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.
I came over the hill hungover from a morning sinking beer with a random bunch of methheads, after a night aslseep in a Dominos carpark. I was a few hours down the road now. I was in a better place.
It’d been like… 20 years almost. Since I’d been to Margaret River.
I remembered the way to Gracetown.
I felt like a touro as I found my way along the headland to watch the break. With the other touros.
As locals ran out and launched off the rocks into the fresh swell.
‘Look at all these hardcore surfer cunts with their jetski mates’ I thought as the duo on the jetski hooted and claimed a surfers silhouetted slotted-ness
And She was hardly breaking yet.