Translation:
The best site, all happy.
I decided to share the site on which helped to find a soul mate.
A large number of articles on it about family, how to get acquainted with the lovelyladies, how to find a husband or life partner.
And the part with the one that did not respect me and changed: * (.
If interested, click on one of the links:
Classic.
Some superfluous info for ladies interested in the 9’2″ Coco Mat:
The best thing about longboarding at Snapper is that you can, basically, surf all the way down to Kirra. Which is about 1 km and it’s amazing. The walk back, however, will leave you disinterested in lathering your shampoo and shaving your legs. On a side note, a whole bunch of good-lookin’ dudes will offer to help you, which is good for your girl self-esteem (if, in fact, you’re a girl) and bad for your surfer ego.
Please forgive the forthcoming sappiness.
I always seem to meet the most incredible people when I travel. And I always seem to be traveling, so fortunately, I’m always meeting incredible people. People who walk me to cafes instead of merely explaining how to get there; people who lend me wetsuits and surfboards and warm coats; people who welcome me into their homes, who make their homes my homes, whose friends open their homes; people who actually consider whether their homemade meals clash with my morals; people who share their Coronas, their whiskey, their Milo, their wine; people who pick me up at the airport, who drop me off at new breaks, who reveal hidden waterfalls; people who give me birthday cards and Christmas cake; people who show me things I’d miss on my own. People, in short, who make me feel like I’m not on my own. Who make this big world feel small.
Not so many places that I’ve been have felt like “home.” There have been a few: I instantly felt like I belonged in Paris. New York has always been “the City.” My city. I never seemed to make a wrong turn in Glasgow. And I still think I’m a Californian who just happened to be born in Jersey. I didn’t fall in love with the Goldy the first time I came here. I felt comfortable, but that’s different than feeling right. And that’s still different than feeling at home.
I don’t believe home is a place. I believe it’s a person. Sometimes, it’s people. As a constant wanderer (and hopeless romantic), I conveniently pin “home” to movable being[s] . I have found family on the Gold Coast, and it’s for that reason that it feels like home.
My family in the States will probably tell you that I have no trouble–at all–leaving people behind. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fought back tears while boarding a bus. That’s a lie; I can tell you that it’s happened twice in recent memory. Ask Yudi about the bus ride we shared. I’m terrified of walking away. I hate leaving people I love nearly as much as I love leaving. Nearly. So, I choose to believe that we’ll run into each other at Versailles, at The Pass, at the QT Hotel. It wouldn’t be the first time. Because it is a small world, after all. And, of course, you’re welcome to come with me. If not, until next time, at least we have Facebook. But seriously, thank you. For everything. And see you soon…
Well, that was a regrettable decision.
I began the session at Snapper. That’s not the regrettable part. That part turned out to be satisfactory. At least. That part was all fun drops and successful bottom turns and speeding along deep green walls until my legs were tired. In the rain. You know I love it.
I got out of the water at Greenmount feeling pretty content. I was going to find some grub, some caffeine, some motivation. I turned around and scanned the shoreline. Hmm… I wonder what Kirra’s doing down there. I started walking in that direction. Just out of curiosity, really. It looked alright. There appeared to be some good sections, and there were like four guys out. I spotted a rip and started paddling, thinking I’d get a handful of fun shoulders (no barrels, thanks) and then go eat lunch. So, yeah, I was paddling, paddling…
Thanks, Google alerts.
If you follow me on Twitter, you know that I know the horror of ending up right in someone’s projected track. I think we all do. To ensure that embarrassment entwines itself with guilt in that instance, the person whose wave you’ve bungled is sure to be utterly ripping, if not Joel Parkinson. That being said, I still can’t fathom the headspace of beginners who paddle out at Snapper and I’d like to think that none of my lineup f*ck-ups have caused anyone bodily harm. And that being said, it is so. hard. not to get a bit aggro when, amidst your late drop, you look down and realize (at the last second) that a man and his enormous longboard are caught up in the whitewater, only to skid off your board and join him in multiple sub-surface somersaults, resulting in an actual lump on your arm. When you find the air, he manages to be swept into you by the next wave (which is notably smaller), and this time, his fin slashes your leg. He goes, “That’s just my leg.” As in, “Don’t be alarmed; that thing you may have just kicked (HA) is my leg. Not a creature of the sea.” Yeah, cheers, bud!
Okay, enough whinging. Check out my story on ESPN today about the idea of paid webcast subscriptions. Many kind thanks in advance for your cooperation.
A [lightly edited] excerpt from an email I sent yesterday at 2:15 p.m.:
Last night, I experienced the acute pain of a bluebottle sting. Ummm, my entire leg felt like it was on fire and swelling up, and the pain spread to my groin! How insane is that? Thinking that perhaps I was stung by an irukandji, or was having an allergic reaction to a regular, ol’ hombre de guerra (man o’ war), I called B____ in a panic.
–
“Is that normal?” I asked.
“Yeah, that sounds… pretty normal, yeah.”
–
He told me his mum’s remedy, “dating from approximately 1945,” was to apply vinegar, but that he preferred ice. I settled for a bag of frozen veggies. It did decrease the swelling. And made for a funny Instagram. (Well, I think it’s funny.)
Actually, it occurred to me that the laziest (yet perhaps most effective) way of bringing you up to speed is via photographs. So, I am storrowing an idea from the brilliant fellows over at Surfing mag: Here’s some of what I’ve been neglecting to tell you about in a handy gallery of recent Instagram photos:
If, inexplicably, you’re keen for more of my mundane misadventures and mediocre photography, find me: @casebut.
The hour is a splinter past midnight and the year is just 2012. Neon, phosphorescently crowned princesses sway and twirl on the grass. Their consorts come and go on cruisers. I’m nursing Tuis and sobering up, but I don’t mind. I’m buzzing on strangers who behave like friends, friends who have begun to constitute a family, and the fact that the ocean’s fewer than 100 meters away. For once, New Year’s Eve is devoid of wind that bites my goose pimpled thighs, too-high heels, and emotionally self-destructive affairs. I’m dancing in someone’s front yard and I care not who’s watching.
