The Last Kiss

And then there was the wave. They had been around the world so many times. They had woken up in houses and haciendas and chateaus. They had woken up hungover and smelling of grease and perfume. Their passports were full. Their memories were so full they had all forgotten about the time, in Latvia, when a gypsy’s monkey stole Creed’s T-shirt, Dion’s sunglasses, Nate’s mandolin, DJ Struntz’s Luger pistol and then made a beautiful sculpture on their veranda. They had all forgotten about the time, in Hong Kong, when CJ and Damien were invited to play tennis against the governor’s twin daughters for the key to the city.They had gone on a wild adventure for the sake of art, or for the sake of adventure itself — no one was quite sure which — but who would have thought that the wave would have found them after they woke up in a mud brick hut? Who would have thought that a wave was the best thing of all?

They had come to Mozambique because it is Mozambique. “We shall go to Mozambique…” Joe G. said to Dion, who was reclining on a Tappezzeria Rocchetti sofa, one cloudless Long Beach morning as he finished the last of his espresso con panna. “…and we shall surf.” He was looking at an old World Book, embossed in real gold, and something about the letters danced. M-O-Z-A-M-B-I-Q-U-E. Dion nodded and called Nate, who called Creed, who called CJ. There were no longer questions. Only adventure. Only art.

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Don’t Forget Where You Belong

The flight was longer than long but they each arrived, fresh and happy, in Mozambique’s capital, Maputo. Creed bought a dashiki on the street from a one-legged vendor who used to plunder Portuguese yachts in the bay. Nate bought one from a widow who claimed she was President Obama’s half-sister. They wore them proudly and the locals hooted their approval.
DJ had set off to acquire transportation and came back driving a 1972 Land Rover. “Get in, boys,” he yelled. “The road to hell is paved with idle hands!” And even though he had butchered two separate proverbs, no one cared. They were fresh and happy.
DJ drove through the night, over sand dunes and across swollen streams while the stars danced above his head. He thought about his family and about fish. The crew slept, dreaming of barrels and airs, and when they awoke, they found themselves in a small mud brick village far, far away. “This is it,” DJ said, very sure of himself. “What is?” Dion responded, looking out at the flat seas. But it was starkly beautiful so no one really cared that the waves were absent. No one goes to Mozambique to truly score.

Mozambique
Mozambique
Mozambique
Mozambique
Mozambique