Safetosea

2012-01-09T17:28:00.000+11:00

Today, after missing out on a few very good days at the beach as we begin house hunting on the coast, and as I'd worked the entire weekend sitting editing another 'project' I snuck down for a quick surf in anticipation of the swell leaping skywards and me getting a bit of "wheeeee!!!" time.

Everyone else had the same idea.

And a contest was on at Bells.

So, after sitting watching far, far better surfers than me doing their thirty years younger thing I slipped out to join the 60 odd other guys in the line up at fun but inconsistent Winki. I did say to myself if I come away with one good wave I'll have done alright so equanimity was the face I wore and it was a surprisingly fun session.

A few friends littered the pack. Having a chat and a lot of patience meant, despite the crowd, no one was really stressed.

Have a chat. Catch a wave. Talk some more.

The way it should be.

The pic. One of the occasional sets, keeping the boys and girls honest.

2012-01-04T16:38:00.000+11:00

The year is done and gone, I can't remember one I've been more glad to be rid of, as it was full of heartache and pain.

The world has pitched and yawed, and so has mine, with Dear Old Dad leaving us, and my darling kids going through more than the share normally expected of the transition years. Thankfully the problems are not to do with health or accident, just an exaggerated version of the trials that come with sticking your nose up against the world, or your Mum and Dad, and saying, "Go on, have a go!'.

Sigh.

To all of you out there I hope this coming year is kind or kinder. Happy New Year.

My surfing entry to it wasn't half bad, with a solid onshore session at largish Bells last week, and some pretty tasty lefts on the weekend.

Punctuating this was a call from Tyler Breuer from Smashsurf, wanting to do an interview with me on my life after Musica Surfica. Here it is. You might like to know what's up next.

My pics for the day are the two surfs above. The onshore Bell's was before it kicked to double the size and became really great fun as there were only four or five out.

2011-12-20T18:28:00.001+11:00

The sound of the gnashing of teeth and the rending of garments is loud and being heard from every corner of Victoria at the moment, and no it is not because Kim Jong Il has bitten the proverbial bullet.

It's been near flat for weeks, and though I might paint a rosy picture with the pics today and those from last week, the truth is it is ugly. I can only hope that after Christmas some drought breaking swells arrive with happy winds to put some smiles back on a few faces.

Until I have something more to report or get a burst of inspiration I'll leave you with a couple of pics from Sunday. At the bottom end of what I can actually get to my feet in, the waves were pretty well shaped and fun until the swell Disappeared Completely. I wonder if Radiohead were playing over the top of the dunes?

PS: The first pic is a plant.

2011-12-12T17:14:00.001+11:00

The Devil Winds ended for a morning and half an afternoon on Saturday, hot with a light breeze that slowly accelerated from the north, but not before gifting a couple of very fun sessions, lefts and rights, fun and games over two banks, with lunch in between, before a whopping storm hit and blew it all to bits.

That new board from Maurice is the duck's nuts, and it is clear any limitations are the plonker with his feet planted on the deck.

Easy into waves, fast, loose, but when you push it holds and it really does like to be put on its rail. I even managed to pigdog one of the larger lefts on takeoff and had a 'view' for a moment before getting swallowed.

That being said my good mate Richie maintains I still plant my top turn a little low and more 2:30 than 12 o'clock though he did concede I did whip one off worth a nod of approval. All I can say is good thing he isn't an ASP judge because had he judged me under that criteria I'd probably be summarily executed.

My other surfing highpoint of the weekend though was sneaking a few sessions viewing the Pipe Masters online and shedding a small tear for Kieran Perrow. It was so good to see someone being recognised for doing what he does best and loves most. Courageous surfing in heavy waves. Not frilly or flash. Strong, solid and when he did win all were happy.

Pics for tody: The left after the wind started to get into it, and the second front pushing through on the way home.

2011-12-01T15:50:00.001+11:00

Almost two weeks without going near this door crack to another dimension, mostly because I haven't had much time, or perhaps because the old brain has had the fuzzies, what with 'life and all".

High point for a moment the week before last was trying a new board. If you don't surf you won't understand but getting new, lively glass and foam under the feet, feeling it out and seeing where it takes you, pushing lightly then pushing harder, asking I wonder if and getting an answer that shouts yes, well... it might be fleeting but I'll take that kind of ephemeral any day of the week.

And who cares if my bum sticks out sometimes.

Since then the weather has shifted into one of those devil systems.

An Oceanic Bad Hair Week.. or two.

Elsewhere thinking and planning for The Reef project, ... and again trying to make a buck, which is full of promise but no golden eagles crapping near me today. Fingers crossed for the next few days but until then a little snip from partner in crime Jonny Frank and the Glide. From this you can see why I'm looking forward to the next gig.

The boards by the way are a six two and six ten, for the bigger days. Six two gets a big tick, the other will have to wait for a swell.

Pretty aren't they?

2011-11-15T14:18:00.001+11:00

At an impasse today, so a quick blog post is in order. A week and a half since the last entry, three surfs, two good, one crap, a son run over by a car, another ten days at Chez Madhouse.

Don't worry, if you are, the boy is ok, a rear ending lady not looking saved from a lifetime of guilt by good reflexes on Tom's part and a bit of luck. Young Tom has a lump on his shin and a wrecked bike, now replaced.

Work very quiet on the money earning front is being supplanted by the planning for the Reef, so at least I am occupied.

Pics: MC with a new big gun for Mark Matthews for Voldemort and other breaks in perilous Mordor, some very wind affected scrub, a lovely beachie, plus a quick snap of the fun Winki of Sunday.

Ho hum.

2011-10-31T15:48:00.000+11:00

Lately I've found myself reflecting on what it was like to be 16, using 1970 as my yard stick with the combination of innocence, fear, and wonder that went with it.

The Vietnam War was in full swing, Neil Armstrong, Michael Collins and Buzz Aldrin had just been there and done that, big time, being our first official space tourists with ground time, and to my young eyes hippies were everywhere, my hair was too short, I'd just been on my first surf trip, camping with 13 mates, 11 of whom were named Mick (true) and the beginning of the ruin of my life had begun.

Just entering the final two years of high school, pissed off I was spending most of every weekend lugging bricks from the front of the house to the back to help the builders put an extra bedroom on the back of the house, watching the wind just in case it got over 30 knots and the crap waves that blew up on Port Phillip Bay let me get a splash (imagine the Great Lakes wind slop and divide it by 3), and hoping some girl, any girl, would look sideways at me, and that paints a fair picture of my time in the manhood starting blocks.

Add to that pimples, smelly feet, too much action in the underpants department, as in all dressed up and nowhere to go... Well it's about as much fun as sticking your head up an elephant's backside and trying to recite the soliloquy from Hamlet.

Fast forward forty two years and I am staring at two me's, one a Mini but catching up fast, and a Maxi, but stronger, faster, with more lip and more attitude, better looking and they have got me stumped.

The world has moved so much, the internet and the black spaces it offers have informed too much, and any challenge I mount to their all conquering world view is met with derision, as I lived in the stone age, and never did anything anyway.

True in a way. Got drunk at sixteen more than a few times, then decided it was for the birds and didn't touch the stuff again, until introduced to the glories of English beer at 24. Never smoked anything either, ever. So yep, boring young fart, now a boring old fart but I loved and still love my watery delights, living in my head, trying to love my family, re-inventing or perhaps de-inventing my working life and that is more than enough for me.

Where is this going? Not sure, just venting a little as working out how to guide and protect is becoming an increasingly tough gig.

One day I might write a book about it. For now I'll buy another box of band aids for my noggin. Headbutting the door to make a point has its drawbacks.

Pics

Tiny but fun Winki and Bells. Solace for a Sore Head on Saturday

2011-10-24T16:43:00.000+11:00

A nip down on a sunny day, trying to outwit the crowds and get the light onshore after the glassy morning as an odd surprise new swell drifted into nooks and crannies across Vicco.

Sadly up there for thinking was too smart for its own good and what I got on arrival at the beach was a fair handful of devil wind riffling a lineup that would have been pretty magic.

I'd picked up old MC as he is car-less at the moment, so we hunted wider from where we might usually wet the boards, eventually settling on a spot nearby with headland protection and a nice little right that wasn't too shabby.

For a while there though it was hard to get a wave as the local lads of the throwing air variety had also woken up to the spot, so old fatboy was doubly restricted by age, slowing reaction times and hot kids thirty plus years my junior getting the better of me.

Mind you Maurice wasn't slowed down much, and he's only two weeks younger.

But I ain't him.

Eventually a few dances to crow about, as the wave had speed and steepness, and the odd bit of size though the shot was taken after the tide started to fill on a quick turn around walking back up the track.

The sets were at least twice as big.

Pics: One of the airboys and MC looking a bit waterlogged.

2011-10-17T17:55:00.001+11:00

Once more with feeling perhaps as it seems as though the show might again be on the road.

Those that follow this meander know the story of Musica Surfica. Changed my life, turning it both into a joy and a train wreck depending on what side of the bed I get up in the morning.

The sometime surf film with a lot of brilliant music and oddly compelling surfing. A group of strange bedfellows making beauty and talking a very different cultural story..

Making beauty is what it is all about, a little bit of lift to make days worth living. We succeeded to some degree, I think, and we (are, may..) be about to have another crack. On paper it is done and dusted, filming next May but there is the little issue of 'finding the money' and that journey is what is underway now. One way or another something will happen, it is just the scale of the venture that is in the lap of the gods.

The knowns are some brilliant music, and a whole new composition, just for this. An incredibly exciting prospect, with, again some wonderful people.

Watch this space, as I said innocently in early 07, not knowing what was in store.

The Reef.

Coming soon.

I hope.

Pic: A little snippet of continental edge, much further south but coloured in the reds and lilacs that beat the eyes senseless in our wide and wonderful land.

2011-10-08T11:12:00.003+11:00

When I made (with a fair bit of help) Musica Surfica back in 2007 I reconnected with Maurice Cole, relatively fresh back to Victoria after years of wild success and some adventure in France and Western Australia.

I'd known him pretty well since about 1972 but we've now become great friends and to watch the guy go through a day, attack life so hard, and keep coming up with a positive spin on even the blackest of news is a source of wonder.

This past week I've been putting together another Tale from the Chook Shed, this time around a more detailed explanation of the why and how of his boards.

Full of passion and a deep surfing knowledge, the separator for MC is that at 57, he can back it up in the water. Every surf is R&D, the results speak for themselves as he flies through sections, with those beady blue eyes always on the look out for the next poor soul who "thought he wouldn't make it".

2011-10-07T17:39:00.000+11:00

Parenthood, whatever your age, is not an easy gig.

Being a teenager, and sixteen at that, can be a much darker place, when what it should be is full of hope and discovery.

Scribbled after a drive back from wherever, being tired brings things out as you sit and watch miles fly by.

Good, bad or indifferent, it's for every kid out there who is doing it hard, with a personal bias to one in particular who I love so very much.

The Dark, the Light, the Joy.

When will you see the sun,
my son
When will you see the day?
When will you see the light,
my son
And come back, my shining boy?
The dark is not your place
my son.
The night is not your home.
When will you see the sun,
my son
and fill your life with joy?

2011-10-06T18:05:00.003+11:00

Over the last couple of days a mate from north of the border has been on a bit of a road trip to Mexico (as the New South Welshmen like to call Victoria) and although he chose to pick a less than optimum time for swell he did choose to go to the best possible spot when it comes to picking any up and dealing with the devil winds out of the south east quarter.

Talk about a lucky boy.

As it turned out the best banks in what might be the history of the universe have settled in to a range of phalanx like triangles up and down this particular beach, and managed to communicate to the surf gods a message that spelt out 'send me your most perfect and straight three to four foot swell"...

The jackpots have been sounding up and down the beach, Mark is near comatose with muscle failure after days of hours and hours and hours of paddling back for another.

I managed one trip down to enjoy it with him yesterday and partook of three prime banks over four hours, including one left and right peak I had to myself for two of them. The pics were taken with the sea breeze on it...

Most of the time it has been sheet glass.

Doesn't get much better than that.

Now to get rid of the permanent drill in the side of my head caused by Beelzebubbles.

Pics: Waves, empty peaks and a couple of kids dancing in the Southern Ocean.

2011-09-24T23:31:00.001+10:00

I was a bad boy today.

Needed to get out of town and have a surf after a week chained to a monitor.. I hate it sometimes.

Anyway I had a spot in mind with the wind the way it was and a swell that was big enough this place is one of the few that can manage a near devil breeze and seem vaguely offshore, what with the rather high cliffs and the odd little microclimate they bring.

Rock up to the carpark expecting a few cars and it is... empty.

So I walk into the lookout and it's sure big enough, the wind is a bit dodgy but not that bad so the mind game is going.. this is not a good idea Mick but yeah you're going to have a crack anyway and boy if you get into strife you won't be getting any help at all.

Whatever...

Gathering up the board, wetty and towel, I marched the k or so in and was just entering the little hole in the wall track to the cliff top when whoops, er... sorry...er, I'm going to have to walk past you as I stumble over a young couple being very positionally inventive with a bouncy horizontal tree branch and no pants..if you get what I mean.

Keeping my eyes on the road I got to the cliff top, slipped and scrambled down the couple hundred feet via rope and very dodgy track... after 40 years of climbing this thing it only gets worse...

Anyway, upshot was I had two lefts to choose from, both in the 4-6ft range, one slabby, one almost sloppy, and given the dodgy nature of my solo mission I opted for the sloppy.

I do usually surf the other when I go here but a stunned mullet does not climb cliffs well so soft option for the old fella.

Good thing too as there was the odd rather big bomb set that wouldve made the slabby wave ugly.

Anyway, got a few, was careful, didn't stay too long and managed to make it back up without a coronary.

And my team won the footy.

Pics: The two lefts, and the rope on the way up.

2011-09-21T16:39:00.000+10:00

Checking my email yesterday, and blow me down if another Ed turns up and asks me if this is me.

Attached was a shot from another angle of that wave from a few weeks back, and he had a sequence. I have to admit to being a little stoked as there was a shot in there of the wave as it started to throw and I started to worry about making it.

Actually, I wasn't that worried as I barely remember a thing from the ride. Just a take off, a rush for a bit and then cruising through the inside thinking .. 'well that was a surprise!"

Thanks Ed. It's nice to have little gems like that arrive.

2011-09-18T12:02:00.000+10:00

For some reason I feel a little embarrassed about that last post. It was a lucky shot. Mind you I was stoked, so perhaps it's not so bad.

Yesterday a fun little surf at a wedgy peak I like to go to, that is often inhabited by a tight pack of regulars who play the block the old guy game. For the first 45 minutes I could not get a look in, as at every paddle attempt someone would paddle in front, or fake paddle inside just as I was about to go.

Made me nervy and hesitant as if I need hesitant at my age.

But I persisted, got a couple then the crowd thinned and thinned, right down to two as the tide got to rock popping out of the water low and just a bit dodgy.

It paid off, I had a few really nice waves and quite a few floggings as I ain't that flash at under the lip bubble take offs. Sometimes I make 'em. Sometimes I do somersaults.

The young fella I ended up surfing with was born and raised here, lives over the dunes at the back and it showed. Pulling into ridiculous backdoors on the sets (not shown) he had a Go Pro on his wrist that would have had a few moments for posterity. He got some floggings too, but under far more glorious circumstances that mine. I value that small lump of grey jelly enough to not try the foot of water behind the peak throw the board under the feet Hail Mary take offs he was occasionally pulling off.

Salut mate.

It was fun to chat.

Pics. Just before I paddled out, and a couple of ladies who parked on the seat to have a chat.

2011-09-15T19:06:00.001+10:00

A little while back now this wonderful coast was blessed a cracker swell, one of the best in years, massive period and pretty solid.

A glorious day in a wild and woolly way, and, as luck would have it, the last in a long window where photographer Ed Sloane could get a snap of me on a wave where I didn't look a complete fattened goose.

The snaps were for an article on me and Musica Surfica for Spanish surf mag 3sesenta. Felipe Verger, the editor and all around polymath has been a bloggy pal for ages, his nom de blog being Niega. Being in town for Bells, we had a coffee, a chat....and shared some pizza.

Anyway, Ed got the shots, though he was standing up and hooting as I hit the bottom turn, ( I think in surprise that I made the drop) as I got lucky on a good one at a spot south of Bells.

Now that the magazine is out I can show off.... Here they are and a head shot Ed took, to let everyone know what old and crusty looks like.

Apologies for the type size again, and the weird indent at top... blogger playing with my brain.

2011-09-06T15:07:00.000+10:00

Things have been decidedly dodgy on the surf front recently, so with a rising workload I took the opportunity to do some photography for a design job I'm doing.

The subject of the work is a company owned by a born and raised boy from our Mornington Peninsula, a wave haven sometimes called the Hoax Coast but in truth home to some absolute gems. A unique and beautiful environmental mix, the landscape of the place seemed a good balance to the rather dry financial subject matter.

Hunting inland and also just more intimately exploring bits I've normally run through in a wave induced fever, it was very therapeutic to just be, and explore a little. Working with the Canon G9, a camera a couple of steps above happy snapper without being remotely high end, and desaturating the images to suit the style I'm chasing... well, I had some fun.

If you are a local you might just spot some pathways to perfection, or recognize something you may have glanced if you looked sideways instead of sprinting.

PS: Blogger is behaving oddly so please excuse the tiny type...

2011-09-02T15:24:00.005+10:00

Film is becoming a rare beast these days, so when Tim Ryan contacted me (God know why) to display his wares, I was intrigued.

This little piece gives gentle drama to the modern process of surfboard creation. Man and machine, perhaps a little at odds with the old school, but definitely serving to preserve aching joints from RSI while still allowing enough room for insight and the happy accident.

I've been around modern shaping bays enough now to know pre-shapes can still turn up 'all cocked up' and the opportunities to save a blank and discover an unexpected magic board still exist, thank goodness.

So sit back and relax into Sanded. Not a wave in sight but if you are a surfer, as you watch a board being shaped, however the method, waves start being ridden inside the coconut.

2011-08-29T16:46:00.005+10:00

The coast was smiling yesterday.

A groomed 4-6ft plus swell, consistent, warm, offshore. If I was french I'd be going ooh la la.

On days like this though you can sometimes end up a bit frustrated. So many waves, which to choose, where to go out? On top of that the lucky boys of the Torquay Boardriders had the day slated for Bells, so they had its empty perfection to themselves.

Oddly, and a testament to what can happen when people choose to get along, is that although many chose Winki, myself included, there were solo waves and laughter for the entire afternoon. Of course there were exceptions, but the spirits were collectively willing.

It was good to see, as young rippers and old coots mixed it up and really enjoyed a near perfect mix of conditions.

Before I went out I said to myself just two good ones will make a good session.

As it happened I had four or five, a couple of which rate in the all time category. Not one to hoot, the best had me screaming at the top of my lungs at the end of 200 metres of speed and carve.

Sure, I had the odd hammering, probably looked a complete goose on a couple too, as that is de rigueur pour moi, but... it was bloody good.

Alas, my old mate Harley, hung over and very much the worse for wear after a bucks night the night before, never really got on song.

Harls loves riding the Hynd finless. Today was not his day.

Looking across as he attempted a big peak, I wasn't feeling particularly comfy about the looming hook behind as catastrophe courted him and he launched right into the maw of a very thick lip.

Two jagged pieces surfaced, the board making a V for victory sign, while Harley rose, took one look, and looking anything but victorious held his head in his hands before sinking to the bottom in despair.

Surfacing, he made a desolate sight as the waves washed him in.

I had to shrug it off as 'stuff. With the experience of many busted boards in the past, a broken board is not a dead one. It will be resurrected, perhaps a little portly, but a bit of weight never hurt anyone and I wouldn't throw a wobbler over the uncontrollable anyway.

It was great day, either way.

Pics, Emptiness, Perfection and Winki. I'd have better shots but my battery ran out.

2011-08-25T18:01:00.004+10:00

We finally saw my dear old Dad off this week.

A cracker funeral, if such a word really should apply, plenty of tears, a fair few laughs, and to paraphrase Led Zeppelin, a whole lotta love.

As the new family elder (yikes), the eulogy fell to me, I made it, falteringly at times, through the 4000 odd words (long, I know, but he had quite a story to tell), and my greatest pleasure was the number of people who came up and said, "I never knew that".

Into the night and into the next day, the Black Irish came out, we all got very happy, the very bad jokes flew... "my dad was really badly burned.. oh dear, is he ok?,, ...well they don't hang around at those crematoriums..."

The end result? A great, good life was celebrated in a great and good way.

As I left to fly back out in the front yard I heard laughter and play.

My 25 year old niece Marcy was playing pirates with little Hanna and Harry, the youngest two of my brother Billy.

Life goes on.

Pa would have smiled.

Pics: Dad's gift of waves the weekend before the funeral, his bouquet of wildflowers, and the Battling Pirates.

POSTSCRIPT: My mate Mick Waters has made a pretty astonishing contribution to the Innersections Project, with a mindboggling little film on Proportion and Rastovich. Log in and vote Mick!

2011-08-15T23:43:00.002+10:00

Sometimes the sands align, and parts of our coast just love it when the winds dawdle and the swells fluke about, sneaking in from the rare east, nudging and tweaking in a delightful dance with rock and rip.

When that happens and the swell swings back to the south west, but doesn't get too big, there can be some beautiful music.

On both Saturday, and Sunday, many days preceding, maybe even today I suspect, banks and occasional reefs that need that little extra help fired on all cylinders.

I had a little hunt about first saw some near gems, but they were oddly fogbound and too lonely, so we opted for company and a very small crowd, just up the road.

And the waves were good.

Pics: Some mystery spots that didn't make the cut,, but are worth checking because occasionally....

And, in the sunshine, what we got.

Mid winter in Vicco. For a few minutes we were in t-shirts. And would you believe, that where I surfed yesterday, the bottom shot, for at least an hour there were just three of us. No that I'm rubbing it in...or anything. Second bottom was Saturdays wave, just for variety.

2011-08-08T23:47:00.005+10:00

After a big, very emotional week and the prospect of an empty house all weekend, what with my little family scattered to the winds, Sue still away on a long deserved chance to catch up with friends overseas, Tom in LA causing mayhem I hope (not) and Joey up the snow after saving all year, well... Old (true) Fatboy (truer) went for a splash, two days in a row.

Good waves too. Saturday, a lovely bank to our east, busyish but friendly.

A little explore later scored a D'oh moment when Richie and I found a little reef firing with two guys out, and not enough time to play.

Sunday, flukey winded and unsure of what was happening, I waited, did some chores and then made a run... hitting the water just as the wind changed.

Going in anyway, the wind swung back and back again. All corners of the compass it managed to find and a few corners I found too. Rode Winki Lowers practically by myself in side, cross and onshore but never over 10 knots, and had a ball on the hull. The odd four foot set started to become a consistent one, and by the time my arms wouldn't work any more both Winki and Bells Rincon were looking very fine indeed, especially when it was one of those days when many had written it off.

Slept as well as I could wish, but a lot on the old mind when I think of the weeks ahead.

Or am I just being a little pessimistic?

Pics: A lovely bank, the empty reef, lowers at Winki just before I went out, and the lucky few at Bells late in the day.

I do love Victoria.

2011-08-01T15:11:00.003+10:00

At the beginning of the year I was up in Queensland, a Christmas spent as an extended bedside vigil as my Dear Old Dad clung to life, his beady eye occasionally fixed on we, the gathered family, as if to say, "I'm not going anywhere just yet."

This morning that anywhere was where he went, as we finally lost our dearest of men to the fight and fate of all of us. I'd had my ticket booked, due to spend a week with him come Wednesday.

You feel robbed sometimes. Today was one of them.

I spoke to Pa last week, he was getting very confused, which is hard as he had a mind like a steel trap, but I knew when I was speaking that he was listening, that he knew we cared and loved him.

Experience has taught me that the last thing to go is that comprehending mind. Confusion may reign when trying to gather thoughts, and communicating, but if all you need to say is said, they will understand.

If I go with a shred of the good humour, grace and dignity as my old man, I will be blessed.

This past weekend was spent with my friends Rod, Hazel and young Benjamin down south. My favourite coast, temporarily waveless, but a delight to stand on the brink of vast horizons. A few snaps on a cliff edge, one now entirely appropriate. Benji on infinity's brink, a metaphor for my Dad on the his last full day.

Benji with a life ahead.

Dad with his life trials behind, ahead a grand adventure, or a long, good, night.

I loved and love you always, you wonderful man.

Goodbye Dad.

2011-07-19T13:57:00.006+10:00

Last week Melbourne held its rarer than the Olympics Melbourne International Chamber Music Competition.

Some of the best classical musicians from around the world in ten odd days of high end arts that was punctuated by a day of film and discussion at the Wheeler Centre in Melbourne. Bringing up the rear, but with a good crowd who told me I didn't sound too moronic, was yours truly and french film maker Georges Zeisel, in a discussion moderated by Richard Moore of Screen Queensland, on classical music and film.

The response to Musica was great and it is a continuing blessing to me that it draws the reactions it does, this time to a decidedly un-surfing crowd who had me signing dvd's and chatting for quite a while afterwards.

A lot of fun, amidst some very fine people.

The weekend was an aftermath of the previous swell filled week, and beach breaks were the go. I'd loaded up the car prepping for a solo run when I get a text from young Harley, who has fallen in love with the Hynd finless.

"Going for a surf?"

"OK Harls, get here as soon as you can."

Always good company as we talk about art, painting and the universe, in no time we were in front of a lonely beach break peak, Harley having it all over Old Fatboy as he very rapidly approaches DH in facility on said board.

I was having a slow session, then a left started to appear on the sets on an outer section of bank. Lucking into a big 'un, the first of three was a great wave but had that "I've been on my forehand for far too long" feel about it.

Another two saw rhythm and muscle memory kick back, lovely long rides and a few fair turns..

Then I swapped, cold and stiff, on to the finless, wobbled a couple, frozen solid, so went in.

More art and the universe on the way back, fun day, could have been warmer.

The other thing of interest over the week was the Radio Marinara spot I did recently went to podcast, so you can listen if you feel so inclined.

Pics: the peak, with Harley eager to get wet, and the beach.

2011-07-11T15:10:00.005+10:00

All sorts of action in my world this weekend...

A huge weather system has sent the south and east coasts into overdrive, generating some pretty unusual media hype and a lot of spectator attendance at the better known surfspots.

Swell hitting 50ft or more in exposed locations, with unknown bombies breaking, generating comments like "the whole coast has turned into one big shorebreak".

It was rather big.

My old favourites, Bells and Winki, saw car park attendance approaching the Easter crowds, while out in the water it thinned down to the usual suspects, and even amongst those, the hell paddle out and sweep encouraged the odd few or three to try a cleaner option. I went for Cathedral Rock, just down the coast, no secret so I give nothing away, but its wind protection made it silky. Unfortunately many others had the same idea so it wasn't going to be a solo session.

At a solid six to maybe eight feet, and pretty relentless, the odd BOMB fertilised a nerve wracking affair on the paddle out. Making my run in what I thought was a lull, I ended up getting absolutely hammered, swept past the headland and down the coast, reaching clear water and the line up some 300 or more metres east of where I started.

And about ready to heave. All the way I was saying to myself, 'you stupid old fart, vomit, why do you put yourself, vomit vomit, in these positions?'

A shakey starter wave under my belt, plus a little patience saw me get the best wave I've ever had out there. Easy three times overhead and 200 metres to play with. Unfortunately I can't show you a picture yet, there is one, but Ed Sloane, the photographer, has embargoed me, so you'll have to believe Pinocchio. Suffice to say it was long and big, and I didn't feel like a dill.

Hmm. Long and big. That certainly is Pinocchio country.

Moving right along...The rest of the session had mixed rewards. The good, the bad, the very ugly. Ugly in that I had to climb up the leg rope from black depths more than once. Oh what fun.

Come Sunday I had bragging rights on Radio Marinara, as I'd been asked to go in and talk about movies, blogging and what else is on in my little world. In a few days you can listen to it via podcast if you're vaguely interested, and will post a link come that day. It actually does make a good listen, as the regular hosts in Dr Beach, Dr Surf, and the lovely Bron, make nitwits like me appear to know and say things interesting.

The other highpoint was a Skype call with Beelzebub, his Satanic Majesty My Darling Tommy, looking dishevelled and skaterish, as you would expect.

A brush, a brush, my kingdom for a brush.!

Well, you can see why Shakespeare re wrote that line.

"Oh by the way Dad, my passport got stolen."

Good of you to tell me Tom.

Another bloody headache.

Pics; The smaller ones shot by my happy snapper, and old fat boy (I've since had a shave} with Bron and the almost totally anonymous team at 3RRR Radio Marinara. (Dr Surf tells me if his boss works out exactly who is taking all those days off to surf he's in a lot of strife)

2011-07-07T17:31:00.003+10:00

There is a fair amount of swell action on the eastern and southern coasts of Australia at the moment.

Conveniently a couple of meetings on the coast allowed a belt at Winki yesterday. I say belt guardedly, as, when you combine age, board length, crowd (more than pictured by orders of magnitude) and the infamous Winki sweep, I managed four waves in just under two hours. Two were great, two were pretty average (actually one was a whipping) I would call it a... no.. I would still call it a good session.

Nice attitude in the water, a lot of chatter, both in the cold and talking kind, a shark at Bells ("something big just bumped me"), some nervous laughter... "it'll go for you not me" sort of talk, and all in all good value.

The bombs were approaching real Bomb status, and it will be a good warm up for Saturday as the forecast is twice as big. They were calling this 4-5ft in the reports and I think it was a bit bigger than that. Since the prediction is 8-10 feet a six two will not do the trick for old fatboy come the weekend.

I think the bigger board will have to come out of the rafters. Should be fun if I manage to get past the shore break.

2011-07-04T14:53:00.002+10:00

I do a lot of sitting waiting for things to happen.

Send emails out to space waiting for something to come back. Sometimes an idea might pop into the head and I run with it, or watch a render bar snail its way across a screen, the tap of finger on desk beating a rhythm out, frustration music you might call it, waiting, looking at that display, waiting something else.

Waiting and wondering what that kid of yours is doing, or waiting and wondering how the rent is going to get paid this month, dreading that first day of the new month when it is past the rent has just been paid, to soon the rent will be due.

Of course some of that waiting is spent waiting after trying to make things happen, and sometimes they do.

A couple of days ago I set a ball rolling, and in six weeks or so, that ball will, or won't, begin to turn. While I juggle one, I try to juggle another.

I hate the screen, and love it too, because when you're not waiting, little bits of magic happen, though they lack the stick and texture of paint, or the drag of pen and pencil.

Curious business this, making stuff up, letting your mind run a bit and wondering what might pop up.

Like this post.

Rendering is happening so short of sucking up every bit of remaining memory doing some major other, you get the booby prize, and read this.

A mention of things aqueous naturally fits the bill, and despite a swell report about as flat as it ever gets around here, I did manage a paddle out at one of those little nooks that delivers the goods when all else is ripples.

Found by walking through canopied pathways and windswept dune, it's a little reef named after a Popular English Pie. Barely breaking, but here and there something, crowded with six young guys who, as I sat in their midst, indulged in a conversation of hilarious paint peeling crudity, while happily depriving the old fart of every wave that came in.

Cunning (or patience) though gets the waves, and while the full tide turned into a one foot deep airdrop for a two foot wave, a slight drop in tide allowed the outside to tip over and the sets started to work further out... but only after everyone had gone in and I'd sat for a bit.

I was freezing, but I managed three or four smilers.

Worth the walk, the wait, and the wind.

Shots: the shrouded path, and a couple of waves. The left has a boogie boarder clean dry tubed, and invisible. I swear he's there. Useful things, those little boards.

2011-06-28T18:00:00.004+10:00

A late update on the weekend past, sporadically wave filled and otherwise a recovery from a fair bit of travel.

Using a work related visit to near the waves I managed to slyly slide into a few blue walls on Friday, and repeated the same on Saturday as the empty house beckoned me to abandon it to wintry wind that spelt offshore and groomed on a not so distant shore.

I've been back on the six two lately and trying out some new C-drive fins that I must say are really worth the effort to get used to. Oddly shaped but with great logic behind them, these things are truly the duck's nuts, and I am managing, when the cold doesn't cause the old waist down gone wandering, to pull some of the best turns I have done in many a long year. They may be down at lowers and sans witness, but my feet are telling me magic is happening, and the sight and sound of that sheet of water disappearing off the top or in a cutback tells me some happy tales.

MC has been converted to them through Ross Clarke-Jones, who is using them on his tow boards and is utterly sold.

Continuing the ad filled direction of this post, I've included HERE the why of my trip near the coast, to present what I'm calling the first of my MiniDocs. Little stories about passionate people doing their thing.

I tried to put it up as a video but because of the damned cropping that happens if you want to take a look just click the link.

Shots today: Winki and Bells over the weekend. Not that big, but a whole lot of fun and surprisingly uncrowded, though there was a wait between sets.

2011-06-17T16:40:00.003+10:00

I sometimes regret saying what a week that was.

Having dropped young Tom off at the airport not expecting to see him for weeks, I get a call last Wednesday week from Richard Tognetti, over in California at the Ojai Music Festival.

Get over here Mick, it's bigger than Ben Hur and you should be here to present your film.

Bugger me you come up with some crap Rich, are you sure?

Come!

So a rapid realisation that my passport had run out had me running around like a blue arsed fly trying to sort that, entry, tickets and blow me down if I wasn't on the same flight as Tom one week later.

Red eyed and bewildered I hopped a bus north to Ventura, then a taxi to Ojai and straight into a massive concert, watched waves of rapturous applause bathe Richard and the ACO, and came to the stunning realisation that they are even more incredible than I thought, and then, near collapse, had to get a rest. I was staying with Richard and Satu, at a lovely house right on a point not far from Rincon, and when I spotted little two foot peelers up the point I thought, where's a board, where's a board?

In the shed a whole rack as it turned out so into the wetty (yes I did throw it in) and out for an hour and a half loll about in lieu of a sleep, had a pod of dolphins hang out with old fatboy, plus a seal who looked at me rather strangely when I said 'Oi!' Caught four or five nice little peelers on the red nine six too.

Better than a sleep, then back in for the night performances, more of the same btilliance, look up the festival. The line up was the cream of the music world. Then Sunday, my turn came as I presented the film, packed house, turned away 50-80 I'm told, and a lot of renewed interest. Where it goes I'm not sure but it gave me renewed hope for the sequel we are planning next year.

Then a big surprise the next day as I went south, surprised the ratbag son in his luxury skate dood pad with jacuzzi and pool, met his World Champ buddy and saw he was as happy as a pig in a big pile of shite, though he did say 'what the hell are you doing here Dad?' as I had given him no indication I was showing up.

Sneaker old bugger aren't I?

Then more trains, planes and automobiles, all the way back to good old OZ.

Big Week. Knackered.

Pics: Concerts, boards, queues to see my film and young Tom ( I hate smiling at cameras) with the champ, Brian Aragon. Nice chap too.

2011-06-06T17:42:00.005+10:00

What a weekend.

If you've ever read this blog before you'll be aware of my depilatory (as in I lose hair over him) younger son, Hell Boy, The Devil Incarnate, Skate Demon, my darling Tommy.

Over the past weeks we've been debating an offer we've had and this Saturday he flew off to LA to spend a couple of months skating with and being filmed with some of the best skaters in the world. They obviously have a high opinion of him, it will do him a world of good in so many ways, and be a grand introduction to the big wide world.

Staying in the San Diego area, if you see a tousle headed, low riding ratbag about ten feet in the air and possibly upside down... that is Tom.

Say hi if you do.

Free of worrying about what he is up to next I had a run at the water. Saturday I got to Bells, spotted my mate Maurice in the car park and this shiny red 5'11 he'd been riding. Hmmmm...

Can I have a go mate... I'll drop it by the house after...

No worries he says.

Then he fixes me with one of those blisteringly beady eyes he has.

Now don't ding it, don't stick it on top of the car and drive off without tying it on, stay away from any major storms, and bring it home safe.

Hoooweee.. she'll be apples, says I.

Out there and just getting the feel of it, a couple of small ones then this nice outside set on the Rincon bubble comes through.. I'm in the spot, take off and woops a young surfer without too much experience panics as old fatty takes off and ditches the board right in front of me, pushing it into my line as a dark and fearful little head disappears under water.

Naturally, I jump over the top, not wanting ANY damage to MC's board.

Under water the familiar tug doesn't eventuate at all, and I surface to the horror of a leggie string that has come undone while the board is having a fine ride of its own right into the rocks of High Tide Bells.

Sprint swimming and rock hopping like a demented frog I got to the now completely trashed speed machine with a sinking heart.

I couldn't have done better with an axe and a couple of ball peen hammers.

So back to the car to change boards as I had to delay the inevitable, and I still wanted to get a few. Taking the finless out this time, I did have some fun and did get one very memorable one into the shorebreak but, to be honest, my heart was not in it any more.

Skulking back to Maurice's, he was just waking up for his afternoon nap in front of the football.

How'd ya go? Good board aye?

Bloody great mate but.....

Don't tell me, just stick it in the back of the car...

No mate you better have a look, and besides it was your string that came undone, grovel, snivel, make excuses.

God bless him, I lived to get in the car and drive home.

Next day, corduroy to the horizon, five foot and very lovely, I had three hours in a strong offshore, some good, some bad, I do need a bigger than 6-2 when it gets bigger.

Pics: My young Tom wacking the camera and saying don't be a goose Dad as I try to take his picture at the airport, and the fun waves pre and post surf yesterday.

2011-05-30T16:07:00.002+10:00

A fair amount of swell this weekend.

Not unusual around now, but swell without any wind is a rare beast and on both Saturday and Sunday you'd be hard pressed to blow out a birthday cake on the headlands of Victoria. Lucky me had a leave pass both days, as the ratbags had 'commitments' and the adorable one did too.

"Get out!" I was told, so dutifully I obeyed.

Like a shot out of a cannon.

Saturday was surprisingly solid, and I was trying to get back on the thruster after months off it on hulls and boards without fins.

Add a new set of Cdrive-fins, plus a twitchy 6'2" meant a long and shaky start. With guys out on boards ranging around the 7-8ft plus, I was getting the 'you're dreaming' as I scratched around on my little thing, but eventually old fatboy scragged a couple, undistinguished though they may be.

Luckily the swell held into yesterday, and the loosened arms meant an easier session with a fair few under the belt at the end. I wasn't ripping (as if) but the corners of the mouth turned up a couple of times.. and the surprisingly small crowd was a happy one.

Pics.. a snap from Steve Ryan of a Saturday wave I don't even remember, with clouds and glass from a smaller yesterday afternoon.

2011-05-23T18:11:00.004+10:00

A pretty magic kind of afternoon yesterday. I managed a window of a few hours, the swell finally picking up a little and so a later run down to offshores and the yen to give the amended finless another run.

This time around with very nice 3 foot waves and an atmospheric afternoon the board and more importantly my body kind of behaved. Slotting and trimming now with much more ease the magic carpet came alive. Most interesting though was when I handed it over to my mate Harley.

Harley comes from an aviation family, and has been able to fly since he could walk, given the unique circumstance of growing up on a large tract of land with an enthusiastic and slightly eccentric dad who stuck a control stick in his hands at three or four.

After his second wave he paddled back all wide eyed.

Driving back he was somewhere between speechless and you couldn't shut him up.

"The closest thing I've ever come to flying."

Neato quote for a first time on finless.

I think my amendments get a tick.

Pics. Wave offerings both tubular and cloudular, my finless, Harley and Ed Sloane looking like Kirk Cobain, plus the RATHER EPIC sunset on the drive home as shot out the car window...er... by someone or other.

2011-05-17T17:54:00.003+10:00

I'm not in a philosophising mood so I'll keep it brief.

Yesterday I had was one of those once every couple of months visits from my Musical Pals from Sydney.

It is always a great chance for a catch up, we have a project to work on, and the surfing is generally alternative. Luck being on our side this day, a six am run to the the coast drew a fortunate dice with a nice four foot plus swell licking the shore, sunlit and chilly, but very tempting.

Winki got the nod because of the tide and available time.. Richie rode finless because I'd made some fixes to the finless Derek Hynd made me after seeing Derek's own board and where he'd taken the bottom contour. My board had always been slippy, so when I saw the perpetual adjustments DH had been making I felt I had permission.

Some additions to the outer rail and an inner ridge looked interesting and conceptually sound on completion.

The ride report was 'if I had four thumbs they'd all be up'. I was stoked and I'm going to have a return to the board after a long layoff now, though my late surf waves were a bit disastrous as it'd been too long. One wave made me realise, just before the face plant, that things were much better, even though I was much worse.

Till next time.

My highlight was a very long beauty from uppers to the valley on the hull, in the morning sun.

Pic: Winki in the morning light, and my rough and ready sun cure plus kneadable epoxy gerry rig concept proving fiddling.

2011-05-09T17:45:00.002+10:00

Dim prospects can sometimes delight. Or from poor circumstances gems come flying into our laps.

With Mother's Day coming there was no way I was going to absent myself from home on Sunday, though my weather eye did notice it was going to be pretty average anyway unless a dawn session was possible. (Fat chance)

Saturday, then, got the nod, and again I went against the flow of the small swell forecast and tried a spot I rarely check.

A tidy little right hander under a cliff, eventually by myself for a couple of hours, then a paddle up the cliff line to a long right that improved as the wind shifted more offshore and the swell started to kick... followed by a couple on the left in between on the way back to the car and after six hours I had definitely had enough. It just kept getting better and better, a little patience was the only thing between me and a great big smile.

Pics: The little right, the other little right that got bigger, and the left that got even bigger. Started at two foot, ended at a solid four. I'm not complaining.

2011-05-06T16:37:00.002+10:00

Now I know you know my errant son gives me great cause for grief, and we wonder what will become of him, much as we love the little wretch.

He gets his major jollies from skating, board and blade, with the blades usually getting the nod, though as I've said time and again, I wish he'd come surfing more often as he has 'gifts'. This clip has just appeared on you tube. It starts slow but towards the end various alarms go off as he risks life and limb.

Now, to get him to pull up those pants and...

...tennis anyone?

2011-05-04T14:53:00.003+10:00

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.

If only.

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.

2011-04-26T12:12:00.003+10:00

Zigging when you'd expect to be zagging sometimes pay off.

Over the four or so days of this Easter break, venturing to the odd spot instead of the most popular spot paid off with high quality waves with virtually no one in the water three times out of five go outs.

Last Thursday, after getting all things on my list out of the way I did a quick run to a spot I had a suspicion about. A spot that is usually a beginner crowded semi close out that is legendary for occasionally turning on. Inside a bay and rarely above three feet, it is one of those novelty waves that can surprise. The swell was quite large, very south in direction and long period, the tide incoming and massive, being about as high a tide, at 1.8 metres, as we ever get.

Rounding a bend and looking to the point I saw perfect rights reeling off with a flotilla of longboards and kids on the end section.

Once out and in the water I could see up the line that with the sets, sets that were occasionally touching five feet, there was an inside peak with a tapered wall that ran the full length of the 150 yard reef. Scrambling up there and minutes later I found myself flying down a perfect wave, that wave setting up a couple of hours of surprisingly uncrowded, near Indonesian like tapered watery fun.

On the hull and perfectly suited to the down the line speedy thing, well... you couldn't paint a better or more surprising afternoon.

Come Friday afternoon, Sue and I hit it to stay at my good mate Rod's, where, the morning after a fine evening meal and a fair amount of laughter we scored a reef about fifteen minutes away that had very serviceable three to four foot peelers with just two of us for a while, while only one point away a crowd of thirty or so jockeyed for the marginally better but oh so busy pickings on offer there.

That afternoon I opted to give the wonderful but potentially crowded offerings of Winki a miss to try a reef twenty minutes south. Two hours of me and one other guy on a power packed little slab, touching six feet, the odd one slapping me as I adjusted back to the 6'2" MC, before mostly finding my readjusted feet and getting into the turns after all the hullish trimming. The only downside was on my last wave as I straightened into the darkening channel and found it wasn't a channel at all. I ran slap bang into an inch of water , took all fins out and barely got away without losing my head as well as I hammered across the reef.

Old and blind. I wonder if they have bifocals for the surf.

Next morning, Easter Sunday and a dawn patrol with Marky now, at perfect Winki. This time it was busy, four to six foot and rising, the crowd intense but strangely mellow. Derek Hynd was out, and between chatting we shared the odd wave, he blew the odd mind and I discovered the four foot and under hull goes quite well on set waves at six foot plus Winki. The thing goes like a rocket and as long as I set the rail correctly she holds like a beauty, and flies.

After four hours out there and a wonderful final wave all the way to the valley it was time to watch the finals.

Right from the outset it was so clear Parko was on a roll and poor Mick Fanning's dice were rolling the other way. Make no mistake Mick ripped when he had the chance, but Joel was born for Bells, and this day. Swooping perfection on a wave made to carve on. The guy has such a relaxed way of putting himself into and extricating himself from the most extreme situations with flow and balletic elegance. Full of joy.

His last wave was a masterpiece, I doubt he remembers a single turn, it was so in the moment. At the end as he disappeared into the white water his arms flew happily out, and after Mick's congratulatory hug in the shore pound the arms flew up again as he greeted the crowd waiting on the sand.

Chaired high and doing his victory parade down the beach, just as he passed where I stood amongst the thousands Joel looked at the crowd with this big, white smile.

I felt that at that moment one man's life couldn't get more perfect.

Pics: the various offerings I scored over the weekend in after the fact imperfect and quickly snapped moments that don't do the waves justice, plus an Iwo Jima like Joel raising on the sands of Bells.

2011-04-15T22:19:00.003+10:00

Almost Easter and almost a quarter of the way through what is already an incredible year albeit for mostly the wrong reasons. Those of an apocalyptic bent will find rich seams to mine or mind bend as they ponder the fateful portents of the past few months, while the rest of us might at best wonder at the horribly impersonal nature of weather and geology.

For me geologic time creeps closer as I look at a 19th birthday for my oldest, and also look at a just turned 16 going on 26 who wants the world to hurry up and work on his time, on his terms.

A big ask, and one to grow wise on. That or grow old.

This past week I've been up looking after Lazarus himself, my Dear Old Dad, who keeps belting out show tunes of vitality as his body fights and his mind rages on. 'Up here for thinking, mate', he might say, and therein lies a lesson as as long as there is a journey going on up top the old body can go jump, which is what it's planning on doing anyway.

Until then we hold on and take in the ride.

No surfing to be done as I watch what has happened this past week in home waters, waters that touched on close to epic last Sunday. I hope the pro boys get a lick of it for the contest this coming week.

Pics; The Devil himself with Pa, Mr 19 looking a little devilish himself, and a favourite reef which I think is the one I used to call beautiful White House until I found someone had named it a little more appropriately poetic. Not 'Thor's Hammer', but you get the drift. That shot is from the mighty Ed Sloane.

2011-04-06T12:33:00.005+10:00

A very mixed couple of weeks, with little time or inclination to do much writing.

The Clean Ocean Festival came and went, numbers were more than a little down because of an unfortunate but unavoidable clash with The Melbourne Grand Prix, and the opening game of the Footy (Australian Rules Football) season.

Lessons learned but it had its wonderful moments, be it the films, the great people involved or the walk along a lonely bush track to a large and ruffled ocean that afforded spectacle but nothing to ride.

I didn't manage to catch every session though I'd seen every film, of course. My standout was Ollie Banks, Dan Crockett and John Eldridge's little wonder, Without Thought. On a big screen it is sublime. A small, impressionist delight.

The selfish side of me got a hit too when, at the end of the Musica Surfica showing, Kylie Clark, the photographer commissioned to cover the event, came up to me and made my day.

Then this past week I've been playing host to Korduroy TV's Cyrus Sutton.

Needing a little help in connecting with things of interest in darkest Victoria, Cyrus has had a relentless schedule down here, hooking up with Maurice Cole and Wayne Lynch, all to fuel the beast that is his wonderful web channel. A great guy, thoughtful and reserved, with masses of accumulated wisdom for one so young. We've had the odd surf together, he even filmed old fatboy at it which is a bit groan inducing as it was fun onshore junk but when you are blessed with elephantine grace the vision, however good the cinematographer, is bound to disappoint.

On Sunday, Richard Tognetti and I had a quick surf, and after it introduced Cyrus to him, which prompted an invitation to backstage access and a chance to film the performance of The Glide on Monday night. That evening was without doubt the most transcending combination of live music and film I've ever experienced.

If it ever comes your way, see it. Sydney people.. go. Thursday and Friday this week.

In a couple of hours I'm picking Cy up and he's off to Sydney for perhaps a rest before heading back home to Cali.

Pics: A lonely track, Cy and Maurice, plus a row of shaping history, via Hipstamatic, outside The Chook Shed.

2011-03-23T18:10:00.003+11:00

Sometimes you have to take a deep breath, a step aside, a moment to collect yourself.

My little board building exercise filled the spot last week, and this past weekend as my own little Demon wreaked a little more havoc on life I was forced to drag out the wooden board and set about refining some lines, getting the rails feeling right and checking for a fair curve from all angles.

It's a long haul, I would love a V8 sander but then I might find myself sanding the saw horse if I happened to slip off into mid afternoon daydreams of the waves I'd be riding on the splinter I'd accidentally created. So hand sanding is perhaps a more considered, sensible option.

The big plus though is the tiny holiday of the mind, and it beats weeding the 'garden'.

The other thing that's been filling up my time is I've been asked to curate a little film festival for the Clean Ocean Foundation, and so, this weekend, I get to host, sort of, a bunch of films I've managed to find, with the help of the amazing Keiko Beatie, and raise some money for a very worthy environmental organisation. Clean Ocean have been working tirelessly for years to get a sewer outfall closed at one of our best beaches, and the need to continue to fight new good fights is worthy of support and a party or two.

Last week I was even on the radio, and despite being late because of traffic succeeded in not sounding too dim, though the umms and ahhhs did hit the odd couple of times. You can listen here, if you like, the last quarter of the Film Buffs show with Paul Harris on RRR in Melbourne.

If you are down Sorrento way this weekend, check Sea Stories, the First Clean Ocean Sorrento Film Festival.

Pics: My board, and the filled in version of the mid tide peak that for a while was an absolute long walled hull blast on a warm Sunday morning.

2011-03-17T18:03:00.004+11:00

With all the tragedy happening around us, I reserved posting on a very fun weekend of taking a break from reality to join a wooden board building workshop run by Rich Blundell from Tree to Sea, at the home of local wooden board builder and host Rob Ivers.

Two long days and a very steep learning curve left a happy group of young and old with deep satisfaction, new knowledge, and a fair way down the track to a welcome ride of the wooden variety.

Rich is a gifted and patient teacher, an extremely bright fellow with a lean to the cognitive left. A fascinating conversation sits skin deep, all day long.

I chose to make a longish fish, known as the Striper, and look forward to finishing and taking it for a sweep on a long wall. I have no doubt it will run true.

The following day a glassy four foot@fifteen second swell graced Bells with occasional lovely lines, and I scored just enough to make me a happy chappy. Back to a real world to more of the same crap, the bliss departing just about as fast as it came.

The Pics: In progress, with some Old Coot, Paul, Rich, Wazza, Rob and Angus, ready to start fine tuning curves, bottoms, and rails. And Bells, rare and glassy.

2011-03-15T17:51:00.005+11:00

I'm due for a blog post but in truth, like many, I've been in shock over the recent events in Japan.

Being exposed to the End of Days images saturating the media, the disaster flick retina burning intensity is something all of us may have sought out at the movies at one time or another without ever contemplating seeing it come to life on screen or in your own reality. When the first images hit my eyes I audibly gasped, a twin towers moment without someone to blame.

I've heard said that our lives are brief sparks of awareness sandwiched between eternities of oblivion. Neither a happy nor unhappy thought. More an is, a call to be your best, to do, to give, to leave something that causes your spark to be remembered and treasured for some moments beyond its passing.

Last week in the fireworks display of life a precious burst winked out in an instant. Around the world others faded in a more regular daily pattern, but in stoic Japan, in those long black moments, the whole planet bucked and caused us all to face a gargantuan reminder of our fragile grip on existence.

As if it where ever not.

The Pic: One of my two beloved sparks, taken by one of his mates. I love ya Tommy. Shine bright.

2011-03-02T15:02:00.002+11:00

It was my birthday yesterday.

As a present, but entirely unintentional in the birthday department, I received a little parcel in the mail the day before.

Late last week I'd had an extended conversation with Andrew Kidman about a project I'm doing (no, not a film...yet). We digressed to surfing, as if that was ever far from either of our minds. Surfboards in particular. Andrew used the term 'surfing instrument' in the ramble, and this really made my ears prick up, as indeed that is what they are.

The instrument thing though has this implication beyond tool, and into self expression, feel, range, idiosyncrasy and personality, if indeed the inanimate can have one.

Anyone with any close relationship with an object will tell you it can, be it a car, bike or an obstinate rock. We project feelings and characteristics, but in the intimacy of instrument and player, or rider, that feedback loop is what it's all about.

I'm a thoroughly crap guitarist, can barely play a couple of tunes, but when I pick up a good instrument my clay fingers get a feel of what lies beneath. On a surfboard, with forty years of experience of course my feedback is far more nuanced, rubbish old hack that I am, the feet don't lie and much joy is still to be felt.

Andrew's timely but unintended birthday gift was a copy of his new film, Lost in the Ether. He said it was a film for the surfing purist, something that might be 'lost in the ether' to the non surfer, but not lost to someone with surfing history and a love for the act and the tools of the dance.

Sitting down last night I sat enthralled in a journey beginning with that famous Michael Petersen cutback from forty years ago in Morning of the Earth, and segueing through Michael himself talking very eloquently about design, and those magic days before he slipped away from surfing anywhere but in his mind. The film's thread was one of surfboards, shapers and technique. Great shapers, and good surfers who were not so far into the technical stratosphere that whatever they did lurched into the impossible.

The surfing was all about exploring history and line, with a narrative that explained why the board was so much part of the performance, how feeling counted and helped the surfer find different landscapes on familiar waves.

I loved this film, it has depths to be explored as you watch and hear the how and why of the making of the most personal of instruments. Few if any are played by your whole body, and few instruments have the public exposure surfing has. You can sit quietly in a room playing a guitar, but every right and wrong note played on a board is there for the world to see. Watching Kidman riff on a variety of boards, and hearing his rationale of the performance, both as a shaper and a surfer is something even a non surfer would get as it is not a discourse full of dude speak and populism. It is listening to a passionate man talking about something with love, and anyone can understand that.

This is not a review, but Andrew, well done.

I wish I had your command.

Pic: A screen snap of the book of the film. Go. Buy.

2011-02-28T16:31:00.003+11:00

Saturday, with a small pause in the ongoing bedlam I did manage a few moments in the sun of a pretty glorious late summer day.

A semi glassy 2-3 foot swell pulsed quietly, the odd long wall giving me what I needed to play with the hull and glide some worries away for those moments at least. The crowd, such as it was, were fellow travellers in the search for a little happiness, a dad and his kids, a couple of euro longboarders, one air seeking missile who gave us a glimpse of what might have been had air seeking existed in the seventies before muscle memory precluded any delusions of grandeur.

The water was warm, kids laughed on the beach, all was good.

Today is another day.

2011-02-25T15:59:00.003+11:00

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.

2011-02-18T17:48:00.003+11:00

Nearly two weeks is a long time between drinks on my little window, but to be quite frank I've had some distractions.

A few ructions in the family that have been achingly draining, work busy (good), surf crap (bad) and general distraction has kept me away.

And, as a site citing life, art and surfing as its raison d'etre, there's not been much of the surfing or art, and the life has been too close to the bone to share with the world.

The bit I can share is my Dear Old Dad is recovering from his stroke, so his desire to be seen as a recovering stroke victim, not a man with cancer is proving both true and continually inspiring.

Over the past few months as some may know I've been beset with a pathetic but niggling injury. A shoulder that has refused to improve is finally doing so, though I get superstitious just writing about it. The bloody thing has grown ears, which is not a good look, and every time I mention it it says to itself, "stuff that, Micko, you're out of the water for a few more days."

So, with all the fuel I've been saving by not driving down, every so often I've been putting a little down on a board I spied.

Though thoroughly spoiled by the wonderful boards from Maurice Cole, which he has been feeding me as testers for ages, I've often wondered what a detuned, mellower take might be like occasionally. A clean, small day shooter.

Having been a curious observer of the hull, that hold on from the days of George Greenough and Ted Spencer, refined and revitalised in California over the past forty years, and being a regular surfer of a pretty fine and speedy set of point/reef setups that suit that style of board, well, I've wanted one for ages, and my birthday is coming up.

Fifty bloody seven in two weeks for Christ's sake so I can afford to go from 6'0" to 6'6".

Added to that they demand a longitudinal, high line and bottom turn, roundhouse and run approach, as old school as you like.

Suits me.

So for want of anything more to post, this is my new ride.

Family members who read this may deem it as irresponsible, and I am, I admit it. The Catholic guilt is gnawing a hole in my back just to spite me, but dammit I can't take it back now.

Hutcho from Vouch shaped it, and I picked it up from Angus at Rhombus.

Thank you gentlemen. Thank you ball boys.

2011-01-29T15:31:00.006+11:00

As I continue to write of my Dear Old Dad's progress and his Lazarus like revivals I've had the odd contact come through from fellow travelers in life, the sea and the ether, just to say hi, I hear you, I've been there or are there myself.

Patch dropped by the other day, and just last week a new voice said hello, her name familiar through her occasional contributions to Kurungabaa, and because, as a name, she has one that is pretty unforgettable.

Rebecca Olive is a twenty something who I'd be proud to know. Her blog, Making Friends with The Neighbours, is a new discovery to me, a gentle voice of a life being very well lived... in all the best ways.

Of course this is an assumption on my part, but looking through its pages I get the feeling her friends are fortunate people.

She writes in an enviably easy stroll, and, as you'll see from "Endless" below, she understands that with beauty comes terror, to vaguely paraphrase a national mythic poem, and that we all dance on a thin edge, making our dance all the more glorious.

ENDLESS... by Rebecca Olive

I have grown

on sands,

soft and white;

in waters,

blue and warm.

I have grown

on the coast

by the sea,

safe and sound

and quiet.

It is my place

to play and laugh,

to sit and think,

to love and mourn.

It is the place

that offers me comfort.

I have never felt fear there.

I have never wailed,

nor felt the sting of

of its thieving violence.

I have never

been asked to know

the ocean when

it plays

so black and blue,

so sharp and hard

so callous.

So oceanic.

I have never

been asked to pay

for my passage,

for my escape.

For me

the water is;

welcoming

soft

blue

warm

safe

white

home

endless…

A beginning.

An embrace.

I have never faced

the ocean as

a barrier;

ghostly

unforgiving

dry

threatening

unfamiliar

potential

treacherous

endless…

An ending.

A drowning.

It has never

offered me so much

yet taken

so much more away.

It has never lied to me

(The fiend!)

The sand,

white beneath my feet,

has always offered

a path home.

My heart can

barely bring itself

to imagine

the rocks,

screams,

broken boats,

terror,

loss and

floating bodies,

as part of the same

Australian coastal

vision and embrace.

Endless…

The pic: Our Little Devil, displaying that casual familiarity a lot of kids display if they grow up in close proximity with the deep blue. One fin, snorkel, who needs it?... a lungful of air and a black ocean behind.

2011-01-17T14:52:00.002+11:00

Back in Melbourne.

Finally and with great difficulty, both emotional and physical, I left Brisbane on Saturday morning for the big drive south.

All roads out of the city were blocked for days, but a window appeared and I had to take it as I needed to return for work.

There were amazing sights as I passed through recently flooded areas, crossing rivers with evidence of water flow up in the trees as we passed over bridges. half highways washed away, mud everywhere, sober driving and silence as we carried on into the clear country further south. Two twelve hour drives, a zig zag through southern Queensland, into New South Wales and on into Victoria.

It is a beautiful country, but as we know all too well, there is the threat of treachery.

Home now and getting into gear for the jobs a-waiting, and a year bound to be unforgettable.

Sitting with Dad before I left on Saturday, a quiet moment, holding his hand and just being there. He looks up and says, " you know mate, in the next six months or so, I'm going to discover what it's all been about".

Indeed. Though I think he already knows in the faces of people who love him as they've sat by his bed, just like me.

These times do give pause to reflect on mortality, and also of times past.

Serendipitously, I came across, in the wonderful blog of Ed Sloan, a film clip.

The music video for the Aussie band the Go Betweens, it's called 'Surfing Magazines".

I instantly knew it, as the producer of the clip had contacted me when they were making it, wanting to know if I knew of any old footage from the seventies and eighties, old home movies of surf trips and mucking around, before the throwaway, hi res video saturation of today.

Naturally, I did know of some stuff, a couple of mates being very keen though vaguely dodgy practitioners of Super8 film craft.

After delivering the footage it was all up to him, and some months later a tape arrived with thanks, and it has sat at home, unwatched except for the first time, ever since.

Looking at it now a lot of emotion wells up, as time takes its toll and life stories are written.

One of the guys in it, in particular, springs to mind. You'll see him with that perfect dead straight page boy blonde surfer look a couple of times in the film. Leon is a great friend and now is dealing, very well indeed, with multiple myeloma. Lee and his family punch well above their weight, as he is four years into it, still surfing well, still strong, and still possessed of one of the most positive personalities I have ever come across. We used to call him Neon Leon behind his back, just cos it gave us the shits a bit that he never seemed to have a bad day. Always a smile, always in the moment.

Perhaps he might find a way to bottle it, because his spirit must be partially responsible for his amazing vitality.

In concert with Dad's attitude, there are some lessons floating about there about how to attack life and squeeze the best out of even the most miserable of circumstances.

The other thing I loved about the video, though, was that glimpses of some of our best of times. We were all on the cusp years of marriage and mortgage, innocent of what that would bring and in a last, tiny self centered enjoyment of life. Our kids were yet to be born, we were still big kids, doing big kid things.

One of those big kid things for me featured in the film. A 1983 trip to Cactus in the coastal deserts of South Australia with Leon and a couple of other great mates was one of those source films. At 2:09 and 2:38 you'll see a very fuzzy me doing a couple of cutties on my 5'8" channel bottom thruster. It was blue and sprayed with fried eggs. I called it The Egg Board.

I figured it fit.

2011-01-14T14:06:00.004+11:00

Someone recently described the situation here in Queensland as 'Biblical'.

Though not a religious type I'd have to say "amen' to that.

An area way bigger than Texas is under flood and having seen yesterday the Brisbane River at its peak the concept of a tsunami hitting the towns in the city hinterland was catalysed in my mind, as even the most monumental TV images sometimes need direct experience to drive home the impact.

On our return to Brisbane on Monday we knew something was in the air, the subsequent downpours once in a lifetime sights. Massive amounts of water cascading down with visibility reduced to a hundred meters or so at times. Flash floods wiped out towns, many killed, many more missing, tales of personal disaster and true heroism intermingled and interchangeable too.

The one that sticks in my mind is a young lad who told a rescuer to take his little brother first as he, his brother and mother clung to a pole. He and his Mum were lost, the stricken younger brother pleading with rescuers to go back and get his Mum and brother just before they were swept away. It puts the concept of sporting heroism into perspective as the true heroes do things so beyond themselves and yet when asked the response is always 'I just did it" as if there were no other alternative.

My family and most I know managed to avoid all this, being placed in a higher part of Brisbane, and lucky stars must be thanked as Dad holds on too, rallying sometimes, amazingly, but faltering more and more often, too.

Because I've been 'marooned', all roads out being cut and my way south a no go for days, I've enjoyed the time with Dad and family, but I do need to get back as a living needs to be won.

Today was to be the drive out, a route is clear but I can't make myself.

One more day, for Dear Old Dad.

I can see myself flying north again soon, and I don't relish that flight one iota.

You have to give it to him though. Just the other day, skeletal bag of bones that he is, he pipes up and says..." I don't want to be seen as a man dying of cancer. I want to be seen as a recovering stroke victim."

The old bugger keeps doing it too us. A combination of choke up and inspiration.

Don't concern yourself with the things you can't change. Work on the things you can.

Pics. A shot of flooding near the Brisbane River that does no justice to what it felt like, it really had to be seen, and yesterday's Dad, when I asked him to "frown, and look mean".

PS: Surfing? What's that?

2011-01-07T10:05:00.003+11:00

I read somewhere that simply to be alive is like winning the biggest lottery in the universe.

Of course if the math is done the likelihood of life out there seems to be quite high, but still, with the scale of all about us, to have your particular little packet of atoms come into being, and for a happy life to be granted it is, to be fair, quite small.

So you don't give it up in a hurry.

Dad, bless him, is hanging on, and back at home, happy to be there though his decline continues. Anywhere would be better than a hospital room, and his increasing confusion meant that at one stage he had managed to deduct a plot of some sort from the arrangement of lights and vents in the ceiling. He really did need to be surrounded by good memories, and not the hallucinations a blank wall can birth.

With his improved circumstance, a couple of days ago the family said to take some days away, and have a break. The boys were going stir crazy in rain soaked Brisbane, and though enjoying time with cousins, as outdoor types the chance to stretch some limbs needed to be granted them. Heading south to wave soaked Angourie, home of the fabled point and the even more legendary Nat Young, we found instead simply soaked Angourie, with Nat off skiing.

I did have a surf on arrival, crowded and fairly crappy, my surfing rubbish from no activity, and perhaps as a punishment for leaving Dad. The bad shoulder got worse to top it off but the exercise was welcome.

I must admit to feeling very conflicted, despite familial assurances it's ok. Perhaps so, and perhaps not, though the signs, if you take any notice of that sort of thing, could be taken that it was the wrong thing to do.

Since then it has rained solidly for two days, with more on the way, and yesterday, while taking an umbrella sheltered dusk walk around the house we are staying at, I came across the Demon Kangaroo, a hugely muscled six foot tall male that gave me a white eyed glare as I took a flash assisted shot just before he hopped off in disgust .

Today, onshore and small, our plans to head back to Pa Sunday coinciding with a projected swell. You have to laugh, but the reconnect with a little quiet reality has been good anyway.

For those out there who remember my film Musica Surfica, you may also remember Warren Pfeiffer, the master mat rider who featured in it. Warren very graciously has allowed us use of his home for the break, and his company has been a delight, though for a couple of nights he has left us alone as he headed north to catch up with his pal George Greenough.

Today, it looks like we might, just might, see the sun, so perhaps a skate is in order for Tom, though judging from this morning's shot of the surf, we won't be getting wet.

Pics: the morning's surf check, and Hell Roo.

2010-12-31T20:15:00.005+11:00

Now at the end of 2010 and for my family near the end of one of our live's great chapters.

Those that follow this blog will know my Dear Old Dad is struggling, so much so that about three days ago we were all summoned to the bedside. A darker mirror of just a couple of days before, we filed into a tearful room, and began to say our goodbyes. Typically, and in bog Irish fashion, large swathes of our genetics being Fitzpatrick, Brady and Murphy, Pa began, amidst the gurgle, to pick up and give short sharp replies to our commiserative group.

"What are you lot looking at? You're like a bunch of bloody crows sitting on a fence..."

Naturally this opened the door to progressively blacker humour as we'd cry a bit, brother Brendan cracked us up with a look at his watch and a twinkle eyed, "Will you hurry up?" to Dad which elicited a Mad Eyed sideways grin and something like "Get stuffed" from Pa.

It got worse from there, the common denominator being we still cried a lot and didn't really know if he'd peg out any minute.

In the end we decided lunch was in order and all went off for a coffee and a sandwich.

So it has continued the last few days. Brothers and sister tag teaming 4-6 hour stints with Pa, helping where we can, conversing when awake, and dodging bullets when he was really awake and pissed off something wasn't coming out quite the way he wanted.

Like trying to remember the name of a friend of his from his mining days in Fiji almost 57 years ago. Phonetically I know the man's name was Charley Sinamaimbao, even remembered him vaguely if that's possible, but my effort to work out what Pa was saying at first could have been as far off the mark as Bingbang Wallawallabingbang.

We got there in the end.

Onwards into 2011. Our beginning is being written as I type, and yours, I hope, will take you safely to the places, and waves, you dream of.

My pic, a moment from the Wake that Wasn't, a grainy dear old Pa holding brother Bill's hand, continuing to surprise us all.

Happy New Year.

2010-12-26T11:34:00.003+11:00

What a couple of weeks it's been.

As with 'most everybody, the Holiday season is both a time of joy and stress, demands of family, friends and work making it a roller coaster of love and life. For our 'mob'... a particularly special year, as we all headed north to Brisbane to celebrate both a Christmas and a Boxing day birthday with my Dear Old Dad. Pa to grandchildren and children alike, his run up to this particular Christmas has been demanding to say the least.

This time last year he was diagnosed with cancer, the prognosis poor and his attitude philosophical. Deciding not to go the chemotherapy route, and take his licks..." bugger it, I'll just have to eat more oysters!", his past year has been one of catching up with friends, getting his business back on an even keel after a bit of GFC beating, and being attended to by a tag team of sons spending some time with him and giving a rest to my sister Kath and brother Ben who, by dint of geography, live in the same city and have a far greater role in caring.

Those of us from interstate would come up for spells of a week or so, and tell stories, relive moments from their own far off dream times, the common denominators being the love and fun had with Dad, and Mum, in those carefree days long gone.

Of course, in the telling, you discover why Dad was a grump sometimes, and we could say finally, 'we understand!" as we too deal with the storms of bringing up kids, and all the pyrotechnics hormonal monsoons bring.

And laugh. A lot.

So come this Christmas and the run in is all good, a couple of weeks back Pa gets up for a midnight pee, tottery and half groggy as you'd expect at three, leans the wrong way, falls down a flight of fifteen stairs, head first he goes, ending up at the bottom, out cold, with a busted rib. Naturally a fall like this should have killed a near 83 year old, or at least broken everything, but not Pa. Shaken and stirred, down but not out.

A couple of days later we hear, to top it off, and this really is a topper, he has a stroke, loses his speech, and the use of his right arm. Hoo-fucking-ray, if you'll excuse the french. Who's going to tell the jokes at Christmas?

Fast forward a day or two, and we are getting sentences out of him, the ever sparkly mind saying, "I'm learning new stuff everyday" referring to the discourse with the physio and speech therapist. Good on him. Skinnier now than a cattle yard dog, but still swinging though the punch wouldn't knock out a starving budgie.

Ageing surf rat that I am we had planned, post Christmas, to spend a few days on the coast, catch the odd wave and play, a car load of boards and a road trip adventure with father and sons being the way north for both budgetary and fun reasons. Pa's misadventure, however, meant Sue and Beelzebub took a plane, while Joey and I did the gun north (2000K) over two days to get there on Christmas Eve.

All good. We did the drive with only one or two hair raising moments. Always something happens on these drives. This time 'round, apart from the locust plague (I'm serious), a near miss of a rather large kangaroo, and me dozing off, only being saved by hitting a pothole which woke me up just in time to avoid us going off the road. My frustration there was it happened fifty metres before the rest stop I was aiming for.

Finally in Brisbane and straight into the hospital, Pa propped up, on the oxygen and looking a little like a twinkling Mad Eye Moody from Harry Potter, a wicked crooked smile on his face and a welcome good hand. Speaking way better than I could have imagined, lights on, everybody home, but now so skinny you wouldn't even feed him to the cattle yard dog.

Still good for a laugh though, so yesterday, Christmas Day, the whole family gathers at home, and I mean every grandchild, every child and every spouse, plus friends, all together to wish Pa a very special Christmas.

Holding tottery court on his throne, oxygen at ready and rugged up, he managed some pureed turkey, stuffing and joy of joys, a prawn and four oysters that slid down beautifully. Understand that post stroke eating is no easy task, and the slippy slidey oysters proved the hit of the day, no chewing, just a delicious toboggan ride down.

After dinner, an endless round of family photos, to the point I asked Dad if he was getting over it.

"You're dead a long time" was his reply. Amen to that.

With time to get back to the hospital looming, while we ferried Pa to the car, the kids, from, 8 to 28, lined up for a Mexican wave as the car backed down the drive. Waving like the King heading off to his palace, Dad sailed into the night, skateboarding on the street resumed and we went back inside and had another drink.

Wonderful Day.

The pics: The road north, Joey's Christmas Pa portrait done on the sketching toy the hospital use to help patients with speech problems communicate, and Pa, crooked smiling and Mad Eye in the shade.

2010-12-13T15:42:00.003+11:00

Two posts in a day.

This can only mean I stumbled on something worth sharing.

Via a variety of sources I encountered this, what you might call a snuff movie, from Tasmanian hell man Marti Paradisis, who's quite well known for his Shipstern Bluff exploits.

This bit of lunacy puts paid to earlier youthful ambitions I had of surfing Shippies, as you'll see. There must be, though, given the extremity of the wipeouts, an inbuilt flush mechanism, a unique hydraulic action of some sort, that keeps the surfers from death at every flogging.

I find it quite amazing this is an injury free session.

The music I could live without.

Stern Carnage from marti paradisis on Vimeo.

2010-12-13T12:21:00.000+11:00

After lurching into politics over the last week or so in an attempt to bog up the blog, it comes as a very pleasant change to be able to report a surf.

Saturday finally had a lately rare combination of swell and offshore that coincided with a shoulder that threatened to hold together. I decided to make the run down a little later, partnered by my artist friend Harley, largely in a bid to find a shift change in a water no doubt populated by every other surfer in the area frustrated by a long crap spell.

We seemed to time it well, and arrived to a crowded but hopefully dwindling Winki pack. Gingerly paddling out, I was greeted by more friends in the water than I could have imagined, a bit like a reunion dinner that made for a lot of friendly chatter, chatter that made up for the still competitive line up.

Out of the blue people started to disappear, the line up cleared, I managed a few waves beyond what I'd expected and the shoulder held up. I even, rusty as I am, managed the odd good turn.

The next day, no pain, shoulder good, old porky happy.

Pics.. Winki looking very fun indeed.

2010-12-08T13:57:00.005+11:00

The other day, the bad day, I let loose on my nostalgia for a simpler life. While I don't resile from that, I do need to step back on what may have come across as a bagging of Wikileaks. Of course we could know less, in a head in the sand sort of way, but the right of freedom of the press is what makes the model most of us live under, though imperfect, still the one I would prefer.

With the constant possibility of disclosure, the less admirable impulses even the best of us are inclined to are discouraged, at least. When you consider even the milder alternatives out there, like the repressed press of China, or the murderous treatment of an impressively idealistic and courageous press in the former soviet republics, you cannot but thank your lucky stars we have what we have.

Therein lies the rub when someone like Julian Assange dares to put it all out there, and governments jump over themselves in to find ways to shut him up. It begs the question just how much they have to hide? Human nature being what it is, quite a lot.

There was a tiny political party here in OZ a way back, The Australian Democrats, led by one of the great idealists of Australian Politics. Don Chipp was his name, and he formed the party with one clear direction in mind.

To Keep the Bastards Honest.

That is what Wikileaks does, and so I, apolitical ostrich that I am, support wholeheartedly their right to publish.

On another note, I had the good fortune to have a twitter message pop up the other day, another follower of @safetosea, where I tweet not, ever. Why, how, people find the moribund home of my tweets I do not know, but for once I was glad it happened. Through it I discovered a US pacific coast author who is well worth visiting.

Tom Mahony has just released his first novel, to consistently good reviews.

I dipped in to a couple of his short stories, and liked very much what I found. As one who aspires to write more but finds frustration through time, procrastination and belief, to see someone getting it done, and done well, is both food for the soul and inspiring in its own right. That Tom is also a surfer, and I suspect, from the odd shot on his site, a good one, allows another excuse to dip in and perhaps put a penny in his pocket.

Pic: Tom, at the end of a ride, and hopefully at the beginning of another career.

2010-12-05T08:54:00.004+11:00

After building an alaia late last year I entered the water with much hope that a new dawn was about to break for me. Unfortunately the choice of five foot Bells as a first go out meant that the only thing that broke was a Bell's lip, on the back of my head.

More than once to be quite honest.

They are devilishly hard things to catch a wave on, let alone ride, and doubly so as the years creep up. Compounding that has been a last third of the year where injury and lately, lack of surf, has kept me out of the water altogether, and I am clearly not going far in my alternate surfcraft advancement.That being said the little belly alaia I made has been a huge success, and continues to get a run, when the mood strikes.

Rummaging around on this near flat and onshore Sunday morning, waiting for the family to wake up, I came across this gem via Jon Wegener's site... a glorious clip of Rob Machado riding a little peanut alaia at a silky little lefthander. Edited as a bonus to Taylor Steele's Castles in the Sky, it is one of those rare combinations of fine surfing and unexpected music that works beautifully.

Enjoy.

Pic: My efforts, and below, how they should be ridden.

Alaia & Machado from 360 To Nowhere on Vimeo.

2010-12-03T16:39:00.005+11:00

Did you ever get the feeling that 'things are getting complicated'?

'That there is too much to know'?

'That every bit of news I hear is bad'?

I'm finding myself wishing for simpler times. Times without credit cards, without mobile phones, where there wasn't some window to the world sitting at you finger tips saying 'plaaaay with meeee'... Sapping hours away from daydreaming time, from work time, from time when you might have had a good idea, or one that changed the world, or just remembered something lovely.

I wish I didn't know the synapse by synapse development of a growing brain, how a brain rewires itself in adolescence and how much we need to protect that plastic wonder from every thing we know is sitting out there waiting to rewire it into some Golem that will take over our babies.

I wonder where that worry came from?

Now we have Wikileakes making sure that we know everything about everyone, but mostly about what the US says about about everybody else, but then who do you know that doesn't say something Unkind or True behind somebodies back? Human nature is unkind, imperfect and has muddled through since we rose from the soup, will continue to do so but now we have the added insult of Knowing Too Much.

Wouldn't it be nice just to step back a little and be oblivious to some things that we really could do without knowing?

I'm having one of those days.

The truth is, knowing and the search for knowledge also gives us a chance to see the infinite possibilities that are out there, it gives us the chance to look beyond our noses and our personal worlds, to feel tiny and great at the same time. If the fundamentalists amongst us allowed themselves the luxury of knowledge of the 'other' before blind belief closed worlds off to them, all our worlds would be better places.

And if the young fuckers out there allowed themselves the possibility that someone over fifty might actually still have something to contribute, that wisdom is not a barrier to creativity, that some things actually get easier....

Hmmm.

I think I need to go surfing.

Pics: Wasted time sometimes has it's rewards as you discover hidden gems here and there with the magic of Google Earth. My lips are sealed.

2010-11-27T16:04:00.003+11:00

Today I watched the online premier of Cyrus Sutton's Stoked and Broke, a little movie about as lo-fi a surf trip as you can possibly get. Just a walk along the San Diego Coast, towing home made bamboo rickshaws laden with boards, wetsuits and the the very meagre necessities of living they granted themselves, Cyrus and young Ryan Burch have a fine, and ultimately, wise old time.

As we all know, doing a surf trip gets you to places you'd never otherwise go, exotic places, strange and sometimes dangerous places that take you away from that comfortable bubble the familiar gives us.

It's part of the fun.

What these guys have managed to do is look at home in a far different light. By placing themselves on the outer, busking, making, bartering, selling for a little extra cash or a dog biscuit (true) they find a new So Cal and do a little self discovery in the process.

Sure, there is a safety net. Never probably more than an hour from home, nevertheless the sleeping rough, and placing themselves in places where they meet those they might not otherwise meet, they connect and now will know more of the realities of where they live.

So what did they learn?

It's clear they already know how lucky they are.

A bit like being born in Australia, to be living near the beach in Southern California is ahead of most of the pack for a start. They realise that surfing is not the be all and end all, and that sooner or later the stark realities of living will loom, and hopefully not devour.

Of course I could go into more detail, but that would spoil the journey.

The surfing is eclectic to say the least, and both surfers are fine examples of open minded water play. Longboards, handplanes, planing hulls and blocks of foam, they rip in a different way, and sometimes just choose to feel the glide and read what's going on ahead of them. There is a lot of good surfing, some quite incredible, but it is surfing that doesn't take itself too seriously.

Which is as it should be.

Did I like it?

Well, it ended with me wanting to go for a surf, and wishing I could travel again, both looking distant options at present as I pass up glassy four foot Bells while I sit on the couch and cough my lungs out.

Go online and have a look. Nine bucks won't leave you broke, and broke or not you will be Stoked.

2010-11-24T16:45:00.003+11:00

While out at lunch I picked up a copy of Surfing World, the issue a bookend of Kelly and Andy, with all that entails, given events of the last few weeks. It contains one the most heart wrenching things I've ever read. The parents out there will get it most, especially those who have lost a child, but it would be a stony cold heart not to be affected.

A quote from Phil Irons, Andy's Dad, on his last chance to hold his son.

"Held my son, kissed him, heaven almighty, he could've got up and left with us if he was there, he was so perfect"

2010-11-24T16:16:00.003+11:00

Nearly a month.

Never before have the wheels fallen off like they have, in one way or another, over the past few weeks. The lesson I've learned is that looking after yourself, at every level, is the only way you can look after those that mean the most to you. A psycho/physiological feedback loop can kick in that does its best to do its worst, as I have only too well discovered.

That pesky shoulder stopped surfing, then stopped exercise. A virus stepped up to the plate with a very big bat and proceeded to slug me left and right... joints, chest infection... get rid of that, conjunctivitis in a, forgive me, blink. That goes, tonsillitis. Go to the Docs. Lose weight, let's take your blood pressure.

The cuff popped off!!!

Naturally the fear mechanism kicks in, I began to worry as bullet proof me suddenly doesn't seem so, blood pressure was something old people have but when the contemplation of Bells over six foot has me concerned for my well being I know another game is afoot.

The shake up has been accepted and a goal is set.

Now to get back into the water, strong and lighter... my saying I was back earlier was so premature as only the last day or so has this minor injury begun to be pain free... sort of.

Enough of that.

Today I got an email from blog brother Ed Lewis of the Daily Shaka. He has informed me that Cyrus Sutton's Stoked and Broke is going live for an Online Premier this Friday 26th to Sunday 28th only.

A whole bunch of very cool (at over 50 am I allowed to say cool?) prizes are up for ticket holders as part of a raffle, so it behooves you to skoot online and align yourself for a Mega Hoot Fest Toot Sweet.

Image today, a fast and loose rocket I'd be on in a flash to see the whole shebang live, and to shake Cyrus's hand as he seems to me to be doing things right.

2010-11-08T16:45:00.004+11:00

This past weekend Beelzebub and I lit off to the coast for some time together, hang out a bit and play with my mate Marky and his kids.. and his lovely wife Ginny. It was pretty epic, though the surf was as flat as it can possibly get.

Of course you can still have a good time without waves. Talking, having a laugh and hanging out at the skatepark did the trick, plus an evening of fish and chips at the local chippery, watching the sunset and then a late skate to top it off. I even had a go. (Cue laughter).

Naturally, Tom copped a little derision because his vehicles of choice are blades. Once he rolls the detractors shut up as he does light up a park. I shot a little bit of lo-fi on the iPhone and have cobbled this over the past hour. This is by no means a highlights, just two runs, one on blades, and the other...

I love this kid.

(Double click on the frame to get the uncropped version via you tube)

2010-11-04T14:44:00.002+11:00

Much has been written in a very short time about the profoundly sad loss of Andy Irons.

Just as the world needs its bright stars of the intellect, so it does those gifted to show us what our physical selves might be. Andy was an athletic nova in the infinity sandwich.

Trust Pete Bowes of Kurungabaa to find this quote from e.e.cummings.

It got me.

2010-11-02T13:52:00.002+11:00

Good god I got a surf in yesterday but boy oh boy is the time out of the water showing. As my mate Rod said this morning, if I leave it much longer I might as well hang up the board. Some would argue I should have a while back.

So it was pretty weak Bells, very inconsistent,the old arm was very stiff but, for the first time, I know it is pulling up ok. For want of a better term, I'm back. Stop Laughing.

One fun one and a couple of moments on others so now it is working on the fitness and getting some stretching as I did notice certain parts groining under the strain if you get what I mean. Today it's Melbourne Cup Day, the only public holiday in the world put on for a horse race. I could be chasing onshore waves but decided to hang back for the family and watch this race the whole country stops for. I will not be betting.. never win at that stuff so I'll just enjoy the relax.

Today's pic. Sloppy Bells, and I do promise the guy did a very nice snap that followed a well placed bottom turn, neither of which was captured due to shutter lag.

I must apologise too for the previous post.. unsure where I was going with that one and the Fish Man disturbs me.

2010-10-31T15:27:00.003+11:00

The long dry continues, but only figuratively.

This past couple of days we've had a month's rain in two days, the sun just now threatening to show its face before perhaps another cloud skitters by, a grey mask to another grey day.

Did you ever have that deja vu feeling when a smell or a certain light, perhaps the wetness after rain, takes you somewhere else? I got that today and was taken back to long runs around the lake in Hossegor, France back in the late 70's, during one of those endless waits for the swell to get manageable that that delightful french town is famous for amongst those who've stayed for long enough to see its cycles.

You had to wait through them because when it got good, it was every Sunday at once as you held a line in an endless sandy hollow that may or may not end happily. That same sand bottom sort of guaranteed no disasters, the smile over a cafe au lait and a croissant after held me for years on, and to this day I find myself ordering little else when it came to accompaniments to a good coffee.

Today, I didn't have a coffee but split an almond croissant over a cup of tea with Sue before she scarpered off to work, yes on a Sunday, but god bless her it helps. The kids, one off with mates and the other supposedly studying, as it is mid final exams, and me, waiting for the sky to clear enough to think about belatedly clearing a gutter. My plans to have a splash were thwarted by onshores and swell size... again. For a change, I 'pumped' a k out at the pool, first swim in a year or so, and it felt good to stretch the bung arm... Quite pleased with a lap rate of about 48 secs after so long away from it, not trying to strain but really just to work out a still sore limb.

Bit of a ramble this one isn't it? Even doodled some really odd stuff while lying in bed last night, don't ask where this crap pops from.. though the multi eyed guy started from a drawing I saw on a wall... er... I hope.

If I get time I might try and dig out some shots from those magic days in France, but remember, we were there when there where five surf travelers in town. The locals where a delight and the waves were too.

Today's pic, from the little moleskine, Mr Fish thing and a very good argument for me never to have taken up architecture.

2010-10-27T14:32:00.005+11:00

Almost two weeks since I last logged in so this is almost a record. The main reason is total distraction with life, the focus being the fifteen year old and the accompanying trials that all you parents are either facing, have faced or are about to.

Good luck.

The other day I looked at a picture of me and the kids from about twelve years back. It sits on a shelf near the kitchen table, always in view and teasing me about what was, with a complete lack of forboding on my face. Two fresh, smiling little wonders atop the knee of reasonably youthful, happy, youngish, dark haired dad.

Oh how the mighty have fallen.

Now it would be a wizening, haggard coot, losing ( grey) hair, sanity and other parts sagging under the weight of a 202 pound, six foot three inch 18 year old and a 110 pound fifteen year old I wouldn't wish on Pol Pot.

Happy days.

On the good side, I love the treasures dearly though they send us to an early grave, with an empty wallet.

I did manage to get another bung shoulder test out splash a few days back. A tentative couple of hours, with a wonderful end wave that made it all worth while.. and all on my 6'2" which made the few good turns all that sweeter.

As well, work has finally picked up with a lovely job directing a little corporate film for the Multiple Sclerosis Society. Going out and meeting people who have been struck by cruel luck through MS, or brain injuries acquired through accident and misfortune can make your own life trials recede into a sobering reality. I met and filmed some wonderful people. Big personalities hiding until you dug, or keeping you in stitches with wisecracks as we tried to do some filming that made a bit of sense. A lot of fun and the work is being well received.

Today's shot.. A fun semi peeler down the coast last Sunday week, with some promise of better for the weekend.. if the lad behaves.

2010-10-15T16:41:00.003+11:00

One of the pluses of parenthood, and believe me at present they are rare, is seeing the kids get up to things you never dreamed of doing.

The Devil Incarnate, aka Tom, is always doing this, and lately they are things I never dreamed of because I wouldn't, though he seems to take the whole of life on as a dare.

Within that though, is a knack of picking things up incredibly quickly. Not so long ago he got a 'fixie' for his birthday, went through the first set of tires in no time flat as he worked out how to stop, and had 'track stands' covered within a few days of buying it.

This shot was taken when I found him doing a track stand in the kitchen, insisting it was alright, mum was ok with it (like hell), but I was so astounded I took a snap before kicking him out. He held this pose, stock still and no hands, before turning the bike around and riding back up the hall... and out the door.

Waves this weekend and the shoulder has a go ahead. Yippeee!

2010-10-11T16:33:00.004+11:00

Since moleskine notebooks are so expensive I've started using a couple of different pens and using the book one way, then writing over the notes at right angles so that I extend the life.

Then I might do a doodle over the top while talking on the phone. Below is a doodle over two different sets of jottings... You can tell I'm a little starved for blog inspiration, so consider this post a placeholder until my shoulder is 100%, though typically, the weather for this coming weekend, being my first glimmer of hope for almost three weeks, is looking grim.

This is better, though Canada is a fair drive from here.

2010-10-05T12:22:00.002+11:00

A long, long time ago I tried to define to myself what I wanted to do. "To show beauty" was what popped into my mind and to this day it continues to do so. At the same time my 'trite' buzzer keeps going off. What the hell does that mean, to show beauty? What is beauty and what is the point?

We all make beauty, either purposefully or unknowingly, many times in our lives, or perhaps just once. Never never. A child is beauty, kindness is beauty, being the best we can be is beauty, and of course, the world has it in every nook and cranny... though sometimes you have to look.

Our different perceptions of what beauty is define our creative world.

The other night I watched a broadcast of Britain's Stephen Fry in conversation at the Sydney Opera House. His deft but unselfconscious use of the language, and his deep general knowledge, was masterful. Beauty to him lives in the word. Alliteration, rhyme, rhythm, the pun, all dancing together over forty five minutes, the whole performance Stephen's equivalent of a well ridden wave. Nothing out of place, with the umms and ahhs a synaptic fizz, as one reviewer described it, matching the climb and drop between spectacular verbal turns.

There is beauty when you least expect it. I remember getting on a bus as a ten year old, and being confronted by one the most singularly unattractive old ladies I'd ever seen. Shortly after, while sitting behind her, some idiot decided to make me the subject of his aggressive attention. Not being a particularly forthright kid in the self defense department, I sat copping it when the said lady jumped up and gave my persecutor a serve of monumental proportions.

At that moment she became the Madonna. I wouldn't have been surprised if sunlight had burst from her wizened brow, and my memories of her face are relief coloured as beauty.

Now at three hundred and fifty six (minus three hundred), in the middle of unexpected and unwanted twists that I should have seen coming, with a fifteen year old tearing and melting my heart at the same time, the same desire to show beauty out that cut my advertising career to ribbons as my obtuse sense of what was right sat at odds with a profession I still struggle with, that sees paintings sit unfinished for fear of technique failing a vision perhaps not so splendid, and my own seeming deep genetic predisposition for procrastination stopping me doing things before I start, still I persist.

Perhaps the struggle is not so much to show beauty.

Just keep trying to see it.

Pic for today, my Dear Old Dad, about three months back.

"Come on Dad, give me a smile."

What a beauty.

2010-09-29T15:10:00.004+10:00

As I walked up the steps at Bells last Sunday I bumped into local surf photog Judy Scanlon. She took a nice pic of me once a while back so I said hello, we got talking, only to be rudely interrupted by Maurice Cole, sneaking up behind me and frightening the life out of me.

A great big chat ensued and it was revealed that Judy had a few good shots of Maurice she'd wanted to pass on.

This got my attention as MC and I are involved in a little project based around his story, with a particular emphasis on the period around 1990 when he developed the reverse vee with Tom Curren. As part of the whole thing MC has shaped three replicas of the pivotal boards of that time based on the originals and their dimensions. Included in this set is the unstickered yellow railer that TC rode to his first Hawaiian victory at Haleiwa. As someone who has seen the boards said, these a "pure surfing DNA", full of heart and history.

Naturally to complete the story I'm chasing good shots of Maurice on point, and last night Judy flicked through a few shots via email, one being a lovely hack on his trusty 5'11" that makes 56 year old cancer survivor a descriptor that needs a bit of revisiting. Included in the set too was one of me on the borrowed yellow eight footer, just easing off the top and nursing my poor old arm.

Pics: MC, Ol'Fatty, both shots by Judy Scanlon, and the three TC boards, just leaning on a wall, as shot by my old friend, Les Horvat.

2010-09-28T11:09:00.003+10:00

Perhaps it was unwise in retrospect but as the shoulder was feeling passable I borrowed a big board and made for the coast on Sunday where a forecast 3ft sounded just the ticket, me with visions of a quiet ease in to the water after a few weeks off.

No such bloody luck as we turned up to find pretty classic conditions and an almost pumping 4-5ft with the odd bomb that would definitely test my gimpy bits.

So out there, feeling very stiff and tentative but old fatty ended up getting a couple of nice ones. Not too much to test me apart from the initial paddle out as the 8 footer I was on was pretty boaty, wouldn't duck dive and I was not game to test it with an eskimo roll. Naturally, I did the unthinkable and ditched the board a couple of times to save my arm. Thoughtfully I did look behind me before I did, so no lives lost, though perhaps my dignity suffered.

A couple of hours and luck being on my side I hightailed it in, counted my chickens, left unscathed, only to follow up yesterday gain, my excuse being a 'board meeting' with Richard T and Derek, a catch up and a bit of scheming in fun three foot with a bomb six foot set mixed in, again some fun trimmers, as that was almost my limit, a coffee and a sandwich to top off the morning.

It's always fun to see those two, DH in lunatic form as ever, Richard his thoughtful self, the mix, as friends, probably the best thing that's come out of the whole Musica Surfica experience.

Last night we all got together again, Derek and I to see a concert, Richard, Satu and friends, to play it.

Unfortunately the arm has pulled up sore this morning, though my hope is I've not done too much damage by being a little premature.

PIcs: Bells and Winki, looking very fine, and me, exiting drink, as taken by Richie.

2010-09-23T10:48:00.007+10:00

A couple of weeks back I received an email from Ed Lewis of The Leucadia Project blog.. alerting me to Australian film maker Mick Waters' project, Little Black Wheels, being now available via download.

Mick, I've not met in person, but have via email as we swapped movies and bantered a bit when Musica Surfica came out. He is clearly a fine man, and is of that group of northern NSW film maker surfers that have carved a lifestyle with an emphasis on life. Mick, Nathan Oldfield, Andrew Kidman... peas in pods.

Not that this means they live in some sort of idyll freed from care. Both Mick and Nathan have experienced great family losses and I think this informs some of the heart that comes out in their work.

So... here is a link through to the Surf Network page and Little Black Wheels. Support a guy who makes a black glass rectangle something worth looking at.

2010-09-13T14:47:00.003+10:00

Over the next few days I'm thiinking of getting a few torture instruments. Barbed wire undies, single nail earmuffs, that sort of thing.

Might as well since I began the habit with a visit to the coast yesterday while unable to surf.

Unfortunately I had to take a look at what was on offer and as they say on facebook.. OMG!!

A soft offshore and the afternoon tide filling meant the hordes who'd inhabited the name breaks had exited to recoup, have a coffee, cuddle up to a significant other, or flop in a beanbag and drift off to dreamland.

Yesterday afternoon dreamland was in the water as apart from Winki, everywhere was empty and all was Perfect. Bells, maybe 6 out, tops. Centreside, none. Perfect right just up coast, none. Boobs left, none, right 5.

Shots, some snaps in no particular order of empty perfection, a trembling handed grab bag at what was on offer on our lovely coast.

2010-09-11T12:11:00.003+10:00

When we made Musica Surfica one of the great characters on the shoot was Dane Beevor.

Dane really, really loved a beer and a party, any party, had him drawn to it like bees to the beer, er.. honey pot.

His surfing, what ever his state, post fun, was always on. One of those natural talents that never seem to have an off button. It was hard to let shine given the event was finless, but even then as with all the guys on the trip, the talent sparkled. On the odd occasion when he took a finned board out, something special happened and luckily we got a bit of that in the film, a dazzling counterpoint to our very steep finless learning curve.

Rarely seen on film, I came across this clip of Dane in Sumatra via the Kurungabaa site. This sort of surfing I could watch all day and Dane I think, like Occy and Curren, has that ability to do the right thing at the right time with elegance and power. The wedgey left he's riding reminds me of a favourite right down the coast, though I never in my wildest dreams rode it as well as he does here.

If Blogger crops this oddly click on through to you tube to get the full picture.

2010-09-10T16:18:00.004+10:00

I was contacted the other day by Jon Kolker from an organisation called explore, "a philanthropic community whose mission is to champion the selfless acts of others, to create a portal into the soul of humanity and to inspire lifelong learning."

Well amen to that. Jon asked if I'd give them a plug on the blog, so this is it.

If they'd been remotely god bothery or evangelistic I'd have told them to go jump, but reading of the work they do I can only give them as much support as I can. With a philosophy focused on the breaking down of barriers between 'us' and the 'other', the recognition of common humanity and more importantly the fact that we are on this blue pill together is perhaps the most important lesson any of us can learn.

There's a competition to win a board or some music from Jack Johnson, and there's the site to explore, which seems to be becoming an ever expanding window to the best of our world.

2010-09-06T14:48:00.003+10:00

A bit of a wait between drinks in blog land as I've been away visiting my Dear Old Dad on Queensland... and nursing a very bung shoulder that is going to keep me away from anything like an aquatic ripple for the best part of five weeks.

Like I really needed that.

As was suggested to me by Ed Sloane I need to write something about the perils of cold water surfing.

More like the mixed perils of helping ladies on buses and daydreaming while taking your hood off, then going surfing while the two pings that became the problem became one big ping by paddling about and trying to pretend I'm twenty again.

So what is a ping?

Ping number one on the bus to the long term carpark at Melbourne airport, the lady standing next to me has a big back she can't get to so I dutifully stiff arm it off the rack, it's a heavy bugger... ping! in a tiny spot in my shoulder...ooh that didn't feel so flash, never mind, what a shame.

One week later after a surf at Winki, wandering through the carpark while trying to get my hood off with one hand, pulling distractedly, daydreaming, the hood neck down in the neck of the wetsuit creating suction that would make your eyes pop, then PING!, that really didn't feel flash at all and damn it's hard to get my arm out of the wetty without screaming.

A few days go by and the Big Wednesday with it but relatively Big Thursday with a bit of side chop is offering so I just have to give it a hit and the shoulder disassembles and I head off to the physio where I get the bad news.

Pic for today? I'm struggling so I might just go with my Sue about to chop onions.

2010-08-27T16:18:00.003+10:00

Yesterday after hearing of all the great waves being had I cleared my desk and dove down for a quick splash. What a waste of time... feeling like I'd aged thirty years and was no longer the limber whipper snapper that I once was..

Hold on.. I have... and I aren't!

To top it off, I pulled a shoulder muscle trying to get my hood off.

Dangerous things, them thar hoods.

Deciding to retreat to the safety of a computer screen I was pleasantly surprised by a touch base from an old friend, Mike Jenkins.

Mike I've known for a very long time, we rarely see each other, but I had heard he had a mid life renaissance as an artist. After having a chat and checking out his site I thought it worth sharing as he is having a fair amount of success and it is lovely stuff. Another interesting side bar to Mike is he is brother in law to the legendary Wayne Lynch, though that doesn't stop him from being a very decent surfer himself, when he finds time, what with all the creative juices keeping the inspiration burning and therefore limiting his water time.

Pics, all by MJ.

2010-08-25T15:57:00.002+10:00

I meant to add this to my last post.

That restless lens, Ed Sloane, posted this of a sand bottomed point on our coast that only rarely shows its form. Ed claims he is a neophyte in the shooting moving pictures department but to me he sure demonstrates a fine aesthetic.

Love the music, and with local ballet dancer Sasha Leitmanis being balanced by blow in noseriding diva B.Baggs, its a lovely little show.

Sand Bottom Point from Sloane Photos on Vimeo.

2010-08-22T22:15:00.003+10:00

I was talking to a mate the other day, about the Bells area and its hinterland.

He intrigued me when he mentioned a little secret valley nearby, a path following a creek line, a path lined with rare orchards, untouched by the casual visitor and indeed rarely trodden by anyone. He'd recently been introduced to it by a naturalist friend and had been astounded as the bushland opened onto a lush green field with kangaroos a bounding.

So there I was yesterday, sitting on the tailgate of my car, prying off a wetsuit booty, back to the sea and looking out over the Bells back blocks after a couple of hours and a few waves at Winkipop. A fun three or four feet with the very odd bigger one, the aftermath of the whopping day before that saw occasional ten foot sets at both Bells and Winki, a day I'm glad I missed as I think in my current state of fitness I'd have drowned.

Anyway, as I said, there I am gazing into the distance when the sun strikes though the clouds onto this patch of emerald populated, as I could barely make out, by a mob of very content kangaroos. I grabbed the camera and snapped a couple off, looked to the screen to enlarge what my pinholes of eyes couldn't resolve. Sure enough, roos lolling about everywhere, grazing, looking or just doing that wonderful roo elbow on the ground, taking in the world.

Pics: A Winki bomb, and the Green.

2010-08-19T16:39:00.003+10:00

As part of a project I'm working on I had cause to head to the coast the day before yesterday, naturally timing my visit so that I could include a short "board meeting" at Bells before the more serious work took over.

On the way through I popped into Maurice Cole's to say hello, and while there snapped a couple of shots while he was serving a young chap picking up a 9'6" beast killer intended for Big Voldemort, The Break That Must Not Be Named. The board was a beauty, twin redwood stringers and plenty of meat. It looks like a lot of fun, that board. Nearby, in the racks, was Ross Clarke-Jones' new Hunter as well. With the tendency to try to paddle bigger and bigger, the boundary of when you can tow is pushing out, so the alternative, if you want to surf, is paddle.

Now where did I leave my wallet? And I wonder if Maurice will accept moths?

Pics... Chunky Bells, MC talking shop and MC's messy table, in tones of blue.

2010-08-16T15:35:00.002+10:00

As I mentioned on Friday there was to be a bit of action in NY for those lovers of the different in music and surfing.

I had a flurry of texts from Richard Tognetti in NY both before and after he played at the Mollusk Surf Shop.

To quote: " What a gig! This is the coolest place. Just amazing"

I know the feelings were reciprocated, and the local crew that made the time went away with a fresh look at what the world offers. Chris Gentile of Mollusk sent this to me this morning:

"Absolutely insane! Best thing that has happened in the shop hands down! People were blown away! Thanks so much for putting this together Mick! Peop[le were seriously choked up after the film too!

Well my pleasure Chris. All I did was pick up the phone.. ( a few times) and attempt to give back a little to my favourite surfing town north of the Victorian border, and to help some friends.

Anyone manage to get to the Glide today?

Pic. Musica Gasometer Molluska

2010-08-12T16:55:00.004+10:00

New York New York

This weekend if you're in the Big Apple and you have a cultural bone in your body and a block of wax in your back pocket, there are a two events on that are must sees, because miss them, hear about it later and you'll be on ebay for the Best Arse Kicking Machine money can buy.

On Saturday August 14, that's this Saturday folks, Mollusk will have, free to all comers, Australian Living National Treasure Richard Tognetti, plus Satu Vanska and Julian Thompson, doing a masterly live performance of soul stirring strings before a Live on the Gasometers evening showing of Musica Surfica.

You may have seen the film, but there is nothing like these guys live... it's a mind boggler, and it is all to promote what is on the next night.. The Glide, at the Poisson Rouge.

Only ever performed twice before, and perhaps never again, this is a life altering experience and unforgettably beautiful.

With incredible vision by Jon Frank, arguably one of the great masters of surf cinema, shot in Iceland, Waimea Bay, South Africa and elsewhere, and music by Bryars, Elgar, Shostakovich and Tognetti...

Look, I could go on like a broken record, but really, you owe it to yourselves, on both counts. Take your mum, take your wife and kids, just.... Go!

The pic, a grab from the Glide.... enjoy the show(s)..

2010-08-10T17:57:00.005+10:00

A different weekend has just flashed by.

On being informed that Musica Surfica was showing at a wonderful little gallery/coffee shop in Manly called Saltmotion, and that my partners in crime, Richard Tognetti and Derek Hynd were going to be there, both to play and speak, I thought it appropriate to throw caution to the wind and join them.

Not least in my list of reasons to go was the realisation that it would be the first time all three of us had gathered for a showing at the same time... so I saw the chance to say thanks for the ride, catch up for a laugh, and join an appreciative audience in never passing up a chance to watch Rich, Satu and Julian play live.

The show went down a treat, and if you visit the Saltmotion site you can see some pics of the proceedings.

Luckily the swell coincided with the stay and we all scored a fun splash at Manly and later I joined my mate Simon Phin in a few fun peaks at Freshwater, the home of Australian Surfing, as it was on that beach that the Duke had his historic ride, way back when. I also had the privilege of standing in front of the Duke's board, in plexiglass case, and seeing a serious piece of surfing history, in the empty clubrooms on a quiet Saturday afternoon.

So the pics... me dutifully saying cheese, Derek looking like the cat that just got the rat, and Rich looking aghast at something Derek must have just said, plus a Manly peak, and a little of the performance.

Tomorrow another post as New York is in for a treat this weekend.

To Joel and Saltmotion, thanks. It was a great night.

And to Simon and Nicole... thank you too for putting me up, and putting up with me.

2010-08-06T13:46:00.002+10:00

While editing the Tales from the Chook Shed 2 naturally frames fly past that though not for the subject at hand nevertheless hold gold because they are what they are.

Out in the pretty solid Bells swells, that lovable Derek was charging away on one of his finless creations.

The unique thing about Derek, as boards finless make inroads in their alaia variants around the globe, is his take, approach, attack, call it want you want, his thing, is taking it to whatever the ocean dishes up.

Tiny slappers.

Tick.

Beach break peaks.

Tick.

Screaming J-Bay walls.

Tick.

And Big Bells Boomers.

Great Big Tick.

This pic below was a Boomer, and Dekka chose to go the whole hog and ride it through the whitewashed inside, holding a line where even finned boards struggle amid the snow, all the while with a looming hook clawing to claim him.

He made it, the crusty old coot, he made it.

(I can call him that because I'm even crustier)

This shot is from the morning session. In the afternoon session I paddled out and saw one wave in particular where his judicious application of power with control takes the idea that it is all just a slide show and throws it out the window.

Pic is a frame grab from the shoot for MC's Chook Shed, shot by Luke McNee

2010-08-05T12:56:00.002+10:00

Last February while on a flight to Western Australia I was lucky enough to have a window seat in the daytime, glorying in the view granted by a three thousand mile cloudless day.

Over the southwest, where the wheat fields give way abruptly to the wilds of the interior, a madman's chequerboard, or perhaps his dining table, stretched out below.

I'd love to drive the area one day, to see what I was seeing.

2010-08-02T16:14:00.003+10:00

Yesterday I was all packed up and ready to go, anticipating a swell that was supposedly ahead of a threatening storm front. Alas it bamboozled the best of us, and me as well, with little action to warrant the drive or, as they progressed, the miserable conditions.

So, instead, I had number two son, Beezlebubbles himself, hanging at a loose end long enough for a yarn and a chance to add to my family snap collection. Mucking about with the apps in the iphone is great fun, technology allowing almost a dark room in there if you work it hard enough.

Below is the butter wouldn't melt in his mouth Sunday afternoon incarnation of mischief, before he excused himself to do some.

As an accompaniment, a view of the shed interior, and a moribund painting of Joey I really need to finish.

I must say though, I do miss a real camera.

STOP PRESS: And this, at bottom, from Ed Sloane. It's why I love Vicco.

Les après-midi (the afternoons) from Sloane Photos on Vimeo.

2010-07-29T13:35:00.003+10:00

About ten months back we had a run of swell down here that was pretty special. A succession of big, long period swells with real grunt.

I had been working on my Tales from the Chook Shed webisodes for Maurice Cole. The chance came up to get some footage of Nick Carroll at big Bells, and to talk to Nick, as a very technical observer of board design, about the direction Maurice Cole is going with deep single concaves, and smaller boards in bigger surf. As we've discovered as tow surfing has grown, and lately ebbed a little in popularity, is that you don't need a lot of board once you're on the wave.

Even me, old plonker that I am, do ok on waves in the 8 plus range on a six two or so,.. added volume helps me in but, wisely placed, doesn't hinder once there. The concave, volume distribution and the location of the concave, make for, as Nick says, a board that is fleet of foot, no hang ups, and very, very fast. Of course it all depends on the surfer but I for one never imagined I'd still be on boards in the below six foot range at 56, so something is working.

Naturally there are many wonderful ways to skin a cat and these boards are for those that like to surf on rail and go fast, which skins lot of cats, if you ask me.

The surfing in this episode is from two sessions on the same day, one at Bells in the ten foot range, one at very big Voldemort (the break we dare not name), and a session post last year's Quikky Pro at Kirra. Graciously, Jack McCoy allowed us to use the Kirra footage in this, and some of this session may end up in his new film, A Deeper Shade of Blue, which, from all accounts, is destined to be a beauty.

Surfers are Tony Ray, Ross Clarke-Jones, Nick Carroll and Kelly Slater.

And, if you'd like to see it a little larger, you can.. here.

Tales from the Chook Shed Episode 2 from Mick Sowry on Vimeo.

2010-07-26T15:14:00.006+10:00

I had the pleasure this weekend of meeting a couple of legends.

One a certified Living National Treasure, literary figure of note in Australia's and much of the English speaking world's universe. The other a young fella who though not a legend yet, may well become one.

Last Friday I attended a charity art auction at the Australian Marine Conservation Society in support of the banning of the shark fin fishery and its abhorrent practice of cutting off the fins and returning the sharks alive, but finless, to the sea. Hundreds of millions of sharks are killed every year to service shark fin soup. Clearly a cultural wall of massive proportions will make a worldwide ban difficult but in our backyards why should we put up with it?

Some very desirable works were up for the hammer, supported by an introductory talk by writer Tim Winton.

Tim's writing is like a knife through technicolour butter. His ability to paint you into a moment with words is pure delight for me, so to meet him afterwards made my month. Some of you may know his book, Breath, and know too that in his spare time he is also a surfer and freediver of great experience.

I'd wanted to get a copy of Musica Surfica into his mitts, in thanks for giving me so much reading pleasure and also as a gift to someone I felt would enjoy it. Seeking him out in a quiet moment, we ended up having a conversation of more depth than I'd expected given the demands being placed on him ina crown of 300 or so. It turns out he already had a copy, loved the film, but said give me that one anyway, and make sure you sign it.

As if I wouldn't?

We got talking about the sea, riding fish and his love of Tom Wegener's boards. An easy, unpretentious, delightful guy...

And yesterday, a call from Ed Sloane, who wanted to hook up for a chat and maybe take a few shots, but really just to say g'day.

I mentioned Ed in my previous post, and discovered yesterday his real job is as an environmental scientist, with a working brief to survey water quality over a range encompassingthe hinterlands of some of the best surfing in the country. Naturally this gives him ample moments to be on the spot when light and the elements combine for magic. Little wonder his shots sing.

At fun but sorta sloppy Bells, Ed parked his lens on the stairs in an attempt to get a shot of me at it, but he quickly realised his mistake and joined me in the drink, as the waves were so inconsistent waiting for one was more fun that watching me wait, and wait, catch it, then stuff it up.

Whatever. I did get a couple worth the effort, if not photographing.

The guy has great deal of talent, I hope he manages to keep its flame alive long enough to see it grow, and we manage to catch up again, to gasbag some more.

Oh and by the by, big lumpy son Joey wanted me to take a snap of him as a bookend to one I took of small ratbag son Tom, using the Hipstamatic app on my iPhone. There is a particular combination of lens and film in it I love, though in Joe's case I fiddled about some more just to be difficult.

So shots today... Winki, in the dawn light, Richie checking a "secret place of colours' prior to going back to Bells, and my darling boys, set for the wall when I get the prints back, just before I nail them to it.

2010-07-21T12:21:00.002+10:00

One of the gems of the Victorian coast is a beach named with a number.

13th.

No secret. Easy to find.

The variety of waves to found along three of four kilometres of sand and patchy reef has to be seen to be believed.

From cruisey high tide little walls perfect for longboards, and soft crumblers that are beginner land divine, to pitching heaving barrels that will challenge anyone, it is a beach that can deliver more smiles per square inch for more levels of surfer than many in the world.

A very hot local population is generous enough to not play the locals game, and surfers from all around come to smile and be challenged by what it offers.

Last weekend it served up some jewels, and local denizen of the lens Ed Sloan was there to record a few moments before his trembling hands had to reach for his board.

Go visit his site and see what else he has to offer. Beautiful shots and if the below is an early attempt at moving pictures, he has more to offer.

Good on you mate. I hope you don't mind me linking your vision.

Testing Testing....Winter Beacon from Sloane Photos on Vimeo.

2010-07-19T11:31:00.003+10:00

I hate perfect days.

Paddled out yesterday full of expectation as the waves were straight from a high school doodle. I felt as though I couldn't put a foot wrong until I attempted to stand up and discovered I couldn't put a foot right. Tripping over bloody booties, then eventually getting so effing cold Roboto took over before Hesitation Man filled what available neurons are left after the Alzheimer's kicked in.

Just short of five hours out there, with two good waves. A few almost's but really!

Finally sorted a good one through Rincon that had me in shock upon realising my feet actually hit the spot.

I know I shouldn't complain, and fervently hope any Victorians reading this had a better day as it deserved being enjoyed. At least there was some good conversation out the back.

Until next time.

PS: Winki was going OFF as I left... Also, Congratulations young Jordy in Saffa Land, and well done Adam Melling, too.

2010-07-17T15:22:00.003+10:00

Yesterday I was a bad lad and snuck down as it was the first surf opportunity in a couple of weeks... and I was quietish workwise. It turned out to be a good move, high tide glassy Bells/Rincon, pretty uncrowded, sort of sloppy but a playful four feet, and a few long ones, right to the beach. It does a good impression of a point break, the old Bells, when it does this.

Today, I had the car packed, ready to do another runner to what I'd been tipped off to be perfect brisk offshore, classic and a foot bigger, only to have the youngest say why not hang together for a bit.

Naturally I shined the surf as even an hour or two with the Hellboy is time well spent.

Quiet is good.

The thing is, at around fifteen, they suddenly decide parents are not to be hung around with, know nothing or are there only to harass, so good time is rare time. I try to be a good Dad, but they make it hard when you feel like all you do is berate them about study and homework, and all the other things that both make their young lives and put them at risk.

Of course, we then look back at our own years, go oops!... try to maintain dignity and not feel like a total hypocrite.

All you out there kid-less but about to not be... hold on to your hats.

And wallets.

Pic, sloppy, glassy fun at you know where.

2010-07-11T15:22:00.003+10:00

When I did Musica Surfica our core camera guy for all things surfing was Jon Frank.

A laconic bear of a man with an easy laugh, but few words, Jon was a blessing to the shoot.

In the water it was so clear he was in a comfortable place, the efficiency of his shooting beggaring belief.

I should have known, for as far back as Litmus he's been swimming out in stupidity to get the shot. Never though, in all our time together, did he take a board out and 'have a splash'.

I had no idea how good he might be if the camera was reversed, though a couple of months back I caught a glimpse of a take off on one wave at Bells and thought... yep, he can surf.

That impression was cemented the other day when my friend Pete showed me this sequence he snapped of JF in the Mentawais about ten days ago. Jon was on a boat at the same spot as Pete's, with a group of young pros not keen on heading out to a gnarly left hander.

Jon decided to get the show rolling.

"If I get a good one you're in."

This is his first wave.

Jaws on the floor from all watching.

And it was his birthday.

The pics, as I said, by Peter James. Thanks Pete. Nothing from me as I've been up seeing my dear old Dad. Plus it's flat.

2010-07-07T22:32:00.004+10:00

Following on the back of the last post I had the good fortune to receive some shots in the mail from local surf camera wiz Steve Ryan.

Occasionally he points his lens my way, which is generous given the surplus of talent flying by. Judicious editing allows me a couple of shots that show some form, shots that disguise my shortcomings in technique, style, flexibility and physique. I'd say age is a terrible thing but truth be known I looked much the same, albeit a bit skinnier, 30 years ago.

Tempus fugit, as they say.

If you are a regular in the area and Steve is to be seen with his big white lens pointed your way, say hello. You may have a wall hanger waiting.

Tomorrow off to Queensland for a couple of days to see my dear old Dad.

Can't wait.

2010-07-04T13:56:00.002+10:00

Have you ever noticed how flat take offs are harder than steep one's?

The way the drop away of the board on a steeper wave assists a quick pop up, whereas those flat one's can have you ending up tripping over your front foot, leaving you feeling like a big goose.

I ask in the hope that someone else does it other than me as it happened four or five times in vaguely crossed up four foot Bells that with persistence turned into a pretty decent session, though it took a good two hours for me to get into gear. A few fun waves were had, with a very occasional set venturing in with a little more size, oddly with some punch too but it still felt like a small wave session.

All a bit of a conundrum really.

A cracker last skitter after 3 1/2 hours had me practically stepping on the sand over Winki way so I called it quits... well my arms did really, though I was pretty done with it in the end, looking forward to a snooze on the beanbag when I got home.

Love that snooze.

Shots: Winki looking busy, and a lucky turnip on a very nice looking wave for grey day at Bells, though I'm not sure what he's looking at.

2010-06-30T20:26:00.004+10:00

As I've been away from my computer for a few days on a job, blog land has gone begging, not that any one would be begging for another post from me.

Last weekend I actually got in the water after crying wolf over a busted eardrum. A visit to the Doc and a phone consult with a specialist who happened to be surfing at a nearby break the day of my mishap meant an understanding ear was lent to my slightly injured one.

They're (surfers) all mad, he said. Give it a couple of weeks, stick an ear plug in, a hood on, and Bob's your aunty.. Never having had an Aunty Bob makes me wonder a little but since I did have an Aunty Ben, (Brenda) I took the advice in good faith and hit the waves for a fun splash on Sunday. Very enjoyable, uncrowded slop at Winki. Just nice to get wet.

The rest of the week has been spent kid wrangling on matters unmentionable on the internet. If you know me, ask me.

So pic, said Winki, wonki but running surprisingly true.

2010-06-22T18:04:00.002+10:00

A weekend with a bung ear was well timed as I headed north again to visit my Dear Old Dad.

He's not well, though his spirits soar, and they were given an added lift as I carted number two son up there to keep us company as we scoffed the odd glass of red, told tall tales and kept each other company. Tom joined in the fun, and also scouted the house for adventurous possibilities.

He managed to climb most outside surfaces, jump off some, hang off others, snoop about and find ways to keep himself amused, what with no decent chance of skating or other illegal activities.

A visit to my brother's city abode was a horror show for the security conscious as Tom decided to scale the outside of the building... just to see. 30 feet to the concrete below on his way to a third floor balcony proved no barrier. Strange boy.

Pics.. Tom on the outside of a lower balcony, and a spider I nearly face planted outside Dad's house... it's about a third of a hand length across the legs, so a little one by Brisbane standards. They call it a Golden Orb as its web is... golden, as you can see.

Hopefully, next week I'm back in the water.

2010-06-15T12:45:00.004+10:00

Well what a mixed bag few days.

A meeting on the coast allowed me a short surf in messy conditions at Winki on Friday. With a storm front messing up proceedings, I strangely saw little to complain about as it gave me an excuse to go in. I was on an embarrassing streak, with the spasmo nerve around my neck, not feeling like a foot could go right.

Saturday I'm told was epic but as I had parental duties I was out of the picture. I'd had to go up country to pick up the missing 15 year old, the devil incarnate, my little Tommy. Glad to have him back though he immediately swelled to twice the size once home, more than compensating for the hole he'd left.

He'd managed to stay out of trouble while away, sort of, though he did score some "strikes" for being found up the top of a light pole, and a couple of days later, 5 metres up the side of the local bluestone church.

Why Tom?

"I'm a kid. I climb!"

What can I say?

Sunday, an afternoon run and fun onshore Bells, pretty uncrowded and having a great time trying out an old board of mine that I'd added an extra set of fins to. Now a quad, the Maurice protow was very different, and at first felt too loose, too...weird. I got the drift though and by the end of the session was really enjoying it, very, very fast, firm/loose, carvy, cracking cutbacks and I would like to have taken it for more of a blast.

Alas, an outside edge in the chop and I surfaced with a busted eardrum.

Hurt like billy-oh and the ringing in my ears was a bit like Tubular Bells (hahahahahahha). Not.

Sore and sorry for myself yesterday, ear hurting, head still ringing.

Out for a few weeks.

PIC: Tommy at the end of his camp, and Bells, grey, sloppy, but fun.

2010-06-07T15:55:00.004+10:00

Fireworks this morning for some godforsaken reason, the 18 year old lighting the blue touch paper and stepping back as he shut the door behind him on the way to school. Sue and I getting very hot under the collar over study patterns and sleep or lack thereof. God you wonder what to do trying to manage cauldrons of hormones and doors being slammed off their hinges.

A less than impressive beginning to a week ended by a fine weekend, good waves on Saturday morning, followed by a fun Sunday visiting the littler fella at the nearly ended camp he's been on. Impressed with speeches, circus skills and musical performances, I thought we'd manage to get the week away with smiley faces but alas, 'twas not to be.

Compounding that I have the guilts as I've begun cold calling to build the client base and would rather pull teeth, so I'm blogging between pressing buttons.

Pics: An early surf check, the lineup at Bells and the weather that threatened all day yesterday.

It must have been a harbinger of mornings to come.

2010-06-04T14:37:00.001+10:00

I had cause to nip down the coast yesterday, a 'board meeting' you might say. A quick surf was had, guilt limiting the time in the water as I was there to pick up some boards and head back to get some work done.

The boards in question are a perfect and very beautiful set of replicas Maurice Cole needs some studio shots of. As I have 'connections' in that area I've put my hand up, and departed for Melbourne much later than I'd intended, MC given to talking way too much for way too long.

Replicas of what, you ask?

Well since it's early days we can't say much but a hint to those who know their history... one of the boards has yellow rails.

The pic, a lazy, hazy grey Bells yesterday morning, more of that slack autumn wind, flopping from on to offshore and back, the sun playing hide and seek, with hide winning. Rain bands threatened or drizzled all day. I like weather like that.

2010-05-31T11:09:00.004+10:00

Autumnal best describes the Saturday run, and the weekend in general.

In windblown Victoria it is the season when, most often, the chance for sheet glass presents itself, the chance for one of those days when horizon and ocean blend, when an approaching swell line rises with little contrast from the sea, creating squads of squinting surfers gazing into the outness wondering if this is another set coming.

For the first hour or so on Saturday squinters were everywhere, the waves well shaped but miserly in frequency. This led to a fairly predatory pack where I chose to sit, though it mellowed and I did manage, here and there, to get a fast high line going, occasionally frustrated by its loss as I was forced to go around the odd guy trying to dodge a set.

Rich, wisely, chose the left off my right, and I think got the better of it as a cross wind later blew into mine, but left his left unruffled and groomed. The lucky toe rag later claimed a best-for-a-long-time session.

Sunday, quiet and a chance to rake leaves as the winds went into the foul south, overcast, the odd bit of rain and a late afternoon nodding off in front of the tv watching a documentary on the life of Walt Whitman.

The pics, Washed Out at Woollie x 2, and the Front Step at Home, just before sweeping.

2010-05-28T15:42:00.003+10:00

A couple of posts back I reflected on being 'the old guy', the ragged wretch sitting out the back waiting for a bomb, a wide one, a lucky scrap. This was not always the case, though at every age after about thirty, I saw myself as an 'older surfer'. In my early twenties the oldest surfer I knew was about 36, and the thought that beyond that was a surfing life held no immediate proofs. There were virtually no over forties in the lineup.

By the time I got over thirty though, I'd begun to notice that I kept setting deadlines for myself -

"Darling we've got to get to Hawaii again before I get too old" (33)

"I need to get back to Hawaii again before I get too old" (36)

"Darling; I'd really like to do a boat trip with the boy's for my 50th" (49)

"Darling, Tony's scored a killer price for a trip to the Banyaks! At 54 I've got go before the body gives out..."

And so on.

As you can see we must all ask permission, from long suffering partners, our kids, our guilty consciences, ourselves. It must be the way as the idea of something that is just for fun, and as intensely personal as a surf holiday, needs approval. Since our lives are rarely solitary, and involve responsibilities, the clarity that comes with a clear conscience means a guilt free head as you jump off the boat.

I'm searching for an excuse to make an over 56 trip, but the cupboard is bare, though come the time when coffers fill I have no doubt I'll rustle up a reason.

But back to the start, the old guy thing. Where I was going before being utterly distracted by a daydream. The old 'use it or lose it' principle.

I have managed, all my surfing life, to fill in the non surfing days with some activity. Running, swimming, gym, rowing, bike, bag, climbing wall. Cross training, I suppose, to fill the space a wave might have so that come the hour it is not a start from scratch situation. Not being blessed with the lithe frame of a Mr Slater, I am closer to Tom Carroll without the six pack, (not a sign, not a hope), a bigger bum and thicker legs. No chance of grace or a body shape made for a camera, nevertheless it has proved durable and has kept me able to ride a board length circling six feet for a long time now.

The struggle to scratch down a face in double overhead never gets easier, I wonder when the board length must go up, but those moments when it all comes together, the flow state kicks in and a magic at-one-with-the-wave moment comes, well, those seconds make the frustrations worth it.

My immediate surfing buddies, Richie, Marky and Rod, and Richie T, they all know those moments are becoming more and more scarce, but I know too, when it does come I might as well be twenty again.

Where am I going with this?

Muscle memory and experience, the ingrained technique of all your years on a board, stay into old age. Watching Nat Young surf Angourie, the young ripper still lurks, the injuries occasionally disappear in a Surfer Cover cutback, or a lip caress out of Morning of the Earth.

Wayne Lynch, not far off 60, can still bury himself in a barrel, yoga keeping him Evolution loose.

This past few weeks Maurice Cole was consistently the best guy out at perfect Bells.

And in thirty years time Kelly will be the hottest 68 year old on the planet. I bet he will still be able to air and on his best days then, he will not be 'just a shadow' of his former self.

Age wearies us, but old age can be kept at bay far longer than people think.

Just now I'm pining for 9'6" gun so that my bigger wave ambitions don't die forever. This spurred on by schoolmate Hellman Russ McConachy's recent 60th birthday month being punctuated by several sessions in easily 15 foot Voldemort* (*the break that must not be named) to add to the 300 plus sessions he's had out there over the past thirty years. Hard man to kill, that bloke.

For now, my only wish is that just after I got lumbered with the 'old guy' thing... I wish I'd scored a belter and proved there was life in this particular dog. As it happened, I didn't. Thank god for Maurice as he, at just two weeks younger than me, came home with the bacon and absolutely blitzed the next... and the next... and the next.

The pic, from last year, Cold Mr Lumpy, bum hidden by judicious cropping, stomach sucked in.