I’m a surfer and that means…
I’m a local. If you come out at my spot, I’ll paddle straight past you to the inside every time and drop in on you if you somehow get to the inside. If you ever have the temerity to complain, I’ll lecture you about respect.
Experimenting with different surf-craft is kind of my thing. I always borrow my mates’ new boards.
Saying, or even thinking, “Next one in” is a magic incantation that makes the ocean go inexplicably flat for the next 20 minutes.
I know that sometimes it’s better than it looks, and sometimes it looks better than it is.
I’m in deep harmony with the ocean, with nature and myself. I sing about peace and love, and I’ll beat the living shit out of you if you drop in on me.
I understand and commune with nature. Nothing is more natural to me than bashing a track through the virgin bush in my V8 ‘Cruiser, launching my jet ski off the beach and towing in to the massive five footers there.
The first ding in 100 surfs at my local will always be on a brand new board.
I love Bali. The people there love me too, especially when I haggle them down to break-even point on the t-shirt they’re desperate to sell me. They reckon it’s grouse it when I say, “tear in my car seat”.
My body is a temple. I eat, live and think healthy. Except on Friday nights when I drink my body weight in beer and then switch to bourbon.
The set of the day will come five seconds after I jump off the rocks.
I can’t even read a weather map but I get really pissed when the weather bureau gets the arrival time of a new swell wrong by a couple of hours.
The sea breeze knows when I’m coming to the beach, but it always lets me beat it by ten minutes.
I can watch the pro’s take on heaving 10 foot Pipeline and say, “pussy, shoulda got deeper.”
I always say surfing is better than sex, but it doesn’t matter cos I’m awesome at both.