Water, Water Everywhere And Not A Drop To Drink
Hijinks On The High Seas… And Beyond
Category Archives: Travel
As an admittedly shit surfer, I harbour a [limited] empathy for kooks.
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.
Ketchup
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.
New Year’s Reminiscence
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.
Just in cases you were wondering…
An admittedly narrow, contrived, and especially absurd glimpse of what’s happening in Australia at the moment:
SMH: Three seriously ill after eating death cap mushrooms
Don’t worry, there’s also a lot of this:
Christmas at Snapper. Photo: Luke Sorensen/Goldcoast.com.au
…and this.
2011
In Other People’s Words:
*
Disclaimer: I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions.
Resolutions for the…
Predictable: Surf more. Stop procrastinating. Get organized. Keep in touch. Exercise. More.
Bi-polar: Escape comfort zone. Be less reckless.
Uninitiated: Take more drugs. Have more sex.
Boxing Day: Kirra’s Mean Right Hook
Thanks to Cyclone Fina, the Gold Coast picked up some major swell over the holly days. Check out my current home break on Dec. 26th:
Id, Ego, and Superego.
Chasing interviews, hunting cheap [enough] flights, drinking coffee, checking the surf, trying to feel out the future while remaining “noncommittal.” Or untethered. Avoiding [additional] credit card debt. Making coffee. Serving coffee. Drinking coffee. Thinking about surfing. Checking the surf. Eating massive bikkies for lunch. Skyping my mom. Pitching editors. Thinking about not thinking about boys. Boy. Thinking about surfing. Surfing. Eating mango/vodka smoothies for dinner. Facebooking. Thinking about flying. Dreaming about sharks. Missing Scotland. Prematurely dreading leaving Australia. Thinking about “home.” Surfing. Charging flights to my Amex. Frequent flier miles. Working to pay off my Amex. Funneling money into social life (beer/Mexican food/bus fare/body wash) instead. Drinking coffee. Re-pitching editors. Accruing interest. Starring/ignoring emails with the subject line “Your Student Loans.” Absolutely refusing to think about boys. Boy. Wearing sunscreen. Failing to reapply sunscreen. Working. Surfing. Editing. Skyping. Coffee. Harassing editors. Stalking sources. Calling legends. Leaving voicemails. Texting legends. Answering the question, “Who are you?” (Posed by legends.) Drinking coffee. Formulating hypotheses. Digging up statistics. Checking the surf. Tweeting. Transcribing. Surfing. Breaking down and thinking about boys. Boy. For 10 seconds. Eating wedges for dinner. Sleeping. Just a little. Devising a plan. Tossing said plan out the window.
Such is life.
Church.
Sunday morning at BR. Finally, a break in the “devil wind.” I manage to drag myself out of bed before dead high, even though I worked until a few hours ago. Every other stir-crazy surfer in the vicinity has the same idea. Some of them wear spring suits and tops, but they seem superfluous. (As usual.) Knee-high and pretty clean. We’ll take it.
Sunday morning at BR. Another lull in the horrendous wind that’s been blowing without fail for days. It pushes with such mighty force that it creates a wind swell on the creek. This morning, it is still. I manage to drag myself out of bed before dead high, even though I watched tele until a few hours ago. At first the sun seems benevolent, but after an hour, we realize that it’s got bite. Tan lines appear on already tanned, sunscreened skin. In 60 minutes or less. The water is cool and green. Which is better than cold and brown. Last week, the water was so brown, you couldn’t see your feet dangling below you. In an area that MSW calls “lonely and sharky,” this was not comforting. It didn’t help that sharks were apparently snapping birds from the sea’s surface in Byron. Today, thankfully, I can see my feet. There is a mini swell. Four foot. The sand’s not perfect. The crowd’s not perfect. Not perfect. But close. There are about 20 guys (and girls) in the lineup, which feels like a lot at a spot I’ve heard described as “still relatively undiscovered.” They’re all clumped at the one peak. I have much better luck down the beach with the other people who aren’t really interested in fighting over waves. I inevitably kook out once or twice: blow a takeoff, botch a turn. Fouls aside, I get some of the better waves I’ve had in a while. It’s amazing what surfing more months of the year does for your surfing. Anyway, clear-ish water, fun-sized waves, like-minded people.
Where would you rather be on a Sunday morning?
Water, Water Everywhere And Not A Drop To Drink 