Surfing being what it is, bad can follow good and frustration is often the bedfellow of delight.
Last Sunday, with a swell report of a rise in the afternoon, I lazy day'd it, relaxed, had a coffee and chat, then made a run with an anxious eye on a distant but dark horizon. The rain started on the road down, I changed at Bells to that distant dark line not that distant now, and entered the lineup to a hammering on the hood of neoprene I'd awoken from its summertime slumber. That was my greatest comfort as I sat waiting for the very occasional ruler edged five foot set of new swell to roll through the lineup. Two of us sitting, sitting, then four, then six, then eight.
All the while nothing, then one good wave for me followed by a patter in the face as the wind swung and it all turned to ruler edged crumble.
Which is probably what Osama said to himself moments before the lights went out.
Pics for today. the lonely grey glass at Bells, and the Sid the Huntsman Spider, who sits above us in the lounge room at home. For the moment.