Cave Rock.

Happy New Year people and thank you so much for your support and kind words. It's such a human trait to fear and it takes not only personal courage but encouragement from friends, relatives and peers to overcome it. Look after yourselves and look after each other. See ya next year!!

It was New Year’s day 2004 and it was the first morning since we’d been staying at Rudy’s place that I had to wake him up rather than him disturbing my dreams. The bloke is a certified Grom for life. Dawn every morning he’d rattle the tent “Gaz, wake up Bru, it’s looking lekker”. Rudy and his family run a backpackers hostel on Ansteys beach and I was camped in the garden. I had to find him, it was looking slightly more than lekker to me and Cave rock was firing. For the previous week he’d mentored me on the shifty peaks right out front but today it had lined up and was shutting down in one pre-dawn slow motion closeout. 

We walked South down the seafront, Rudy frothing not only on the waves but also the fact that today was traditionally the day everyone, and I mean everyone, comes to the beach with all their extended family, and barbecue all day long. I was finding it hard to concentrate on what he was saying. The butterflies in my stomach were trying to smash their way out and the voices in my head were asking me too many questions to keep up with. Of course everyone there knew Rudy and everyone there was asking him questions. If you mention Cave Rock to a Saffa they’ll name Rudy as the man. I felt privileged, fucking shit scared, but privileged. 

Eventually we jump in the channel, there were definitely more watchers than takers but a few others were strapping leggies on as the sun started to peak over the horizon out to sea. I don’t even remember having to duck dive but in no time we were on the spot and Rudy, before I’d even had a chance to sit up on my board, was calling me into the rising darkness looming in front of us. My head said “you’re not ready” my heart said “boom boom” in rapidly increasing frequency and Rudy was saying, loudly, “go man, go”. I had no choice.

I made the drop, I made the turn and I got my line. I had every intention of gunning it for the shoulder and getting out as quick as possible but the wave had other ideas. It threw, massively, and without warning. The shoulder got further away and the wall I was dragging my hand along suddenly illuminated bright green, the lip that was behind my left shoulder was now in front of it and the view of the beach was framed in an oval. Then someone turned a power shower on behind me and as it hit my bare back and engulfed me I heard hoots. 

Then it was sunny. 

I kicked over the back and as I did so my knees turned to jelly, I didn’t so much drop back down on to my board as collapse. The hooter’s mouths were moving but I couldn’t hear them, my arms were paddling but I couldn’t feel them. Rudy was laughing and I couldn’t even speak. Never before had I felt the spit on my back. Never before had I been that deep (with my eyes open!). I stayed out but I don’t remember getting anymore waves, I don’t think my legs would have supported me.  When I got to the beach it was like a scene from Milius’s masterpiece. Smoke shrouded the whole seafront and breathing was a struggle. My eyes were watering. The barbecues were being lit. The rest of the day? No idea. 

Sometimes when I fall asleep, I twitch and I’m there. 

The first of June.

Sorry folks, it's been a while! Time to lively up myself I think but not too quickly; so I'll start with a piece that was commissioned by White Horses for their 'Winterfell' issue (#6). The charge was for all the regular contributors to write/paint/photograph something all on the same day (June 1st) and the mag was put together in a time line of that day. It worked out great I reckon but you should buy it and see for yourself!

Any way like I said, I'm not gonna get too cheery on ya first up following my last post (I briefly thought of removing it, but it was/is a reflection of my thoughts right at that moment and I can tell you they've been through a whole plethora of ups and downs since, and if I'm honest they've almost come back to right where that post was). 

Come on Gazza get on with it......


The Editor somewhat (I feel) disengenously titled this 'Whinging Pom' and this was before the cricket! But he sends the cheque so I ain't gonna argue too much.  

Jeez, what a bloody miserable morning. It reminds me of the UK. Cold, damp and slightly on-shore. It’s drizzling and although there’s swell, it’s all over the place. The messy waves I can cope with but the cold… I didn’t move to Australia to stand shivering on a beach watching the sun make a feeble attempt at penetrating clouds in an effort to convince me it’s trying to make a dawn. If you want to draw positives from the scene you could say it looked Turner-esq but that would just remind me of my old home again. 

Pete’s there, as is Graham. They both live close by, Graham close enough to cycle. He used to drive but since his hernia op he now sticks his board on his pushie and gets a bit of exercise. It has to be pretty inhospitable outside for Graham not to be checking it in the morning. He’s only got one board and I reckon he’s had it a fair while. It’s not white anymore. He tends not to push himself too much when it gets bigger and is happy to sit and watch but up to 3’ he’ll be getting as many waves as anyone.

Pete points out that it’s the first day of winter. Fuck, it was only just Christmas wasn’t it? June 1^st, 16 days until my birthday, always a summer occasion, but not now I’m upside down. Pete’s what girls would call sweet. He’s no spring chicken but there aren’t too many young’uns that surf here unless the Old’s bring ‘em. You have to have a ride. I like Pete, he’s mild mannered, doesn’t curse and he always asks questions, not just out of politeness either. He’s off to Bali for the first time in September. I hope he likes it but let’s face it, Bali in September can be hard work. He worries a bit too. When it’s big he always tells you to be careful when you paddle out.  

The kneelo fella and his son are next to turn up for a squizz. Funny buggers, kneelos that is. I reckon there are two types of kneelos; the eccentric loners that appear almost embarrassed by their choice of slide. They shuffle down the beach wearing a brand of wetsuit you’ve never heard of and occasionally some sort of random head gear then walk backwards into the surf like they’re retreating from the real world. The other is this fella, he’s proud, he doesn’t wear fins and he paddles around people to get waves. His son is late teens and in love with Craig Anderson. I know this ‘cos he tries his bloody hardest to look like the bendy boy from Newcastle in and out of the water. He even kicks off his waves and does stupid little pirouettes and shit. I feel bad now, it’s my own prejudices. They always say hello. 

My pocket’s buzzing; it’s one of two people at this time in the morning. Brian O’Brian or Sensei. There’s a few Brian’s and this one’s Irish, his real name’s Foster, but that’s too boring. Anyway it’s not him it’s the other… Sensei. Wayne got me into Yoga, he’s got an air-con business and when he needs some lifting and shifting I help him out. He’s trying his hardest to teach me refrigeration, so Sensei he is. He tips the balance of whether I should paddle out or not. A cold room door at the Uni needs replacing he can only access it on a weekend and he could do with a hand, should only be a couple of hours he reckons. 

He was right. Two hours pocket money for me. In the mean time I’ve missed a call from the other one. He’s excited when I call him back, the winds swung more South and it’s cleaning up. Poor old Sensei has to go and do a quote in the hinterlands so I head to Maroochydore to meet Brian alone. It’s 3’ on the sets and the winds across and off. To me, it rarely looks inviting in the bay. I guess it’s a combination of things; I never go there when it’s really good ‘cos the less crowded beaches will be better, so, I only ever see it when the winds got too much south for elsewhere.  A river mouth at both ends of the beach means the water is rarely clear, plus being a town there’s always a few out too. But you know what? I always have a good surf there, and despite the crowd, the sky, the colour and the date, today is no exception. Cheers for the call Brian.

Footnote. The next day was the polar opposite! Stunning sunrise, a whiff of a West grooming head high peaks up and down the whole coast. I surfed with Brian and two other guys for 3 1/2hrs in the morning then went back to the same spot in the arvi for another 2hrs on my own before dark. I got home sunburnt and had tap nose, in bed by nine I was twitching as I fell asleep.

.

Paul

I’m angry.

I’m incredibly sad for him and can’t even begin to imagine the mental turmoil that would lead you to choose death, but I’m mad too. I’m mad because of what he’s left behind. I’m mad because he was so fucking proud. Too fucking proud. I’m mad because I can’t talk to him, because he was supposed to come and visit me, because we were gonna go for a surf. 

I’m struggling to look at the photo’s that friends are posting of him, he didn’t ‘live his life to the fullest’ he killed himself. It’s all very well remembering the good times but it’s fucking hard to look past all the times that were completely shit for him. So shit… 

Fucking hell Paul.

http://www.lifeline.org.au/Get-Help/Facts---Information/Preventing-Suicide/Preventing-Suicide

Anger management

I can’t say I’ve ever been an angry surfer. I just can’t seem to find it in me to unload in the line up or persecute people whether they deserve it or not. That’s not to say I’ve never been angry while I’ve been surfing but I just don’t do the water slapping, board punching thing. Everyone knows one though. There’s always that guy with the scowl on his face that growls and mutters and curses as he stuffs another take off and howls accusations of drop ins at the guy 20 yards past the section he was never getting around.  I ain’t he, and to be honest it would take something pretty monumental to rile me in the water which is why I was so surprised at myself when I very nearly lost it.

It wasn’t big, it wasn’t even crowded. It was clean 2’ and sunny and the little bank in the right of the bay had groomed itself into a perfect ruler edged 60 yard long sand sculpture at just the right angle to the dominant swell. Every third wave would hold up and peel at just the right speed to fly along it; And every other surfer in the water was at the other end of the bay chasing shifty peaks. Me and that little bar had a perfect synchronicity going on; I didn’t even have to sit on my board, just one arm paddle back out in time to meet that third wave again and again, spin and go. Not too many turns, it was a bit quick, but lovely speed blurs and a warm fuzzy feeling, until two blokes on long boards started paddling towards me.

You can tell a novice before they’ve even caught a wave. That legs apart, chin on the deck paddle gives it away instantly, which went some way to allaying my fears of a premature end to my selfish wave hoggery. In fact what happened was, instead of paddling up and joining me where I could potentially paddle rings around them and still get the pick, they sat halfway down the bar. And they started paddling for anything. Whether I was on it or not. They never actually caught anything, they just paddled, a lot.  They were a father and son combo and they had unwittingly changed the whole cadence of my slide.Not being an angry surfer, I took all this in my stride. Occasionally I could go around the small section they’d pushed over and sometimes I could get around behind them. As I said they weren’t actually catching any.

 Until on the set of the day, at least a foot bigger than anything else that had come through that afternoon, with me absolutely fanging it down the line fins humming. The old fella starts paddling, and, yep he got it. To be fair, it got him. So I’m bearing down on him at Mach 6 and here he is hanging onto his rails bouncing down the face with that wide eyed open mouthed look of terror/excitement on his face and the string of expletives are bubbling up my throat on a tide of boiling rage, I’ve turned hard so as not to spear him and am now riding parallel with him straight at the beach fiery eyes burning down on him ready to explode…

He took one hand off his rail, reached across and grabbed the ankle of my front foot, he looked up at me and across his face was the biggest Cheshire cat smile I have ever seen. Without that grin diminishing one little bit he let out a huge ‘whoooooohoooooo’ and I swear to God I nearly died laughing. 

Patience is a virtue!

The Ed.

If you had a different point of view at your place of work from that of your private life I’m guessing you wouldn’t want your employers knowing that. If your views were consistent, wouldn’t you hope your employer at least shared similar views? Would you be worried about your employers reading your views?

I would like to think that an employer would encourage employees to have views and express them. At least that way they would quickly find out who held potentially morally objectionable opinions and could either educate them or get rid of them.

What if you were the editor of a magazine read by hundreds and you wanted your views kept separate from any association with that mag? Is that possible? Secretly perhaps, under a pseudonym maybe? What if everyone knew who you were anyway, why would try to distance yourself from that magazine while at the same time spruiking it? 

Presumably as an editor you’d be responsible for the content of that magazine; your name is in the liner notes along with your e-mail address. Your mag also promotes itself on social networks. Social networks don’t conform to hours of work, they’re open nonstop for business, and users know you are that editor. Is it unreasonable to assume they will associate you with the content of that mag and also assume that your views are represented by the content of that mag?

I know not the first thing about editing a magazine but I’m pretty sure I’d be proud of the fact that I had achieved that position. I’d like to think I’d be proud of the content of my mag and that my personality and points of view were reflected in that magazine and that hopefully people liked those and bought it; and surely if people bought it your employer would be happy? I’d put my name to it and encourage everyone to buy it, and those that didn’t like it I would listen to, I’d try to be polite and I’d try not to belittle anyone (ever). I’m sure I’d get frustrated but I’d like to think I’d take a deep breath and let my mag speak for me.

Unless of course my hands were tied behind my back by advertisers.

Old woman Island (Mudjimba)