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.
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.
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“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.
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.
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?
A scheduling mix-up at work has given me the morning off. At first, I was annoyed that I woke up at 6 a.m. and rode my bike down there in the wind, only to ride it back 30 minutes later. But then I surfed for two hours and I wasn’t annoyed anymore. Funny how that happens. PLUS, tomorrow’s my birthday! For no reason, other than the fact that I’m now in a good mood and I feel like posting something, here’s my current favorite Aussie commercial:
Who’s got a good birthday surf vid I can use for tomorrow?! Send it ova!
Comfort zone: noun. The range of temperature between 28 and 30 degrees Celsius, at which the naked body neither sweats nor shivers.
Or, a situation or position in which a person feels secure, comfortable, or in control.
I once paddled out at San Clemente pier with Alex Haro, even though the swell was coming in and it was already bigger than what I would have braved on my own. On most days, SC pier is an easy break. A reasonable paddle, a little hollow, not too rough, clean. When there’s swell, though, the sets can be slightly intimidating. The lips can be heavy and, somehow, unavoidable. On this afternoon, Alex succeeded (for once) in talking me into waves above my head. Literally and figuratively. At first, the waves were breaking at about the pier’s halfway mark. The pier is 1,296 feet long (17th longest in California). The longer we sat there, the further out the break moved. Within an hour, big sets were cracking at the end of the pier, and the smaller, unbroken ones left my stomach at their peaks as they rolled past. I hadn’t caught a single wave and I didn’t want to. I called it a night and met Alex on the beach an hour later. That session will remain the greatest distance I’ll be from my surf comfort zone. Until I surf Hanalei Bay with Michael.
Penguin in London (less useful than in Hawaii).
I’m video chatting with Jackie and she says, “Wouldn’t it be funny if you took your board all over Europe and you didn’t have it in Hawaii?”
Yes, Jac, that would be hilarious. And I would cry. And it is a real possibility.
—
I arrange for a courier to retrieve my board in Pottsville and deliver it to Jon’s house in Coogee. Supposedly, it will take two days. Supposedly they will pick it up tomorrow. At the end of tomorrow, Rita texts to inform me that nobody came for the board. I call the company from Canberra and they say, “Well, let me just call the driver and get back to you in a few minutes.”
An hour later, as their office is about to close, I still haven’t heard back. When I call, I ask for Mike (the guy I talked to before) and the woman says, “Ah yes, I think he mentioned you.”
Superb.
“Let me check if it was picked up,” says entirely unhelpful Mike.
“I can tell you that it wasn’t.”
“Yes, the driver said he didn’t have time and it will definitely be picked up tomorrow.”
“Okay, great thank you.”
The following day, I have a very similar conversation.
Like four days later, I’m in Sydney and leaving the country very, very soon. I have talked to the shipping company countless times in the last week and a half. I’m finallllyyy notified that the board will be in Coogee on April 5th. My flight to Kauai is on the 6th; if I fuck this up, I really won’t have a board in Hawaii.
As it’s a weekday, both Jon and Danny are working. I no longer have keys to the apartment. Furthermore, I have no idea what time to expect this delivery, and I definitely have to sign for it. How could I possibly botch this?
I’m at Pancakes on the Rocks. Again. Mildly hungover and/or sleep-deprived. I order the most embarrassingly big breakfast. It literally arrives on two plates. There are chocolate pancakes involved. The shame is heightened by the fact that I am sitting by myself. That, and, the way the waiter looks at me–like some kind of curiosity; a bottomless pit at which to marvel. A half hour later, I’m slumped on a bench near Campbell’s Cove, unsure whether the massive brekky will help or hinder my recovery and hoping for some noticeable vitamin D absorption; the sun is brilliant. The harbour bridge is just behind me and the opera house is right across the water. It’s just so pleasant in Sydney. It’s just so clean, so temperate, so… not Cairns.
—
Over the next few days, I spend an inconsiderate amount of time with friends, avoiding hostels by sleeping on a vintage love seat in Adam Mada’s living room somewhere near the beach in Sydney. I share the room with his magical fish and Emily’s mom, Eileen, who sleeps on the floor. Kindly, no one makes me feel like the spectacular mooch that I am.
Adam, a magician by profession, is Emily’s brother-in-law and he has allowed me and, pretty much, their entire family to invade his home. One morning, Adam plans to take us on an alternate coastal walk–the route is known only to him, so the whole crew sets out, blindly, on foot from Bondi. We walk through a ritzy neighborhood, past many bays full of sailboats and pontoon planes, up hills. Up more hills. We stop to swim and it’s lost on no one that Sydney Harbour is more notoriously populated by sharks than the ocean. Thankfully, this swimming area has a net around it, but Eileen wonders, “What if a baby shark swam through the net and grew up?” It’s so hot that we swim despite the remote possibility of a shark outsmarting a safety net.
We continue walking: even more hills. After a while, we are begging for coffee and a place to rest our weary feet. Adam promises tea on a cliff overlooking the ocean, so on we trek. Several hours later, we are sunburnt and mutinous.
“Where’s that cliff-side café, Adam?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You said if we kept walking, we’d be rewarded with coffee and a fantastic view!”
“Oh. Yeah. I don’t know, I just figured we’d find something like that.”
THERE IS NO CLIFFSIDE CAFÉ!
We are rapidly losing faith, but still, we follow Adam. When we turn up at Bondi Sewage Treatment Works, which, admittedly, does have a great view but, you know, also processes shit and is probably a little toxic, we abandon our fearless leader and find comfort in body surfing, followed by beer. Later, looking at a map, I still can’t figure out exactly where we walked. But I do know that it was almost entirely uphill and it took about 6 hours. Possibly longer.
“The itinerary” for this trip has been a little on the dodgy side. When it exists, it does so only in weekly increments and only once I have made a reservation for something. Typically, it materializes as vague notations in my planner.
In the middle of the week, in the middle of February, I am considering a modified itinerary. The current version puts me in Byron Bay next week. I’ve already booked a place to stay, already reserved a bus seat. But the thing is, I met this guy.
But the other thing is, I want to spend a week in everyone’s favorite Aussie beach town before I have to be on the Goldie for the Quik Pro. Logic prevails and some uncivilized hour finds me stretching my legs in a gas station parking lot, after deciding that an oversized candy bar will make a fine substitute for actual food.
—
Twelve and a half hours is a very long time to spend on a bus–even when fortified by Milo bars. At least they showed a film on that bus. Do you know what it was? The First Wives’ Club.
Paddy, the genial proprietor of Byron Haven, has given me what I believe is an okay rate for a week in a studio in Byron: $650. He has also offered to fetch me and my many belongings (still no baggage charge!) from the bus along with his morning paper.
It’s still early and the room isn’t ready yet, so I walk into town and end up finding this great café. The waitress happens to be from Seattle. She’s living in a tent at one of the hostels. I feel like a yuppie, so I don’t tell her where I’m staying. She suggests I try BBQ sauce on my bacon, egg, and cheese. I must look skeptical because she says, “No, really, it’s delicious. Their BBQ sauce is different than ours and besides, it’s a very Australian thing to eat–you have to try it.” I’m surprised to discover that it’s scrumptious. She also tells me that I can pick up “wireless internet” (“Wifi” is met almost unanimously with “Ehh?”) at the Beach Hotel across the street. Thank you, Michelle!
When I get back to my pricey digs, I feel like even more of a snob and even less sorry for it. The studio is gigantic: Two king-sized beds, kitchen, flat screen… no roommates. Paddy asks if I need help with anything else. “Will you take a nap?” Half an inquiry, half a suggestion.
It is 80 degrees and sunny, and the waves are small but clean.
“Can you please tell me how to get to the beach?”
Water, Water Everywhere And Not A Drop To Drink 