D. MAGNIFICENT !

Extracts from a travelling young lady’s diary

Time occasionally does change its scheme.  It flows more clearly, richly, more intensely and it brings rare moments with a sensation of great importance. I am unfurling. I twist and turn like a wrapped up piece of string, and just like that, my thread, which is my life, gets pulled out slowly by events unravelling in front of me. Inside I can’t make head or tail of it, but once out in the open it becomes defined and vulnerable.   

Last week I wasn’t only loved and left again by my long-term boyfriend Philip, but also wooed by a type of man that I had never before thought would be my territory. Of course when looking at the situation, which played out at a huge surf contest graced by the customary groupies, it was relatively easy to see through his natural male motivation. As a modern and well-educated woman, I didn’t necessarily need to have had the experience to know how things might turn out. 

There are men who want to conquer the body of a woman. Not one woman in particular. They love to hunt…and they love themselves. They don’t want to share and they don’t have to. They don’t have to pay for anything or give anything. Which isn’t to say that they never do. Sometimes they even give more than would be good for the recipient. 

They suck up attention and admiration like other people do air. They have VIP tattooed into their aura. They sunbathe in fame and the goodwill of others and don’t even have to ponder where to get the next fix. It always turns up. Like me.

The ASP Surf Pro Tour hits my coast and washes all sorts of interesting people onto the beach.  Some I already know but I’m feeling good and so head for new shores. I hardly recognize myself. Because I’m convinced that what I feel on the inside is what I will experience on the outside I am surprised by who is attracted to me. I would have never thought that I’m feeling THAT good. There is a male supermodel, a famous character with the controversial appearance of a soft hard-rocker, tattooed from top to bottom with a gun in his pocket, some adrenalin addicted world class surfers, a South-African journalist hit by lightning and last but not least a true rock star.  He rocks. He plays the guitar, sings, has really big feet and is one of the best surfers of all time. He is part of this exclusive, elusive and dizzy making gang of gods smoothed by long term cultivated milk chocolate complexions, who circuit the planet three times a year just to hang out at the most beautiful beaches with the most beautiful girls, and surf for thousands of dollars to feed the kids at home. But MY rock star doesn’t have to go for it heat after heat. He only surfs in films, videos and ads. I have to number all the Californians who I meet so I won’t get lost. And in the evenings I fall into the arms of my almost- over-but-not-quite-yet-completely ex-boyfriend. 

I met this rock star, not he me, with his band in front of the local high-season hang out. Jim, Californian number 1 and the band’s guitarist, introduced me to Californian number 2 and a great writer, the editor of SURFER Magazine. I ended up deep in conversation with him and was completely ignored by THE Californian number 6, my rock star. I wouldn’t have expected anything else. Such a flamboyant man in a cowboy hat, a smelly sheepskin waistcoat and tight pants – there’s no way I would have put a hippy like that with squeaky clean me. But as things were shaping up, I found myself in the middle of Californian number 1, 2 and 3 (another member of the band), and I loved it. Just for the record, Californians number 4, 5 and everything after 6 were photographers, surfers and journalists, apparently all from the same place. THE Cali number 6 didn’t seem to be interested in me at all and of course he was the only one I was interested in. So I decided to go home and be fresh for the next day… Monday. Except for a prize giving offering up flowers and champagne it wasn’t a spectacular day. That evening I felt horrible. My foot was inflamed, stung but I couldn’t figure out why. So following the advice of a shamanistic law, I exchanged the nightmare I was having for another, improved dream. Despite the pain, Californian number 2, the editor, took me out for dinner. We had a wonderful   conversation. 

Tuesday. The Contest is over and I’m happy to relax and get things done. I take my foot to the doctor. He gives me some antibiotics which unfortunately don’t work against all the ailments I have that same evening. We eat at the ‚Seaside’ Restaurant and sit at the fourth table on the right. My good friend Alex, who I am now sharing my bed with in an extremely platonic fashion because of the lack of space and because my now ex-boyfriend has taken off finally, barges into the bar with HIM. Californian number 6! He greets me sweetly but curtly and almost bashfully with an-ever-so-sexy “Hello”. Anne-Marie, who is with us for dinner, is typically patronizing and gets on my nerves all evening. After the meal, I start to slip out when Alex turns to me and asks me to stay. I do. Suddenly he is next to me, behind me, in front of me. He tells me that I’m beautiful. D, THE Californian number 6. He continues. You are absolutely gorgeous, wow, look at you, look how sexy you are, you’re beautiful, I love your hips, Jesus you’re beautiful. Of course. But to hear it coming from his slightly bearded lips. God I’m glad you stayed, I can’t believe how sexy you are, why haven’t I met you earlier (exactly!). Hey Baby, how is your foot, is it all right? Hey Mara Baby. My Mara Baby. He starts to kiss me, on my cheek, on my mouth even. He is not at all my type; he smells of incense sticks, he is a hippie but also the coolest guy in a 150 mile radius. This type of guy becomes my type of guy. But I am not a groupie! No star fucker! We spend the evening side by side. He tells me constantly how beautiful I am, he doesn’t stop kissing me, holding me, what can I do, I’m lost…. should I run away? Turn my back on him? He speaks of nothing else than to spend the night with me. This is exactly what your mother always warned you about. Those kinds of guys that are addictive and turn you on like nothing else. He is one of many, but one who finds me beautiful. Water is enough to make me drunk and I find myself more or less suddenly in his bed. What’s crazy is that all those Californian lies - I want to spend more time with you, I want to go surfing with you, I want to lay on the beach with you, I want to go back to London with you, I want, I want I want - feel so good and are so within my reach.  I don’t believe a word he says yet still I’m curious. He baits me and I come, hypnotised. I still think I’ve got everything under control. Use the Shaman technique! Change your dream! Because what I’m living doesn’t seem 100% real. He doesn’t stop kissing me, he says that I drive him crazy with my beauty, he carries me home and I can’t escape. I can’t even stand on my foot it hurts so much. And maybe I don’t want to. He comes, I don’t, but still - I’m happy in his arms. And maybe a little proud? A shit hot superstar surfer, rock star - with me?  Maybe it was my scepticism. But it was really hard to believe, that the ‘believing in it’ would have had another effect. Already the next morning everything was a bit more distanced. I stay away the next day and parts of the day after, I think that he misses me maybe. Who knows? That evening, after I have worked on my story, I throw a coin, which tells me I will be successful. I drive by his house and end up organising the equipment for a gig with his band. I meet them later in the bar to hear them play. The concert is good and I do feel like a groupie now.  D. is distanced. He doesn’t want me anymore, he has sort of had me, he is not interested. Of course. I bite my lip and manage to have some fun anyway. I can’t help but hope that something will happen even though I’m not even sure I want it to happen. If a fairy asked me for my wish then I wouldn’t have an answer for her, because neither this nor that seems appropriate. I don’t want to sleep with him, which I haven’t yet, we had just fooled around. I don’t want to be together with him, this coke addict, I don’t want to marry him and not even flirt with him in public. But, but… He is forbidden fruit. It is like playing with fire. And still I’m quite cheerful and get a lot of attention, especially from all the other members of the band. All of them seem to think I’m pretty cool, apart from him, who continues to ignore me. I go home and find Alex in my bed. He is such a darling. With his endless compliments he turns me into this really nice lady and all of that without even trying to touch me. 

Next day. And I have lost track. I’m continuously haunted. I want to be where he is. Why on earth?? This will destroy everything. I need some distance. That is the lesson to learn. I have a tendency towards wild and uncontrollable men and lose my concentration, my discipline, pretty much everything. But these are feelings, that I only have now, and not Friday, right it was Friday. Waterman’s Ball. If it’s not hard to get in, then it’s not worth it. It was very hard and I was easily one of the more attractive women there, but he was after Charlotte. She, a good friend of mine, said in wonder, ‘but I thought you were with Mara?’ and he answered ‘No, Mara is dating my buddy Jimmy’…? What on earth is he talking about? Confusion all round. Even though I have to say that Jimmy is very nice and good-looking, a real gentleman in fact. But D. doesn’t want me anymore. I’m repeating myself. That’s it. Rejection is probably my hang up. Whatever, it was a cool, very interesting evening, but just without my precious independence, which I enjoy so much.  I had difficulty taking my eyes off him and I could only concentrate on nice Jimmy, when I knew exactly where HE was. Californian Number 2 does get a little difficult to handle…I think he likes me more than he should. He gets all insecure when he talks to me and his face transforms into this grimace, a little panicky and tight. He drives me home and I sleep deeply until the next morning.  Alex doesn’t come home.  

Saturday. After some organising we head south for another contest. I have a cup of tea with Alex and really enjoy his company. He is such an inspiring person. He takes some photos of me again and picks me up with his usual endearments. Of course we talk about D. Alex tells me that I should be laughing about all of that. D. is a great guy, and if all of that would be happening at home, then I would probably be the girl who could coax him into less shallow behaviour. Alex is really sweet. D. looks at me and indicates to me with the shake of a hand that I should go over to him. But I don’t. The others tell me that they will be playing in some bar tonight and that we should go. 

And sure enough I end up exactly there. Still full of some dubious hope, which I can’t explain. I have a great time watching the concert, Occy sings, I try to take it easy and betray no emotion as D. grabs another girl to take home. And what kind of girl! Brrr, awful. I really want to know now what it was that he saw in me? But why is it so hard to let him go? Of course my ego is hurt. What else? I want to get him out of my system. It’s enough. Sunday. Contest. I’m over it. I feel weak. My camera slips through my fingers and crashes on the ground. Great. I’m even trembling. Jimmy is very kind and attentive. D. comes over, says hi, sits down next to me and leaves again. I must be able to let go! This is insane. And it really is enough. 

That night I stay at home. I think his crew has gone to Spain. Alex, Californian number 4 and Californian number 2 go out for dinner. I stay in, even though it’s really hard. I’d prefer to go outside and check if D. really isn’t around, so I won’t miss him or my chance to have another look. When I asked him today if he had enjoyed last night, he answered that he was drunk. He then wanted me to massage his shoulder, which I did, and gave me his coffee. What is quite fascinating is that even though I’m 26, I can still feel and even behave like a 16 year old. I would never have thought it. But there is one thing that’s certain and it’s a good thing. That I never accepted to become Philip’s wife. And when D. gets on his plane the next day, I can feel it physically. It’s like a rubber band, stretched until bursting, and it does. I let go - the change is done.

By Mara Lean