Brent Pope
It was the late 1970s. I spent the long, hot New Zealand summers in heaven: playing cricket all day with my friends, the two Richards; riding inner tubes down the river to the sea, and getting over the fence at night at the local pool for a cool swim.
Debbie was way out of my league. I was a shy teenager but I had a crush on her from afar. One day, I threw caution to the wind and asked her to the movies, to the only theatre in town. She arrived, dropped off by her father, and suddenly I was the envy of every young man in Ashburton. It was the middle of summer and she looked beautiful — long, blonde, sun-drenched curly hair, beautiful skin, freckled face, blue eyes, dressed in a white linen dress and sandals. I was a teenager in love.
In those days, there was an intermission during the film to get refreshments. Wanting to be a gentleman on our first date, I got up and brought back two ice creams with fantastic chocolate toppings (all my pocket money spent). I didn’t realise some of the chocolate had fallen on to her seat. Over the course of the film, she sat in it. We left the movies, and I was too embarrassed to say anything. I felt so shy and awkward, and I didn’t want anything to spoil the date.
Debbie never went on another date with me.
That was the summer where love came and went for the price of a chocolate bomb…
More recently, I always loved the thought of spending a summer by the sea in New York. I had been to the city itself plenty of times over the years — brought there by my love of Outsider Art, and Fashion Week, to get the latest ideas for my Pope shirt and shoe collection — but never over the summer. So, a few years ago, I decided to spend a long hot summer in Long Beach. My fire-fighter friend Pete Rodriquez generously gave me his apartment overlooking the boardwalk.
I just loved it, waking up early to the sound of the waves crashing in under the clear blue sky. Off to the gym, then cycling my old bike down the beachfront to get my full American breakfast: eggs over easy, bacon, toast and those delicious home fries. Reading the paper and watching the surfers, joggers and skateboarders’ carefree days.
Some days I would catch the Long Island Railroad into the city to visit fantastic art galleries or attend evening concerts in Central Park, with my cheesy pizza slice and beer.
I had made good friends — the Durnans, Chris and Marie (sadly we lost Marie a couple of years ago), who had a beautiful house on the water. Chris would take me on boat trips to Fire Island, the Hamptons and into the city. Just sitting down the back of the boat, music blaring, with the wind in your hair.
Bob Johnson and his wife Tracey also became lifelong friends. They owned the Cabana, a Mexican-themed bar and restaurant, just off the beach, where there was brilliant live music every night, with great acts from the city. Bob loves rugby, and has visited the Aviva Stadium plenty of times (if you are ever in Long Beach, call to the Cabana and say hello, and get Bob to make you a margarita).
Chris and Marie always had a fantastic summer party, and many of my Irish friends, including Robbie, Victor and Titus would fly in especially for the celebrations. That particular year, my best friend Heno also made it over. It made that summer all the more special. No recession, no Covid-19, no worries. Just good friends and good times...