imminent death the water-babies were to be found at the Stephen Talkhouse nightclub, in Amagansett.

A time to decompress, trade fish tales.

?Only problem was my board hit me in the head, like, 20 times.?

?I died twice today. For real! I drowned twice.?

An energetic fiesta engaged on the dance floor, a veritable sweat-swamp. The band was bangin?.

Off to one side, in another world, a couple sat on a bench. Young, supple, luscious, they were making out. She was sitting on his lap and they were kissing. Oblivious.

Spoils of the day.

A pink-faced Atlanta cherub exclaimed: ?I came out here for the weekend and I?m gonna learn how to surf.? And then he fell over, crashing into a table of drinks, taking it all down to the sticky dirty floor with him.

Jocko, banker by day and one of the more expert surfers around, was disappointed in Hurricane Bill. ?The waves are up to 20 feet, but they?re choppy. Not good.? With his plastic cup of beer he pointed at Pocahontas Surfer Babe, a tanned, taut, loose-limbed beauty, appetizing as a pastry. ?I don?t care,? he said, ?because tonight I?ve fallen in love. I think.?

As inevitably as the weekend would end, Hurricane Bill diffused and the storm riders dispersed. Crusting jalopies, with surf boards lashed to roofs, cruised out of town alongside the very latest in motoring excess. To each his own experience, though never the twain shall meet.

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