The Weasel.

WSL 

The Swiss federal institute for Forest, Snow and Landscape research (Wald, Schnee und Landschaft). My Swiss is limited but I’m hazarding a guess that the W is pronounced as a Vee as in Vald ergo VSL. So much better than doubleU. VSL, three syllables. WSL, a mouth full of marbles.  

VSL

The Very Surf League, The Very Secret League, The VERITABLE Surf League! Shit yeah I’ll give ‘em that for free!

The Alpine institute was one of the first search results from Google. The World Surf League was top. I don’t know if this is down to cookies on my computer or a true result. Whatever. 

I have a beef with them. They unfollowed me on Twitter. Bastards, I mean someone who manages their account actually found me and unfollowed me. They’ve got a blue tick for fucks sake! How many people with a blue tick follow you eh!?  (I still have a few but I reckon Rupert Murdoch paid for Fred Pawle’s and why hasn’t Matt Warshaw got one!?). Their lack of communication with their fanbase has been dealt with far more eruditely than I could hope to both here at Vish's site and here at The Outsider , but what is interesting is who they do talk to. 

After tweeting this 

And hearing nothing @kerrypow tweeted this.. 

Not two minutes later she got a reply by DM nonetheless, I asked her what it said..

Certain fans obviously. I guess they haven’t learnt to accept criticism yet.  Wankers. And this is why I struggle to be sympathetic when the first tour event of the year gets shit waves (sandwiched by exceptional waves, haha wankers (did I say that already?)). Instead of talking to a fawning fan base throwing platitudes and congenial commiserations at them, why didn’t they answer the pertinent  questions being asked by a fan base WITH SOME FUCKING PASSION! Oh wait… Passion, yeah, less of that please eh Mr Mel. Is it any wonder Strider has a job? The ‘Yawn Patrol Live’ (shown an hour and forty five minutes after the sun came up) could have explained why they chose not to run at Duranbah and put to rest the intrigue surrounding sponsors Dollars and politics. They could have talked to tour surfers about where they had been surfing and even got them to commentate on clips (they all have filmers) and explain to ‘fans’ the whys and wherefores of surfing elsewhere. They could have asked the Pro’s to legitimise them. 

They got Gabby instead.

And Freddy.

Wankers.

At the risk of flogging a dead horse... Change the format already! It’s blatantly obvious they don’t care about people who care about surfing. They care about money, and people who care about surfing don’t think about money, they think about surfing, but wait! What if the people who care about surfing inadvertently hit on a money making scheme by suggesting  that showing more surfing, in the best waves, with the best surfers might be better to watch! Nah. Fuck ‘em.  

C’mon. It’s boring as bat shit, even for a die-hard surf tragic, it’s a struggle to watch a whole comp and need I point out that they don’t care much for die-hard surf tragics. My guess is they’d like to tap into the ‘extreme’ market. Short attention span, quick snippets of high octane action with sponsors messages in between (not over the top of!). Imagine.. The best free surfer in the world and self-proclaimed dissenter of all things competition under pressure from his sponsor to blow up in a heat against one of the most competitive machines and 2 times world champ! Who wouldn’t  wanna see that.

A full thirty minutes that you will never ever get back. Five and a half waves ridden. 

But they didn’t have good waves you say? Tough. Change the whole fucking caboodle. The week before the event was pumping, the week after the event has been pumping. But they can’t have an open ended waiting period you say? Yes they can. Forecasting is so good these days that Pro surfers start talking to their management about trips weeks out. Carting cameras and filmers and boards around the world isn’t cheap and these days you don’t hear of too many trips chasing waves that got skunked.

But you can’t just rock up and take over a spot for four days you say? No you can’t. Halve the tour. Do away with the man on man no loser round (four man heats in round two, twenty mins with priority ten without, dog eat dog) Round one two man heats but overlapping ala Pipe. Get the whole thing done in a day (or two halves). The venue would easily get a ten day ahead ‘maybe’ then a week ahead ‘definite’, more than enough time to arrange moderate infrastructure. Best surfers, best waves. No seeding for rounds one and two but highest heat totals form seeds for next rounds.  One local wild card chosen online by the fans.  

It’s a sketch, better minds can come up with other scenarios but they won’t listen because they hate dissenters. Perhaps we can get Kerry to be our spokesperson, what’dya reckon Kerry? Would you be happy talking to them on behalf of all the bloggers and bottom-feeding journalists? 

I secretly hope Bells is flat.

I secretly hope the WSL goes tits up and a serious business grabs it and wrestles something worth watching out of it. And I will moan about it because it will be on satellite and I will have to pay ;)

BREAKING: This just in….

WEASEL!! Two syllables and an animal to boot.

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. 

Assad's army

Just realised this has never appeared on the blog. Published in two magazines and and The Inertia online but never on here. So here ya go..

It wasn't a surf trip. I knew this before we set off, but it was going to be about 25,000km and nearly a year before I was going to catch up with my boards that I'd left at a mates in Singapore, so I snuck one in. Of course I did, it might not have been a surf trip but we were going through eighteen countries to get from England to Australia and there was room in the car. I wasn't expecting my first fix of saltwater to be such a drama though.

Ten countries ticked off and I was already hanging for a surf. We'd just got to Syria after being kicked back by Iran and having to resort to plan B, actually, having to invent plan B. We were fraught and a bit fed up. A fix of sea air and all the associated positive ions was needed. They do have beaches in Syria; they have a massive 60km of coastline that sits on the Med. So we set off from Aleppo for what we thought would be an afternoon’s drive to the beach. The motorway and its associated Deathrace2000 style driving got us to the foot of the Mountains that parallel the coast with unexpected haste, but by the time we traversed the winding roads we realised we were pushing it to get there before dark. We should've stopped. It's always our rule not to drive at night in a foreign country. It was pitch black when we got there.

Trying to find a free-camp to pop up a roof tent is a challenge in the daytime but at night it makes it all that much harder. All we needed was access onto a beach, we had four wheel drive. After much fruitless searching we at last spotted a track heading down between the trees in the direction of the beach. It was looking like a winner. But after 500m we come across a chain across it. It's really not worth risking it so I slid the shift into reverse. This is where it all went tits up.

Occasionally there are things that you see with your eyes that sometimes your brain needs a moment to process. Some of them take your breath away for all the right reasons, like seeing the Taj Mahal or Carroll's snap at Pipe in '91, but a teenager in combats with cammo paint on his face and the biggest machine gun he could possibly carry running at the car with the barrel pointing straight at us shouting in Arabic at the top of his voice, was not one I want to happen again. His teeth were the brightest thing about him being massively illuminated by our two huge spotlights. His aim was firmly at my wife sat in the passengers seat. Of course it was, we were in a Right hand drive Landcruiser  in a  Left hand drive country. He thought she was behind the wheel. He didn't even know she was a she. He couldn't see fuck all 'cos I was blinding him.

My brain was catching up now and I killed the lights and grabbed a torch which I frantically played between my wife and I, the boy soldier hadn't stopped screaming, more of them started appearing from the bushes all running, all carrying guns, and all apparently in their teens. One of them was obviously slightly more in charge than the rest and came to the passenger window. I tried to point out that I was driving but they seemed happy hanging out near the blonde blue eyed side. The original mini militia had calmed down a bit and I tried at this point to say sorry and put the car in reverse. Bad move. Twelve people screaming and pointing guns at us. I turned the engine off.

Whether or not Red Bull or the Bolivian government sponsor the Syrian army is hard to call but that they had been partaking in one or the other in huge quantities was a given. They were fucking wired, off their collective tit's, not only on whatever they took to stay awake but also the adrenalin coursing through them, delivered courtesy of two potential spies in their LandCruiser trying to backdoor their army barracks. An hour later and their officer turns up. He's twenty max and he's sweating, has palpitations and eyes bigger than the supermoon. He agrees to look at our photos and seems to understand that we're something he's probably never encountered before.. tourists. Another hour of idle banter is a challenge with neither of us speaking each other’s language but it doesn't deter him.

Eventually at about one o'clock in the morning we waved good bye to the underage commandos and followed a rough sketch that the space Captain had drawn us. It took us to a rocky beach that we could drive onto and park up with the sound of a contented sea slapping at the rocks to lull us to sleep. But hang on what's this, who are these two blokes that have come out of the dark and are heading towards us. I'm not even friggin kidding. Plain clothed police. I asked them for I.D., they showed me their guns. I believed them. It was obvious sleep was still some way off. A protracted conversation and many mobile phone calls later and they eventually conceded we were not providing laser targeting or photographing anything. As dawn arrived they left and we slept, on the beach with permission from the police. My wife cried uncontrollably with shock and relief. I can't even think of the horrors she'd imagined might happen.

The sunrise soon convinced us it was time to move on and we packed up and drove down the coast. Almost every kilometre along the whole 60km's was a military installation of some kind. Rocket launchers permanently manned were about every 3km. Not the nicest stretch of coast I've ever driven down if I'm honest, but.. There was without a doubt a bit of wind swell. Around the next bend a small bay opened out, a few families BBQ-ing in their chadors and burkhars and me dusting off my board and jumping in to hit a little wedge in the middle of the bay. It was tiny, it was gutless, it was onshore but by fucking Christ it was surfing. Strange looks aside I had a blast and hoped I'd surfed away enough of the last 24hrs for both of us.

Journey

 Below is the first piece of writing I got paid for. It was published in White Horses magazine. If you like this I can guarantee you won't be dissapointed with the mag, it's a blinder.

I’m struggling a bit with the word ‘journey’. It’s one of those words that seems to have been slightly hijacked. You know, like ‘surfing’ the internet. It would seem to have turned into more of a spiritual thing; ‘One man’s journey from rags to riches’ or ‘a child’s journey of discovery’, you see what I mean? Its original definition is ‘The act of traveling from one place to another’ but it has another now ‘A process or course likened to traveling’.  I reckon if you looked hard enough you could probably find a Buddhist or Hindu word that matches the new definition or why not even make one up? 

I’m ruminating (see what I did there) over this because my wife and I have recently completed a journey. It was an act of traveling from one place to another; we left the South West of England and arrived 2 years later on the Sunshine Coast in Australia. We did it, as much as possible, by car. The thing is that we also experienced a process or course that could be likened to travelling. A bloody journey. 

It began late summer in a Thai restaurant in Taunton, England shortly after we had been granted permanent resident visas for Australia. Our house was sold and we were winding up our businesses, we had had nothing concrete planned for our arrival in Australia but knew from previous visits that we fancied the Sunny coast. I’d heard on the news that day a story about a company in London selling tickets for a bus to Sydney. It was to take three months and would carry nineteen passengers. I told Kym about it and the discussion that followed resulted in two definites: We couldn’t travel with the same nineteen people for three months and why don’t we just do it ourselves. 

We journeyed through eighteen countries; we drove on the lowest road on Earth and the highest. We drove through deserts, crossed plateaus, breached mountain ranges and sweated in jungles while howler monkeys laughed at us. We crossed the equator, climbed volcanoes, followed in the footsteps of Richard the Lion Heart and his Knights of the Crusade.  We explored Nabatean temples in Syria and whistled the theme to Raiders of the lost Ark as we walked into Petra.  We sat on Lawrence of Arabia’s bar stool while drinking a cold beer in his favourite hotel. Agatha Christie wrote ‘murder on the Orient express’ in the same hotel (she was a surfer, true story).

We fought bureaucracy in India for days on end; we raised our hands above our head after driving into a military exercise in Syria... at night. A wheel fell off in Java; a lorry hit us in India. We had flat batteries in Mumbai and got a jump off a Tuk Tuk. We only had two punctures. We helped repair the outboard on the only ferry that could get our car across a river in Aceh. We span out from altitude sickness at five thousand metres in the Himalayas. We trashed some banana trees getting stuck in the mud trying to find a wave. We never once paid bribes to further our cause, seriously, not once. We got robbed by the mechanics in a Toyota garage in Hyderabad though. Really robbed, not just normal mechanic robbed. Jeans, sunglasses an umbrella and a hatchet. 

We called in to see a friend in the Alps and went snowboarding. We visited my Mum on her small Greek island. We spent three weeks travelling with a French family through the Middle East. Mum, Dad and three kids in a Landrover with two roof tents on top. We popped in to Singapore to pick up a couple of boards from a friend where I’d left them on the way back from Indo sometime. Shared beers in a Muslim enclave with two Dutch cyclists who were following the old Silk Road. Rescued a lovesick French boy from the frustration and tedium of the Iranian consulate in Turkey and took him on a two day holiday. 

We stayed at Lena’s house in Southern Sumatra and she took us to see the elephant rescue centre. We rented a house on Bali and all our European friends came and visited. Adi and Linda refused to let us pay for food at their sarong shop on Lombok after we’d promised that we’d be back two years before. The diminutive security guard at the abandoned resort on Sumbawa let us stay there and use the showers and toilet. An Italian girl, newly arrived on Bali was having an issue with a taxi driver, we helped her out. She worked for the UN and was currently based in Timor Leste, of course we could stay!  

I surfed. I surfed in Syria. Syria has sixty four point eight kilometres of coastline. India has a lot more and I surfed there as well. I surfed from Banda Aceh to Dili mostly alone, occasionally throwing sticks in to see how strong the sweep was or paddling from the middle of the bay out to the point to give myself a better feel for the setup. I got scared often, usually paddling across deep blue water but also by water so clear the bottom looked inches away.  Sometimes just the isolation scared me.  I surfed rivermouths, beaches, points and reefs. I can’t tell you all their names, not because I don’t want to, well there is that too, but because I have no idea if most of them had a name. They are all little crosses on a map.

Occasionally waves led to altercations. One time it was because Kym doesn’t surf. That’s not what the argument was about, that was the cause. Through the binoculars I’d spotted a long left point. The closest I could get the car was about a kilometre away; I pulled up grabbed my board and went to lock the doors. But hang on; a bag had to be prepared… water, sunscreen, something to sit on, a towel, a book, maybe a snack. I lost it. But there was little to be gained from arguing so in general we didn’t. For the most part we only had each other, and when you’re spending large chunks of time in areas where no one else speaks your language it helps if the only person that does is still speaking to you.

 It wasn’t a chore. We have always been strong, we have shared joy, which is great, and we have shared tragedy, which while certainly not great is definitely a more powerful lesson. We came through it. We’d also had practice, a year backpacking on a round-the-world ticket five years earlier highlighted how much we relied on each other. Neither one of us could have done this alone, we have become a team, a loving, living team each completely mindful of the other.  

You learn so many things. Important things like: mechanics, languages, map reading, trust (instincts), rationing, names of medicines and what they do. And also not so essential but equally as rewarding things, like: geography, history, architecture, beauty, tolerance, frugality and sustainability, recycling and repairing! We had culture shocks along the way, no more so than in India but probably the most thought provoking happened on our first day in Australia. We’d separated in a supermarket to shop quicker and when Kym still hadn’t arrived at the checkout ten minutes later I went looking for her. I found her stood in front of a six metre long display of nothing but milk sobbing her heart out.  She had no idea which one to choose.  

The journey came to an end at our little slice of paradise here on the Sunny Coast. A small Queenslander in a beautiful paddock surrounded by rainforest.  The journey continues unabated. 

Here's a whole buch of photos from along the way in no particular order. You can supersize them if you click on 'em. 

2008 Country life UK style with mates dog Ruby.

The inside of the citadel in Aleppo, Syria. So glad we got to see it before the current situation there.

NE Turkey in the Georgian valleys

Crac De Chevalier probably the most famous of the Crusader castles and largely rebuilt by Richard The Lionhart. Syria

Kurdish kids SE Turkey

Palmyra, established 2000 years before the Romans arrived! Syria

Lawrence of Arabia country. Wadi Rhum, Jordan

Helping a brother out (wd40)

He didn't have enough camels for Kym or the car so I sent him packing.

Jordanians are nice

Indians are inquisitive

Taj Mahal

Cobbler

Jaipur

Add caption

Venezia, beautiful.

Main roads Himalayan style.

Look at this and try not to smile. Ladahk, Himalyas

Add caption

NE Sumatra Infrastructure still being replaced post tsunami so entrepaneurs make their own ferrys

Himal Pradesh, Northern India

School uniform Sumatra

Batak houses, Lake Toba, Sumatra

Java

Goreme, Kappadoccia, Turkey

Istanbul

Turkish attitude

WA

Balinese holy man

No idea why they call this place Red Bluff WA

Mitchell falls. Alot more massive than this photo suggests. Kimberly WA

Gibb River road car wash. NT-WA

Dubrovnik

Petra, Jordan

See Ya

Public transport Sumbawa

Stick fighting Lombok

WA

Bena, Stone age village on Flores still inhabited (protected)

Nusa Tengarra Indonesia

Yessss

SA

Lake Bled Slovenia

NSW North coast Christmas roadtrip 2012