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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
