Betty

I think I have to sell Betty. My surfboard. Not my grandma.

"Betty," I said this morning, struggling back into my wet bikini and rash guard. "It's time. We're going surfing."

"Really?" she said, looking down from the wall where she's been propped for the last six weeks.

"Seriously. I'm feeling pretty genki this morning."

"You're not just winding me up?" Betty asked me, looking suspicious.

"Nope. It's just me and you and probably a whole lot of rain but I'm game if you are."

"Oh God, anything to get me out of your study," she whimpered, convinced - as she has been for some time now - that she belongs to a category of my possessions that includes dumb-bells, an iron, a yoga mat and fake eyelashes: good ideas at the time, but currently rotting in various cupboards all over the house.

And I was feeling pretty genki. I've spent the long holiday weekend at the beach, learning how to ride a motorbike (sorry, mum), learning how to sit behind a crazy Japanese boy on a motorbike travelling at 80mph on wet sand screaming aaaarrrggghhhh stop Shin, stop, for the love of God, stop, you total bastard, or when I get off this thing I'm going to sodding kill you, do you hear me? and discovering that not only can I bodysurf properly and thoroughly enjoy it: I'm actually good at it. Which is a fantastic thing to find out, because I can count the amount of physical things I'm naturally good at one one hand (and no, I'm not telling you what they all are). 

So, tired and red and full of beans and the conviction that I'm probably immortal, I got up early this morning and decided that Betty was coming out of early retirement. 

It started relatively well. We walked down to the beach and I nodded to a few handsome surf boys - that Yeah, we're cool aren't we surfer look combined with a big dose of and - double take - yes, we are different races - and Betty did her utmost not to trip me up or tip me over, which is the most you can really expect from a 7.5 foot surfboard. We both made it into the sea in one piece, Betty grumbling that it looked like rain, and then stood in the shallows and assessed the situation for a few minutes.

"They're quite big, aren't they," Betty said eventually.

"Don't be such a wuss," I told her crossly. "I'm a strong swimmer and you're basically a raft. We'll be fine."

"I'm not sure about this," she moaned in a low voice. "All the other surfers are over that way."

"Yes, well, thanks to the fact that you're twice the size, weight and volume of all the others - and covered in pink flowers - I've decided to take us somewhere a little bit more private. It's hard to look cool with you tied to my ankle."

"Are you saying I'm fat?"

"You're huge and you know it."

Betty sniffed.

"I'm in perfect proportion," she told me in a huffy little voice. "And you're not exactly diddly yourself either, you know."

"I'm in perfect proportion too," I snapped back. "Now pipe down and focus on catching waves, please."

Except that it was really, really hard. Betty is such an absolute beast - twice the size of a normal surfboard, twice the weight - that everytime I tried to do anything she resisted. When I tried to duck her under the waves, all of my weight wouldn't make her go down; when she slipped away from me she dragged me with her by my foot rather than the leash serving to keep her with me. If I needed to turn her around quickly she did it in her own sweet time, and when I tried to get her back out of the water for a rest I didn't have the strength in my arms to pick her up. True, there was no chance of sinking on her - she's like a small boat - and true, I can get up on my knees quite easily because there's a six inch gap between me and the water, but it didn't make up for an hour of arguing, negotiating and bitching at each other. ("Right, turn, turn, turn and go. Turn, Betty. Turn. Oh for the love of.. Nope, we missed it." "I didn't feel like turning." "I didn't ask you if you felt like turning, I told you to turn." "Well I fancied the wave behind it." "I wasn't ready for that one!" "Well I was.")

As bad as the arguments were, however - as much as we sniped at each other and wrestled together in the rain (she was right: it had looked like rain) - none of them, I think, necessitated her trying to kill me.

It was a good wave; Betty and I were coordinated, we were both sailing quite nicely towards the shore, I was up on one knee, Betty had piped down. She slowed down too soon, as she would (she's too fat to go very fast), and I lost my balance, went under the waves and popped up with Betty, dragging me in one particular direction and testing my immortality theory a little too fervently.

"Betty!" I shouted. "I'm five feet away from the rocks! What are you playing at?"

"You brought me here. I told you the other surfers were the other way."

"No, I brought you there. 50 metres that way. Where my bag is, you see? We are now up against the rocks. You nearly smashed my head open."

"Don't blame me."

"Right - fine. I'm not arguing about this. Move away from the rocks."

"No."

"Move away from the rocks."

"No."
"Betty, move away from the frigging rocks." 

I started dragging her away from them, but Betty had decided to play dead and all of my weight and strength couldn't get her to move the right way.

"Betty, you're going to kill me!"

"No, you and your crap surfing skills are going to kill you."

"My inability to move you is going to kill me, Betty! Now move."

And we struggled, shouting at each other, back to the shore where I finally heaved Betty onto the sand and collapsed in a heap on top of her, still shouting at her.

"This isn't working," I told her when I got my breath back. "It's just not. Is it."
Betty shrugged.
"The guy who bought me was 6 foot 5 and built like a brick shithouse. You're a bit puny."
"And you're too fat."
"I know. Stop reminding me."

So - after a few tears and a lot of apologising from both of us - we've decided to go separate ways. I love surfing, and I love Betty despite her flaws, but she is too big for me, too strong for me, and too argumentative for me. The chances of ever standing up on a smaller board are much lower, but the chances of being killed in the process are lower too. Plus I won't spend my entire time out on the water shouting and struggling and arguing. And - frankly - I've done quite enough of that this year. Surfing is supposed to be my escape from all that: not just another source of drama.

She'll will be fine. I'll find a nice, big, strong man to look after her: a man who secretly likes being controlled and shouted at and nearly being killed (and there are more of them than you might think). And I'll find something a little more placid, and a little more malleable. Something I can have more fun with, and a few less fights.

Betty was useful, but it's time to sell her up, now.

My surfboard. Not my grandma.