Fatherhood is a mixed blessing.
Teetering on the edge of sanity, with the word 'well I didn't ask to be born' ringing in my ears like bad tinnitus, I'm forced to resort to a ride report on the hull, 'cos anything else will have me necking myself.
Last Sunday the green sled got a run. In cleanish 3ft Winki I got no points for style and the first turn was a face plant as I went one way and expected the board to follow. They don't work like that.
Looking to the west and a threatening onshore blacklining it across the horizon, five waves later I had started to understand the concept of a displacement hull, the foil pulling forward off curves and flexing fin, sections swallowed, a very different feeling to the cut and thruster. My great wish would be to be blessed with the body to add elegance to the lines the board draws, but thick legged and stocky it is, Occy after eating a (small) softball.
The pic is my friend Luke Featherston, a very hot youngster of 45ish, he rips, really, and I am proud to call him a friend. One of life's gentlemen, Luke is a true eccentric, the possessor of a singularly fast but unusual method of swimming underwater. When I lap swam he'd regularly glide past beneath me, feet and hands doing strange things at speed.