Change of Website

Ok, in case anyone has wondered why this blog hasn't been updated for over a week (not that i presume a multitude of people have wondered this), it's because the Herald/ Weekend Post has just launched a new website. So all the herald blogs have been relaunched from the main website- www.theherald.co.za. There is a link to 'blogs' on the new site, which if followed correctly, will lead you to the new Rail to Rail. The site looks bloody amazing, so check it out and let me know what you think. e-mails can be sent to heraldsurf@gmail.com

The Far Side of Rad

I woke up yesterday morning and cringed at the thought of driving out to Cape St Francis through such dank weather. I drank my morning coffee on the balcony, watching a gray mass of white horses and windblown slop move across the bay. The sea looked as enticing as a beef smoothie.

Still, the Eastern Province trial ran in choppy, passable conditions at Seal Point (Full stop), yesterday morning. I arrived in time to catch the open final, where Dylan Stone (2nd), Ryan Payne (1st), Etienne Potgieter (3rd) and Bruce Campbell (4th) tore the shoes off of anything resembling a wave. The standard of surfing was seriously impressive and EP looks to be in safe hands during South African Champs.

I managed to catch up with the finalists in the parking lot afterwards, where they begged me to take a photo of them together. “Ooh, please take a photo of us hugging tightly!” Etienne pleaded. “Ja, we’re such a close team, we love showing the province how much team work means to us! You should see our cheer leading routine!” Dylan fired back. “And our outfits are to die for!” Ryan confirmed.

Ha ha, jokes. They didn’t really say that.



I know the first picture is washy and too far away, but I swear that's Dylan decapitating a Seal's insider.

In other surfing news, Greg Emslie (Slummies) made it through his Round 1 heat at the Quiksilver Pro in Australia (Gold Coast) this weekend, earning a free rid to the third Round. He was the sole South African to advance during the first Round. Jordy Smith and David Weare will feature during Round 2 when the contest resumes. Jussie I said ‘Round’ a lot.

The 100th Blog

Quiksilver and Billabong joined hands momentarily to put together a film about Kelly Slater and Andy Irons’s rivalry a few years back. It’s called “A Fly in the Champaign.”
This is a marvelous idea and really big of both companies.



Locally, Zigzag have been on top form with their website (www.zigzag.co.za). There’s a kief selection of videos, ranging from interviews, to trip footage, to contest stuff. The west coast trip with Royden Bryson and Andrew Lange looks fantastic.

Lastly, the hot weather looks to be sticking around for another few days. Later in the weekend the swell is expected to rise to 3 meters (out to sea), so let’s hold thumbs for some waves this weekend. It’s the Eastern Province Trials (senior team) on Sunday at Seals, so it’d be cool to see them held in decent conditions. I’ll have some photos of that on Monday morning.

World War 2 Syndrome

People over twenty are a dying breed. We carry the last remnants and memories of a way of life that seems eccentric and weird to children born of today’s consumer values.
It’s called World War Syndrome*, and its initial hosts are our grandparents, living or deceased. They survived a time when wars and sanctions limited the flow of goods in and out of South Africa. Our grandparents are experts at the game of survival. They knit clothing, store left over food in the freezer (even if it’s a scoop of gravy), keep newspapers and TV guides for rainy days, and do it with a sense of responsibility and love. Conserving food, clothing and general items was about more than living frugally. There simply was no excess during the wars.

It was at Grandpa Swart’s 75th birthday tea that I first witnessed World War Two Syndrome in practice. I was 5. He was the beloved oupa of some distant cousins I’d not met.

Before we headed off that morning, I was told to call him ‘Grandpa’, though I wasn’t entirely sure why. I had two grandpas already, and both were working out well.
“Just be nice to him. We’ll be two hours, tops,” my mom insisted.
“Ja, and there’ll be lots of kids your age for you to play with,” my dad added.
I finally surmised that the event would take the form of an interview; we were employing an extra support grandpa. It seemed a bit superfluous, but I trusted mom and dad’s judgment with everything.
“That won’t be necessary,” I answered them in a calm tone, “two hours with the man alone will do. Keep the other kids at bay while we’re there and I’ll be able to tell if we’ve found what we’re looking for.”

I made a mental list on the way there. I wasn’t calling anyone ‘grandpa’ until I had full confidence in his grandpa-ing capabilities. Could the man tell stories? Do tricks? Tickle properly? Make authentic farting noises with his hands? These were questions that needed answering.

My mom and dad were swamped on arrival, saying hello to people I didn’t know. A tall woman, who I would later know as Aunt Chewbacca, hugged my mother and asked for me by name. I wasn’t letting that beast’s hairy lips anywhere near my face, so I hightailed it out the room A child I didn’t know tried to cut me off with a question. “Where’s Grandpa?” she asked, sweetly.
“Leave me be, he’s not my grandpa yet. I’m just browsing!” I snapped at her, heading towards the garage.

Many 5 year olds are treasure hunters. At the time I was a humble collector of teddy bears and marbles. If those things captured my imagination, there are no words to describe how flummoxed I was by the magnitude of Grandpa Swart’s many collections.

His garage was a goldmine. It had EVERYTHING.
Near the front door was a chest full of tennis racket handles, shoe soles, electronics and broken cricket bats. Plastic crates of magazines lined the wall. Scrap wood and broken furniture were stored in the rafters above.

Bottles of pins, nuts, bolts and screws lined the edge of the work bench. On every windowsill there were more bottles, filled with more of the same thing. I opened one of the drawers to find it filled with screw drivers, of all sizes and shapes. I opened a second one and found the same thing. He must have had 150 screw drivers in total.

There was a row of 25 liter bottles on a shelf against the wall. One was filled with matches, another with wine corks, another with serviettes and straws and a last one filled with pens.

The grand finale was a pile of egg boxes. There were so many, dating from so far back, I doubted that he’d thrown a single egg box away since 1957.

I was a bit jumpy at lunch. I hadn’t spoken to Grandpa Swart yet and was dying to find out a bit about the garage. I sat opposite him at the banquet table and tried to start a few conversations. “So, tell me, Swart, how long have you been a grandparent?”
He was a somber man with protruding eye lids and a permafrown. He didn’t answer my questions and sucked his soup up, spoonful by spoonful, making dreadful slurping noises.
I sensed he was looking at me during the main course. I was pouring gravy all over my third helping of chicken. Never a fan of sprouts or broccoli, I cast my unwanted veggies to the side and focused on the things I liked. When the dishes were taken away, I noticed every single leftover getting poured into Tupperware containers and stored in the fridge.

Desert was even more awkward. I didn’t hold back for much back then. I poured custard on my ice-cream like eating was for trophies. He just grunted at me and gasped when I couldn’t finish the plate I requested.

***
If Grandpa Swart did not become my real grandpa after that day, I fear it may be because of the lousy impression I made, and not his performance during my imagined ‘interview’.
Besides, I had two wonderful grandpas as it was. In the spirit of frugality that defines World War Two Syndrome, an extra grandparent would have been decadent, anyways.




*James Clarke, soon- to- be lawyer and father of many cutting edge social science theories, coined this term circa 2005.

Friday Checkpoint

Next week the World Tour begins its 2009 season with the Quiksilver Pro on the Gold Coast of Australia. Surfing related websites are inundated with predictions, rookie interviews and pre season hype right now.

Near the top of the pile is Jordy Smith’s new sponsorship with Red Bull. www.surfersvillage.com has a good interview with him, covering all the finer details.

The bay looks pretty flat right now, but the people at windguru.com bring good tidings for the weekend. The wind is expected to swing and the swell to rise a meter by Sunday.
Here’s a picture of a shorebreak I got from Brett. Have a jolly weekend, folks.

Ice Cream Headaches and Cornish Pasties

I’ve been getting daily Surfers Village (www.surfersvillage.com) news letters for the last few months. Most of the time its interesting stuff, like breakthrough technology that has passed field tests, photographs from sponsored trips and general surf industry news.

Today a headline caught my eye: “C-Skins Wetsuits signs up U.K. champ Reubin Pearce…” There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. From Cape Town originally, he was one of the top junior surfers during the mid to late nineties. I remember him surfing for Milnerton High School at SA Schools in 1997. Pretty cool that he’s the current UK Champ.

I checked out the C-Skins website and was really impressed by the range of products they offer and the layout of the site. In a country where the weather is as shocking as it is in England, I suppose good wetsuits would go a long way. I got another surprise when I looked up the other team members and saw a picture of Blue Water Bay’s Clinton Fraser. There’s another name I haven’t heard in a long time— not since Groundswell surf club days. He’s another one of C-skins team riders.

You can say what you like about going to England to work, save money and travel etc. It’s an experience that works for some people and doesn’t for others. Hats off to these chaps who are doing it a bit differently.

Why I Don't Surf Pipe

Long ago, I was waiting alone at Pipe for my mom to fetch me. A worn-looking old man, with a stringy white beard and red eyes, approached me and asked if I had any spare change.
“sure.” I said, handing over 50 cents I kept in my leash.
“ah, good man…” he said.
“A surfer, ey?” he asked.
“That’s correct,” I answered, smiling.
“See that there Sewer Pipe on the beach?” the old man asked, pointing to the notorious Pipe at Pollock Beach and taking a swig of sherry.
“Yip,” I nodded nervously.
“Well, back when they first built it, you know there were a few accidents?”
“What kind of accidents?” I asked pricking up my ears.
“Ai, Little Man, well, see that Pipe stretches down very far. And some of the people who built it over a hundred years ago got left behind! The screamed for help, but no one heard them,” The old man’s one eye bulged as he spoke and made me wince.
“How terrible… did they all die?” I asked.
“No, no, no… it’s said that the heat of the earth’s crust keeps ‘em all young and alive. They’re still down there. They come up every once in a while, but it’s only to fetch fresh food.”
“What do they look like?” I wondered aloud.
“You’d never recognize ‘em. They got long, pointy ears and teeth like a lion. Their nails have grown so long, they can’t hardly use their hands.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
“Ai, I have, Little Man. I have. See this scratch on my calf muscle?” The old man pointed to a gash in his leg that looked like a shark had bitten him.
“Was that from one of the people living in the Pipe?” I said.
“Ai, correct! I was fishin’ for food one night last year when one of those bastards came out of nowhere and grabbed my leg!”
“Hey Voetsak! Out of here, old man!” screamed a police man, suddenly cutting the man off and chasing him away.
I tried to tell the cop that he wasn’t bothering me, but it was no use.
“I chase that bloody bum away every day! Shut your trap if you don’t want to join him,” said the cop.

I haven’t thought about this conversation in years. It wasn’t until I met up with an old friend of mine from school, Rudolph Lumberfork, that I remembered what the old man said. Rudolph went to a different junior school and knew a guy named Alberto Balsam. Here’s what happened to him…

***

Alberto Balsam was still scared of The Pipe when he turned twelve years old. Something about the place didn’t sit right with him.

On low tide you could see its full visage, clear and exposed in the indignity of day light. It rose from the sand, snaked its way down the beach, and stopped at the water’s edge with its mouth wide open. The chipped, flaky cement looked like a carnivorous dinosaur left in the sun to decay, still partly alive and desperate for food. From the outside looking in, you couldn’t see further than a few meters down The Pipe’s throat— everything beyond that was left to the darkness of one’s imagination.

On high tide the mouth of the Pipe gargled water in it’s algae and barnacle encrusted teeth. The sucking and spitting of water in the entrance looked like the hungry jowls of a sea dragon, ready to steal surf boards and little boys that came to close.

Whenever he went surfing with his older brother, Percy, or a group of his friends, Alberto Balsam tried his best to think up reasons why it was better somewhere else. “Check out Fence! Oh my hat, it’s cranking! Seriously, we should way rather surf Fence. Even King’s Beach or Hobie looks good. Pipe will be rubbish. I’m telling you guys.” This was Alberto’s familiar refrain in the car on the way down to the beach, which everyone took to be his fear of the rocks there.

No one ever listened though. ‘He’ll get over his fear of rocks,’ assumed Percy. They almost always end up surfing at The Pipe, where Alberto was forced to suit up and go out, even though he hated it. There was the option of going home to watch KTV alone, which no self respecting eleven year old would do unless he was ready to hang up his equipment and find a new sport.

So Alberto Balsam took strain at The Pipe. He’d sit as far to the left or right as possible, and always surfed away from it, even if it meant giving up the best waves. This perplexed his brother and comrades. Where he was making serious progress at other surf spots, Alberto seemed to regress to a beginner’s level at The Pipe.

***
It was on a lonesome Thursday afternoon that Alberto and Percy hit the beach after school. It’d been raining all day and a blustering westerly wind charged across the city with the force of a stampeding buffalo herd. Dark clouds loomed overhead and promised serious weather. Percy had recently passed his drivers license test and was always happy to take a drive, even days when people were nailing their windows shut to protect them from an imminent storm.

“Just a quick surf, Bert, honestly. I just want one or two waves. I know you hate this place, but we’ll only be twenty minutes. Honestly,” Percy begged his brother in the Pipe parking lot. Alberto wasn’t up for surfing, especially not there, but he felt obliged to accompany his brother— Percy was always willing to take him places when he didn’t have to do it.
“Look how terrible it is outside… I really don’t want to,” said Alberto, begging his brother.
“Please! Just one or two waves. Ten minutes, that’s all…” answered Percy, grabbing his suit off the back seat and ending the discussion.

The tide had just gone dead low when Percy and Alberto Balsam paddled out, with only the two of them in sight. No one else was silly enough to be at the beach on such an awful day. They made their way out to the backline in double quick time with the wind at their backs.

Before either of them had caught a wave, it began raining. At first a few drops fell on the exposed areas of their surfboards. It sounded like a clawed fingers tapping on fiberglass.
Moments later it came down in buckets. The wind was picking up pace at the same time. Before Percy or Alberto had time to think, they were battling sideways rain, paddling their hearts out towards shore.

It took twenty minutes for them to cover the 30 meters separating them from the beach. Once they were in waist deep water, Percy grabbed on to Alberto and screamed as loud as he could, “Make for The Pipe! We’ll never reach the car park! We need to take cover!”
“Are you on crack!” bellowed Alberto, with a look of terror on his face.
“Look! We have to wait it out! Follow me!” screamed Percy.
In the parking lot Alberto could see Percy’s 1981 Fox being dismantled in the wind. It’s doors flung open and the car bounced like a dancing coke can. He knew the only place they’d be safe was inside the throat of the beast he feared most.
“I can’t do it! No ways!” screamed Alberto, crawling into a ball on the sand.
“No!” screamed Percy, struggling to hold on to his brother. They were lying in the shallows, being pulled back into the water by the crazy tornado outside. Their surfboards had locked arms with the breeze and were flying above them like kites attached to their feet.

Too weak to fight the weather anymore, they were ready to give up when a clawed hand suddenly took off Alberto and Percy’s leashes. Their boards, suddenly free, rode the wind out to sea before either of them realized what was happening. Someone, or something, pulled them inside the Pipe. Whether or not it was towards safety from the wind and rain is unknown.
***
Rivers flooded that day, houses swam away, trees blew over, temperatures dropped to record lows, seas rose, and people suffered. Many homes lost MNET reception all afternoon!
The cold front’s wild tantrum lasted two hours, and its end was met by a still evening, where only the faintest whisper of a sea breeze brushed fallen leaves across the quiet streets. Later on, a full moon rose out against the night sky, like an illuminated plug at the bottom of a black swimming pool. Its reflection was visible in every puddle across the city.

Mr. and Mrs. Balsam reached the parking lot as the storm calmed down, horrified to find nothing but Percy’s VW Fox in pieces, scattered across the parking lot. The NSRI were called immediately, but all they found was two surfboards 8 km’s off shore. A search party consisting of police, family and friends combed the beaches, starting at Hobie and moving all the way to Maitlands.

Alberto and Percy were never found though…