The bond of friendship between two surfers reminds me of a former best friend in South Carolina. His name was Timmy, three years younger than I, and he was from rural Hannah-Pamplico. Regardless of circumstance or against ignorant gossip that arose about our relationship, Timmy had my back; I had his. Whatever I possessed was his and vice versa. I supposed we became closer than brothers, closer than family save (for) my grandparents. Sometimes we shared the same sandwich and one beer in the middle of late night and it was quiet and it seemed we were only two people in world. Timmy's wife who was very nice and courteous and gentle and pretty as most petite Southern women are, once asked Timmy what kind of music does gay people listen to when they drove my car (we used to trade cars once a month). When Timmy told me about it, we both giggled so out of control since Timmy told me he told his wife with his strong Southern twang, "Dammitt, woman! They listen to the same kind of music we do!"
I forget the wife's name but, no, not even she could break our bond.