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Rough duty
Posted: Thursday February 24, 2000 10:57 AM
I was all set to write a windy discourse on the World Match Play when it hit me like a ton of cleavage -- this is Swimsuit Issue week, and I've got the mutha of all swimsuit-babe stories. If you'll permit the digression -- and judging by the level of panting in many of your e-mails, you certainly will -- I shall take you behind the green door ... er, behind the curtain of a swimsuit shoot. Last October I was dispatched to the North Shore of Oahu to write one of this year's Swimsuit Issue stories (you may not have previously noticed, but there is text in the issue; it's read about as often as the fiction in Playboy). The piece sounded fun, if a little hokey. Kelly Slater -- world-champion surfer, Baywatch heartthrob, Versace model, former boy toy to Pamela Anderson -- was going to teach one of our gals, Michelle Behennah, a saucy, sexy lass from the north of England, to surf. I was supposed to document the historic occasion.
Actually, Michelle is so cool that the vibe was completely mellow. The first thing she said was, "I need a drink." My kind of girl. We adjourned to the back terrace, and in true beer-commercial fashion the sun was setting brilliantly over the azure water. There were a fair number of other folks enjoying the scene, and Michelle's presence did not go unnoticed. One gent was about to take a sip of his drink when, spying Michelle's person, he was frozen in place, his cup inches from his lips, for what had to be 10 full seconds. We ordered a couple of rounds of piña coladas and chatted aimlessly about Paris, where Michelle lives; about soccer (she's partial to Sheffield); about Slater, whom she had never heard of before; and about, well, I don't really remember. It is a surreal experience to be inside the looking glass like that. I used to coat my junior-high locker with pictures of Kathy Ireland. Now I'm interviewing one of these women, jotting things in my notebook like, "M's 1st career pina colada. Seems to like it. Gone in six sips." Strange world. By and by, we were joined by some other SI staffers, and we all had dinner. The conversation was heavy on outrageously juicy model gossip (sadly, I'm sworn to secrecy). The next morning, at the ungawdly hour of 5:30, we all hooked up with Slater, and the adventure began. I won't spoil the surprise of what is going to land in your mailbox Thursday, although there is one story that must be told (I didn't include it in the magazine piece because it was too salacious, but, hey, this is the Web). The morning after the surfing lesson I stopped by SI Swimsuit HQ, a pair of large adjoining suites, to say my goodbyes. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. Michelle was about to try on a sampling of 300 or 400 swimsuits. I was invited in and told to take a seat for the show. They didn't have to ask twice. Michelle proceeded to parade around in increasingly revealing ensembles, including one that I found highly offensive, a black leather thong with a top that consisted of nothing more than a square of see-through chain-metal draped over her shoulders. Trying to justify my wide-eyed presence, I whipped out my notebook and uncapped a pen. The show continued, inexorably. After a half-hour of this torture I was ridiculously late leaving for the airport, so I finally rose to bid adieu. Michelle gave me a hug and a couple of goodbye air-kisses, and then fixed me with a parting smile. "By the way," she said, "I noticed you didn't write anything down in your notebook this morning." Sports Illustrated golf writer Alan Shipnuck will take you On Tour each Wednesday at golfplus.cnnsi.com. Click here to send Alan a question or a nice, friendly comment.
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