from his essay about a visit to the Virgin Islands:
"And so I paddled back to the beach, where my son, clearly thinking inheritance, talked me into windsurfing. This involves standing on a surfboard with a sail attached to it, and then, by shifting your weight and pointing the sail in a certain direction relative to the wind, falling into the water like a sack of gravel. I estimate that I got up on the surfboard, and immediately fell back off, 50 times, in the process traveling forward a total of 11 feet.
I was the source of much entertainment for the people on the beach. Even the reef was emitting billions of tiny but hearty polyp chuckles, which would be a good name for a rock band.
After I staggered back to the beach, a real windsurfer appeared, looking like a Greek god, but with a better body. He was zipping effortlessly across the waves, muscles rippling, and my wife was watching him, and I said, ``I bet that guy couldn't handle the pressure of producing a weekly newspaper column! Right? Honey? Right? Hello?''
So I decided to engage in a manly activity that I happen to be quite good at: building a sand castle. Not for ME, of course. It was for my daughter. The problem is that she, being 2, soon became bored and wandered off, leaving me to work alone, with my little blue pail and my little yellow shovel. I don't want to boast, but I made a very manly castle. I'm sure that Mr. Pectorals, out puffing around on his little board, was intimidated, although he pretended not to notice. But my wife was clearly impressed, because later on she accompanied me to our room for an intimate -- and sometimes, frankly, wild -- evening of trying to get the sand out of our daughter's hair."
http://www.miami.com/mld/miamiherald/living/columnists/dave_barry/4972467.htm
"The Wind is Free" by Roger Jones and Ken Winner (excerpt here):
Late Saturday morning you come cruisin' out to the beach, your sailboard atop your cool green MG. You check out the scene: the sun hot enough to melt the sand, the sand covered with beach towels, beach towels covered with girls, and the girls hot enough to boil the sea. You gaze through your shades at the sun, the girls, and the white-capping water, and say to yourself "Awwright", cause you're cool, you're the Freestyle Kid.
Casually, but carefully, you rig the board, conscious of the curious glances straying your way. Now is not the time to trip over your mast.
You push the board into the water. Adrenalin starts to pump and your mind clicks into gear with the 15 knot breeze. It's just you and your board on a date with the wind and water.
You land he board, he amateur photographers scatter, and you flop down in the sand to soak up its heat. Rolling onto your back into warmer sand, sighing with satisfaction, you lay an arm across your eyes to shade the sun. Then a voice disturbs your reverie. "Excuse me, is this sail surfer?" In the glare of the sun stands someone brown, with long blond hair and a white bikini. You smile, but not too broadly ('cause you're cool), and say to yourself, "Aww-right!"