Washed Up

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I had pulled into a carpark overlooking North Point to check it and make breakfast. I stepped out of the car into some fellas life story.

He had driven across the Nullarbor from Victor Harbour to hassle his ex about seeing his daughter. He was living from his car too. He was Bipolar. He talked a novel to me in the time it took for my coffee to boil.

“My leash has a nick in it, I out think I’ll be able to swim in if I loose my board. I need weed. Do you have buds? Because I cant surf without it…”

A 4 meter cleanup set wiped out the 20 surfers in the lineup as I sipped my burnt coffee half listening to his bullshit. 


He’s fucked up, he’s done and through I thought, as I pulled out of the lot never to hear his shit again.

I went and checked up the coast. There was only one sure thing though. After a few hours fucking around I was back at North Point.

Getting cleaned up by the freak sets with the rest of the mob.


Turtle Head

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I got to reduce my resolution size. This laptop aint hacking it no more. No more. No more.

I scored at Bawley. I got it clean and at a spot called Number Two’s. It was a fun surf.

Years ago, the last time I surfed it, not so fun. I got a beating out there on a nasty grey day. I remember a thick wall standing up out of nowhere. It stood tall for what seemed an impossible time. The lip feathering and lurching forward. It dared me to try scrape under it as it drained the water from the reef, growing thicker, steeper and darker.

I tried.

The thick lip broke a foot from my face. There was only a few feet of water between the lip and the reef. There was no diving under it. Fucking ragdolled. Bouncing off the reef, flipping blindly. It let me go when it dispersed in the black channel.

That was while back now.

So Ceasar came down the day after my fun surf but the wind came up. Salad mate and I walked around the town, around all the beautiful beaches. Afterwards he went back to the city. I went south.


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When the swell hits a headland and wraps itself into the bay. That’s what you call refraction.

When there’s enough swell reeling into Snapper Rocks you’ll find a few hundred surfers paddling over each other for a shot at perfection.

There will be professionals, local legends, stand up paddle boards, older gents on ten foot Malibus, Bodyboarders and that one guy in a kayak. They’re all vying for the same waves. Burning, snaking, screaming their heads off in frustration and cheering when someone snags a real bomb. Its a circus.

It might only come to town once a year.

You’ll love the show but hate the clowns.

Come on Aileens

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Before I came here I was daydreaming about what I would be doing when I got here. I envisioned a second hand wet-suit and hoody slung over a board, under my arm, as I walked across lime green fields.

I’d walk along side ancient stone walls to protect myself from the stiff winds and eventually they’d guide me to an overhanging cliff with a thick ¬†wedging swell peeling beneath it.

I’d kit up. Climb down a goats trail, make my way past frozen ponds of salt water and, finally, jump into the Atlantic. Instant ice-cream headache. Loosing my breath for a minute as I paddled through a kelpy whitewash soup.

Eventually I’d get to the peak.

For hours I’d be out there in the rain and hail slotting into short punchy waves on my own without the fearing the black water around me. No sharks, only heavy liquid…


This wave is a pretty special one. An opal shaped cave at the base of an amazing limestone cliff.

I didn’t get out there this day.

I was lucky enough to get the day off to get out of the city and caught it breaking with a couple of hell men charging it. Ah well… That dream lives on.