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. 

Shit. 

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.