No Boots

    (cf., No shoes, no shirt, no service policies)

While I understand, on an intellectual level, the No Boots policy of that pub, I don’t see how that would work. Not in South Texas and not while there’s a boom on-going.

Then, too, close to a dozen years ago, I had that singular experience that has long since colored all my perceptions. To me, it was a very Aquarian experience. As pulled out of a Coastal Bend beach, I was behind a truck, a working ranch truck, headache rack, gun rack in the rear window with a rope — used for handling cattle. A single, beat straw cowboy hat on the dash, two guys in the front, laconically riding in the front seat, two or three bales of hay in the bed of the truck.

A working ranch truck.

There were two surfboards in the bed of the truck, too.

Then, right before Easter on a Good Friday dash through the Flour Bluff (super) grocery store (local chain), I caught an image of surfboards.

Surfboards for sale in the grocery store.

Not bogie boards, well, yes, those, too, but long boards.

In the grocery store.

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