KEY POINTS:
I'm sure there are some men who can be trusted to buy swimming shorts on their own. My husband is not one of them. His most recent acquisition prompted me to tell him that the surf lifesavers rang and said they wanted their pants back.
"Funny you should say that," he replied, not skipping a beat. "Someone just asked me if I was a lifesaver while I was out on the kayak."
That'll be the yellow-and-red kayak, which matches his yellow-and-red shorts.
"Looking forward to your first rescue," I muttered, as I stalked off to go fishing. Little did I know how soon that would be.
It occurred shortly after I had spent a harrowing few hours trying to cast a line off the beach using my new left-handed reel and rod, recently bought from The Warehouse, but returned twice due to various missing bits. I hadn't realised it was left-handed until I did my first right-handed cast. Returning it to The Warehouse for a third time would have seriously unhinged me, so I simply told myself that for the purposes of fishing I would become ambidextrous.
So there I was casting my line in an odd right-handed/left-handed fashion when I was joined by the locals.
The locals where my caravan lives are generally patient and understanding of the disability known as being an Aucklander. We are hopeless at everything from erecting tents to lighting barbecues and we apparently even swim funny.
The locals are good-looking men. Big and muscle-bound, fans of the black singlet, friendly enough - even if their chitchat is designed to ascertain that once again I was using the wrong bait, fishing at the wrong time and casting into the wrong spot.
"But don't worry," said the shorter one. "We're here now; the fish will come soon."
"Thanks," I said, noting the glint of sarcasm behind his eyes.
They then set about fishing with such expertise and grace that I was immediately intimidated and began hitting myself in the head with my sinker, tripping over my line and piercing myself with my own fish hooks. The locals exchanged a look. As it wafted past, I sniffed its meaning. "Another bloody Aucklander."
Which is when my surf lifesaver decided to paddle over on his kayak for a visit.
"God," I said under my breath as I saw him heading in my direction, paddling in his enthusiastic style which involves the boat zigzagging its way forward rather than choosing a more direct route. "Please, no."
God was obviously busy elsewhere because in a jiffy there he was right in front of us, a huge smile on his face, shouting: "A drink for my darling fisherwoman! Corona or Crown Lager, my sweet?"
The shame of it all. I thought I saw a local snigger shortly before the other guy just laughed out loud. Aucklanders.
I encouraged my husband to pull the boat in away from our eager audience and we sat and drank our beers. Which is when I decided it would be nice to float back to shore while he towed me in the kayak.
As we plunged headlong into the outgoing current, my husband paddled and paddled and we didn't move an inch. In fact we began to move backwards, swept out to sea by a current which went right past the locals and into huge surf.
"Ah ... the current, darling," I shouted to my husband, who was still paddling fervently - oblivious to the fact that his wife was doing a good impression of a sea anchor. And then, in an attempt to sound like our fast exit into the surf was intentional for the locals' benefit, I shouted: "What a great ride" as I faced certain death.
We were goners. I cursed myself. I knew this current and I should have known better.
Which is when I had the foresight to stand up. In what revealed itself to be water so deep and turbulent that it came all the way up to my knees.
The locals looked at me. I looked at them. We all had a laugh.