MAHOOOSIVE

I took some photos of the wild side at Cape St Francis yesterday. These pics don’t do justice to how big it was out there. Holy mustard.

I hope everyone had a great Christmas, or two wonderful days off work if you're not a Christian.

Waves and Goodbyes

It was lucky that the body surfing tournament got moved to Monday morning. In the afternoon the wind came through with sharp teeth, churning the ocean into a field of white horses. Since then the swell has been on the up rise. Yesterday Seal Point was as packed, Like Loftus Stadium during the Currie Cup Final. Today there are serious waves across the Eastern Cape. I took a few shots of Bruce’s and Sowetoes this morning. Take a look at the choka boats on the horizon— evidence of how big it must be out to sea.



Also, spare a thought for the fishermen who went missing on Monday evening. The ocean can be ruthless and cruel, like all acts of Mother Nature. It’s harsh, but this incident points to the many reasons fishermen are on strike at the moment. They ARE underpaid, under compensated for the risks they take and underprepared for the things that can happen at sea.

Rail To Rail Body Surfing Extravaganza

My alarm clock met its doom this morning. At seven thirty it started weeeeee weeeeeeing on the bedside table with abnormal intensity. “Silence, you monster!” I screamed, hurling it into the bookshelf across the room. After I’d slain the clock, I realized it woke me for a reason- it was the day of Rail To Rail’s Body Surfing Extravaganza. I gassed up on coffee and did my best to rally the troops in time for the planned start at nine AM.



The gods sent us magnificent weather for the tournament. Sunlight danced across the smooth waves like a crystal parade. The beach sand was hot under our feet and the water warm enough to bath in. Beach goers were less enthusiastic about taking part than I’d hoped— it was pretty much my friends and family, with a few late entrees. But that was fine. There were enough of us to have a Body Surfing Extravaganza. Maxi just wagged his tail and told me to get a move on. At around ten o clock the chaps were ready to give it hell.





The rules worked like this: competitors all ride the same wave for as far as they can manage. I stood as a marker in the shallows. Those failing to reach me were eliminated from the competition. There were some outrageous performances and a few upsets during the early rounds. One of the big surprises came when crowd favorite, Jeff ‘Anker’ Tanner, made an early exit. The waves were a bit small for someone of Anker’s caliber. Bradly Ballentine put in a noteworthy effort, as did Dieter Khun. Big Mase, Anker’s brother in law, kept form throughout the competition, making it to the final round, along with Ross Lahana, Gene Ritchie and Zok Truscott.
Lahana, who’d been on fire in the early rounds, came in close second to Zok. They pushed each other so much through the morning, it was agreed that they share first prize; excellent sportsmanship from the two standouts of the day. Ultimately though, it was Body Surfing and Save A Pet that took first prize (jusssie, that’s a shocking cliché). A special thanks goes to Gita and Robyn for waking up in time and supporting the event, Meri Ke’ for taking photos, Cindles, Jess and Faye, and everyone who took part. Also to my mom and dad for kindly sponsoring the beers. Thanks guys. The money and food collected for the animals at Save A Pet is great.

5 Minutes of Reflection

I’m not into New Year’s Eve resolutions or sudden religious awakenings. They’re as affective as a shower after unprotected sex. But I do believe in reflection. At the twilight of 2008, I can’t help wondering what the last 12 months have meant.
I took a moment to summarize a few points about this year, splitting them into good and bad categories. It’s a five minute list, so there's bound to be plenty of important things left out. If you have anything to add, please do. Post a comment or send me an e-mail, and I’ll put them on the blog.
GOOD
· Plans for 2010. Everything is going to be ready in time. Germany can relax. We don’t need a fall back plan. It’s on.
· Obama gets elected as president of the USA. It’s not the end of the USA’s problems, but it’s a huge step in the right direction. Bush is walking away from a burning building, handing Obama a kiddy’s beach pale of water as they cross paths.
· Kelly Slater wins a ninth world title with three events to go. Not human, that’s my guess. I wonder where he’s hiding the spaceship.
· South African media. As long as people like Zapiro and Evita Bezuidenhout keep responding to the antics of our politicians and pop icons, we’ll be ok.
· ESKOM pulled their socks up. This time last year, tannies across the country were hissing fire about missing Egoli and Sevende Laan every night.
· SARS. Everyone who thinks that violent crime is the worst thing about our country is not looking at the big picture. SARS is run by bad asses with a job as tough as the SAPD’s.
· COPE. Competition is good for democracy.
· The new Vodacom “Tell Me More” advert. Holy snakes. Its genius.
· The South African Para-Olympics team.
· Local movies and music. Jerusalema and The Rudimentals, for example.
· Rob Van Vuuren wins Strictly Come Dancing. Twakkie brought the heat.
BAD
· Julius Malema. Runner up for the ‘Rail To Rail: Moron of 2008 Award’.
· Robert Mugabe… Winner of the prestigious Moron of 2008 Award. It would only take one man to break into Mugabe’s circle of trust, hide a small acme bomb inside a sponge cake and say, “Uh, sir, Mister President… me and the guys pitched in and got this for you…” I know—
Very Julius Malema of me.
· Manikins. They are getting ridiculously life like. It’s disconcerting. I almost tried to chat one up at Woollies last week. Could have sworn she was smiling and making eyes at me.
· The global recession. Credit cards are the devil.
· Drunk driving. I love how people moan about taxi drivers. Anyone been to Barney’s on a Friday night? The drunk driving is out of control. I’m not saying I’ve never done it; just that it’s a huge problem.
· Danny K. Merciful Heavens...
· Facebook status updates. It’s lame, childish and self indulgent. Nobody cares what you are doing every two minutes.
There we have it. The five minute good list wins 11-7 against the bad. Yeeha.
Please don’t forget about the Body Surfing Extravaganza tomorrow. Should be a hoot.

Rail to Rail Body Surfing Extravaganza

Hello friends,

You are cordially invited to attend and participate in the inaugural
'Rail to Rail Body Surfing Extravaganza', hosted by the enigmatic Maximus
Truscott.

The contest will take place on the 22rd of December, 2008, at Sowetoes
Beach, St Francis Bay, starting at 9 AM Sharp. Late comers will be
excluded from the tournament, but still welcome to join the after party for
a few toots.
Entrée fee is a donation of at least 2 cans of pet food; all proceeds
are going to Save A Pet, birthplace of Maximus Truscott.

The calendar looks as follows:

Tuesday, 22nd December, 2008 (PLEASE NOTE THE CHANGE IN DATE FROM MY INITIAL E-MAIL!)

09:00: Meet at Sowetoes Parking Lot
09:15-09:30: Singing of National Anthem

09:45: first heat goes into the water

Finish time will depend on entry numbers (Tell your friends!!!)

The judging criteria is as follow:

All Methods of Body Surfing are welcome (The Bullet, The Handcuffs,
The superman, The shark Fin). Length of ride is the main objective,
however mud prawning (ie. Crawling with your hands and feet on the
sand to get further up the beach) is strictly prohibited. If you are
spotted cheating, there is a penalty of one extra can of pet food and
elimination from the tournament. (see http://heraldsurf.blogspot.com/2008/11/exclusive-celeb-special.html for an explanation)

Walter ‘6 Fins’ Chokastone has promised to come down and judge the affair, so bring you’re A- Game.

It is a winner takes all event. First prize is a case of cheap local
beer (Castle, Black Label, Hansa) and a victory lap across the beach,
escorted by Maximus Truscott.

To confirm your entry, please contact me on 072 929 1004, or mail me if you are short on airtime. IT IS VERY IMPORTANT THAT YOU GET HOLD OF ME ASAP. I want the heat sheets drawn up BEFORE Monday. Else this tournament will be a shambles. I will not tolerate my dog’s party being soiled upon by loskops!

Thank you,

Clayton Truscott

Soul Muti

This time last year I was worked for a mail order company (specializing in home décor) in Chiswick, London. It was my first real job outside of bars and restaurants. The thrill of having my own desk, a company e-mail address and a pile of clients to phone made me feel just like a grown up. I couldn’t wait to get home on my first day, crack open a larger and start moaning about how the boss was riding me.

The work itself was an eye opener.
I spent all day telling people their orders were not going to be delivered on the dates they were promised. You could basically cut the responses in half.

It was lonely widows and widowers who simply bought stuff for the sake of it. It hardly mattered whether or not the silk parasols and lampshades were going to arrive on time. They just wanted someone to speak to when you called. I could have said the shipment of stock was highjacked by a team of kangaroos wielding laser guns and they would have said, “ah, bless Dear, it’s allriii’”.

The second half of clients wanted heavy compensation or a trinket of my blood sent over instead. “Three months for a disco light! Outrageous!” They’d scream obscenities and curse my family until the office manager came up with a solution. No matter how happy or understanding you sound, telling someone that the goods they’ve paid for will take another three months to arrive is no fun.

“Put me back in the cage, this is heinous!” I thought after my first month.
When people started posting photos of the December holidays on facebook I wanted to crawl into a ball and scream for the beach sand.

So today’s post goes out to anyone sitting in an office far away, feeling like being an adult isn’t all its cracked up to be. Even if times are tough in South Africa with jobs, politics and crime, its still home and we all love it as is, warts and all. Especially when the sun shines and the waves are cranking.

I took a few pics of Anne Avenue in St Francis this morning, showing some of the progress the beach project has made. You can see the level of damage to the parking lot and then how much the beaches have improved since the project went ahead a few weeks ago. Very impressive.

SPFING

I saw a European looking tourist sitting under an umbrella at the beach last week, with burn scabs on his back the size of dinner plates. Where he wasn’t a screaming shade of lobster meat, his skin was matted with peely bits that flaked in the wind. The rest of his family were building sand castles and tossing beach balls in the sun, faces caked in purple zink. You could see the man had been sparing with sun block and was paying for mistake.

Sun creaming yourself up for a day in the sun has become a factor 50 affair. True story. Especially on days like this, where it’s as hot as hell and slightly onshore. The conditions are far more conducive to sharing a few labels with the buggers on the beach than surfing. But you’ve got to watch yourself and make sure you don’t end up like the sad Euro tourist, hiding under and umbrella while his family jols on the beach.

How about Kelly Slater winning the pipe masters? That’s incredible stuff. You’ve got to see the footage on www.aspworldtour.com to fully appreciate how skillful his performance was (not only his, but the other 44 surfers, too).

Bull Nonesense Revisited

A man with matted hair and a forehead piercing gave me a leaflet. His name badge said ‘Raphael’. He was jumping and spinning round, stopping people at random to ask if they’d heard about 2012. He said the world will end in four years. His leaflet explains everything. A major shift in the planet’s magnetic field will reverse earth’s polarity. This is terrible news for the human race. We’re all going to die.
Raphael was less than pleased with the news.

I went back to the shops later and found him weeping in an alleyway. He sniveled into the sleeve of his long coat. His upcoming novel about the extinction of Dodo’s will fall on deaf ears, now. ‘What does this twisted life mean!’’ bellowed Raphael.

I bought two cans of red stripe and took a seat beside him. ‘It’s ironic that you wrote about dodo’s as WE'RE ALL about to check out,’ I said to Raphael. I didn’t get an answer. Raphael shot his eyes at me and made a toilet face. He clawed the beer from my hand and screamed about the danger's of Jamaican beer. ‘That snake venom will end your life!’ yelled Raphael, ‘Believe me! Death is no good for people!’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I answered.
He stood up, lit a smoke and then wondered off to hand out more apocalypse leaflets. Strange cat, Raphael.

“Vot is thees bull nonsense? Vee vill all die enivay,’ said Lienka, my Polish housemate, when I told her the story that night. ‘Yoo are strange boy. Vy do yoo tok to the crazy man?’

I’m glad there are still unsolved mysteries. Stuff like yetis, UFO’s, ghosts, crazy people and god. Earth isn't half as exciting if you take them away. But if you think too hard about it, you'll miss the good stuff, like today's weather.

Independant Biltong Slices

Some things couldn’t work in South Africa. The American/ English system of pumping your own petrol is a good place to start. We’re not disciplined enough to do it. I’m not. Come the 20th of the month, stranded on the way home from a bar in Walmer, car dying of thirst and payday lurking in the shadows like a guilty conscience— I’d struggle NOT to sneak a Rhino’s worth of petrol to get home.
Same goes for refillable cool drinks at fast food restaurants. You’d have people sneaking paper cups of Fanta out the window at Mc Donald’s all day if we had bottomless soda fountains. I don’t mean this in a bad way. There’s just too much hunger and poverty around us for businesses to give away commodities.

There are plenty of things that DO work in South Africa, but probably wouldn’t elsewhere. Freelance car guards, for example. I know people get irritated with car guards, but think about life in South Africa without them? The ingenuity of the car guard movement is a collective act of genius. The market for car guards just created itself out of need. Instead of stealing cars, unemployed people started making sure other people didn’t— for a fee. I’ll gladly pay someone a few bucks to watch my car, while I’m surfing or at the shops.
Vuvuzelas at soccer matches are another one. Where in the world can a swarm of people blow the vuvuzela during a sporting event, wearing a pair of shades like the Niknaks man and be so natural?

Watching the Billabong Pipe Masters online last night got me thinking about this. Several international surfers in the top 45 gave up their spot in the competition, so that local wild cards could compete instead. The local surfers make a living out of surfing on the North Shore, and end up doing better than most competitors from elsewhere, anyways. It seems to be the respectful thing to do. I’ve never been to Hawaii, so I don’t understand the gravity of local rule on the island, but I’ve been reading some pretty heavy descriptions. There seems to be a set of rules and regulations that can only work in Hawaii; a way of doing things that makes the whole experience of going there completely unique. On the Zigzag website, there is a daily blog about the Hawaiian season, complete with details about the contests. http://zigzaghawaiiblog.blogspot.com/.

Hadida's Creek on the first weekend of December

This weekend’s trip to Cape St Francis got off to a slow start. There was no real hurry, but the plan was to leave at 2pm. We knew the waves would be abysmal, so it was more about setting up the braai than anything else.

Helping mom fetch the new washing machine and move the twin towers took far longer than expected.
Security was tight at the used appliance dealer’s house in Central. Three Doberman’s wielding machetes for teeth snapped passops at Zach and I; their snouts sticking through the font gate. We didn’t need to press the buzzer, as everyone on the block came outside to see who was there. “The girls are really tame, I promise! Lilly, Petal, Sal, be nice ladies!” said the little grey haired salesman, as Zok and I scrambled back into the car and locked all the doors for extra safety.
I could hardly breathe when we loaded the ’95 Defy into my dad’s cabbie. My knees wobbled and my arms felt like they’d unhinge at the shoulders, but at least there was a block of steel to use as ballast, should those foul beasts have chosen to strike. Our dog Maxi wouldn’t look at Zok and I when we got home. He sniveled about us smelling like the apocalypse.

The twin towers are a pair of cupboards that stand around 12 feet. They’re not heavy, but grinding them through the house made for a Laurel and Hardy skit.

Mase and I finally hit the road late in the afternoon, car piled up with boards and braaing accessories. Road works on the N2 have become part of the weather. It seems like they’ve always been there. Taking the Thornhill turn off is almost just The Way nowadays, and not a detour anymore. So it came as a surprise to the two of us when we encountered a burly road worker, standing near the gravel road where we needed to turn off. He flagged us down, pointing to a sign that said: ‘Detour closed.’ There were tattoos all over his bald head and he had an unlit, cigar sized roll up cig with no filter dangling in his mouth. I would have said he was a stranded Hell’s Angel if it wasn’t for the luminous yellow municipal waste jacket.
We stopped and I stuck my head out and said, “The road closed?” like an annoying person who doesn’t read signs.
The man lit a match effortlessly on his beard, looked at us and said, “Off the bloody road you shtupid d$$s, Go that way!” pointing South West. So we took off again and followed his order. Who doesn’t listen to someone that could break your arms with the crease in his forehead? “Should we turn back up the road?” asked Mase.
“No bru, I think he’s just given us the short cut,” I answered, “why else would he tell us to go this way?”

A hadida flew over the car, as we headed down a narrow road through an area I didn’t recognize. Nothing looked familiar. Not the green hills that ran like a sea of khaki shorts. Not the lonesome houses that popped up every once in a while. Nothing. The hadida squawked at us and then dropped a fresh white turd on the windscreen, which the wipers spread around like smoke in a bathroom. We planned to stop in J-bay to get petrol on the way, so it was of the essence that we didn’t take chances.

“You’re a kak navigator” said Mase. He wasn’t lying. I have a 97 year old deaf, blind a senile man’s sense of direction. We saw a large troupe of baboons leaping on an empty car lying in a roadside ditch. The alpha male ripped out the front seat out and steering wheel, and had it set them up in a thick baobab tree. He was pretending to drive, while his less sophisticated subjects used the abandoned vessel like a jungle gym.
“That’s our car in a week,” said Mase.

There were a few worried phone calls to family members for directions and the odd dirty word spoken. Our journey seemed to be taking us nowhere. But as we waddled cautiously over a long hill there stood a glimmer of hope within eyeshot: Hankey. We were not lost any more. As we turned onto Hankey’s main road, Radio Algoa reception shot back to life and we drove carelessly to the nearest petrol point, letting out a heavy sigh of relief.



***

The waiting period for the Pipeline Masters has just begun, so check out www.aspworldtour.com to see when its showing live. It’s the last of the WCT for 2008!

Staircase to Sunset

Does anyone remember being outrageously inspired by movies when they were young? After watching ‘Kickboxer’ I spent a few days trying to kick down every tree in my mom’s garden— I wanted to BE Jean Claude Van Damme.
Same story with Indiana Jones. I wore a dusty Stetson I found in the garage and terrorized my old Labrador for weeks, whipping her with a school tie.
I spent a few hours writing rap songs and pretending my dad was Uncle Phill after watching ‘The Fresh Prince of Bell Air’ for the first time. To try and look more like Will Smith, I wore an old cap the made my ears stick out. Anyways, you see what I mean?

It took around ten minutes to clear the sleep from my eyes this morning. I was still up at 3:30 this morning, watching the O’Neil World Cup of Surfing. South Africans Jordy Smith, Greg Emslie and David Weare had me standing on my seat and screaming at the computer. The waves at Sunset Beach were unholy and monstrous. Emslie and Weare secured their place on the 2009 WCT by making the quarter finals, and Smith blitzed through to the final.

When the final heat was over, I felt just like a kid after a good action movie. Hopped up on coffee, I ran up and down the stairs pretending it was a 25 foot sunset beast and high fived myself.

Don’t take my word for it though. Check out www.triplecrownofsurfing.com and watch the footage. i got the cool picture of Dave Weare from www.aspworldtour.com.

A Tale of Forced Redemption and Justice

None of us saw her coming. Not Warren, the cheeky one. Not Rudolph, the smartest. Not Styvies, the one who’d been smoking since he was 7. Not me, the day dreamer. We were in the games room above the bar. It would be three years before any of us ventured downstairs to drink legally. We tried very hard, many times, but in a town as small as St Francis Bay everyone knows how old you are. In any case, the games room had everything we really needed; music, a pool table, TV (and racks of surf movies), a room for our surfboards and Street Fighter 2. During the December of ’98 we must have heard Sublime’s ‘Robbin’ The Hood ‘album a thousand times and played as many games of pool.

Warren was dynamite on the pool table by January. The rest of us could hold our own.

The bar sold food. Back then it was the only legitimate restaurant in the village. Tourists flocked there in season. By mid January the excitement was over and the town felt sleepy again, except on weekends.

I saw a family of five having a meal there when we passed the bar, on our way upstairs. They were from Boksberg or Benoni. I can’t remember which. The father and his three sons looked like the same person at different ages.
The dad was wearing luminous polly shorts and a vest that had great dips in the armpits. The oldest son had a furry mustache like his dad’s.
The middle child had a mousy brown mullet and a bushy uni-brow that looked like it was sketched on his face with koki pen.
The youngest son looked tough. Although they were all stocky and plump, the littlest of them was probably energetic enough to burn off the family diet of ver koek and biltong.
***
The three brothers came upstairs after their meal, unprepared for Warren’s skill. “Challenger pays for the round,” Warren told them after they enquired about the pool table.
We took turns being Warren’s partner, whilst the Boksberg or Benoni brothers used up their money. They lost four games in a row, not managing to sink a ball during two of them.

They insisted we let them play a game without us once, as it was their last R2 coin.

“No ways, “said Styvies, “beat us once and you can play for as long as you like.”
“that’s how it works here, Koos times three,” said Warren.
“Ja bru, it’s a system that makes this place tick. Rules are rules,” said Rudolph.
I was getting stuck into Level 3 on Street Fighter and only heard the conversation.

The brothers took a few moments to confirm. Meanwhile, Warren was clearing the remaining balls from the previous game— he’d soundly beaten the middle and youngest brother playing left handed.

It was my turn to be Warren’s partner when the oldest and middle brother decided to play their last coin. There was electricity in the air. They were fired up, like soldiers on the front line. Victory meant redemption. We’d been playing on their dime for forty minutes.

Warren broke— Warren always broke, and sank two stripes off the bat. The middle brother answered back with a solid in the corner pocket. I scratched on my turn. A great dual was going down.

The Benoni or Boksberg brothers hissed at every missed opportunity; buried their heads in their hands when Warren sunk a ball; cheered for one another when they sank a few of their own.

I was up with just the black ball to go. I bent low and aimed. As I positioned the cue, the youngest brother reached up and whipped the white ball off the table.

‘Give it back, little guy, said Rudolph,’ speaking before Warren or Styvies had the chance to. The boy turned chili red and had tears went rolling down his cheeks. He backed up and stood in front of his brothers, as if to protect them.

‘What you doing!’ said Warren, grabbing the ball from his hands and placing it back in front of me.
‘Play the shot,’ he said. The other brothers stood frozen.

Again I aimed and again the youngest child stole the ball. The middle brother snatched it from his hand and gave it to me. I said thank you. Warren laughed. Rudolph sighed. Styvies went to smoke a cigarette outside.

I aimed my cue a third time, knowing the youngest brother would steal the ball from me. Something about him wouldn’t quit until justice was done. I often wonder if he was the sort of person who went on to be a police man or a traffic officer.

Instead of stealing the ball, the youngest brother ran at Warren and punched him in the nuts. Warren never missed a beat, and answered with a swift backhand to the young boy’s temple. The child let out a defeated howl. His oldest brother picked him up and Styvieshed downstairs, lulling his brave little brother.

“That’s right, take him away!” shouted Warren.

Styvies laughed at Warren, who was bending low and nursing his injured crucial bits. The room was silent otherwise. There was a hollowness in the air. Like we’d trampled a bunny or a small bird to death.

It wasn’t long before we heard massive foot steps rattling the staircase outside. DOOM DOOM DOOM DOOM
“It’s the dad,’ said Rudolph.
‘We’re dead,’ said Warren.
‘Kak, there’s four of us,’ said Styvies.
I never said anything.

Nothing could have prepared us for what came through the door. She looked like a giant, with ratty brown hair that reached the floor and a nose that was as wrinkled and bumpy as the vet koek she fed her three boys. The woman had to bend in half to fit through the wooden door frame. When she stood up straight her head almost touched the roof.
‘Who hit Nathan!’ she cried in a most polite English accent.
The four of us couldn’t answer.

Warren took the first, most aggressive blow. The mother in her must have seen that it was Warren. She wiped the look of surprise clean off his face with a brutal slap. Her palms were big enough to cup a watermelon. Warren spun off his chair and corkscrewed on to the floor.

Rudolph was next. She grabbed him by his ears and thrust his head into the wall, repeating the motion a few times. He dropped like a bag of damp soil.

Styvies was ready for her next move. He dodged the first three right hooks, but wasn’t anticipating a sneaky left jab that caught him under the chin. His chin split down the middle and spat blood like a punctured hose pipe.

I was next. ‘You!’ she cried, pointing at me. ‘Was it you?’
‘No ma’am!’ I sniveled. I couldn’t have moved quicker if there was a fire burning the place down. She was on me like a hot disease. In a Nazi marching style, she kicked me across the room. I wailed in terror as she advanced. She screamed back, cursing my parents in words and a tone that only angry mothers and scared children can understand.

When the dust cleared and we’d regained consciousness, the enraged mother and her family were gone.
‘What thuss ‘appmined?’ said Styvies, who’d bitten through his tongue.
‘Aggravated assault,’ I said.
‘We gotta find out where they’re staying and torch the place,’ said Rudolph.
No, we deserved that… Let it go. We’re lucky she didn’t tear us in half,’ said Warren, holding his cheek.

Notes from an East London Surf Trip: Part 2

After cruising through the Slum Town countryside on Sunday afternoon, we decided to see the new James Bond flik. Now, I love going to the movies, but the ticket and food prices are absurd. My dad has always felt this way about movie theatres and I see his point. "Twelve bucks for movies AND pop corn! Are you buying mandrax? Don't lie to me Bugs, we can help you," I remember him saying when I was in Standard 7 or so.

Strangely though, I feel like a junkie standing in line, fidgeting nervously, waiting to pay almost fifty bucks for coke and popcorn— especially since a bag of kernels and a box of cola syrup probably cost around R9 each. Next to booze and hard drugs, movie theatre treats must have the highest mark up for retail stock.

I’d consider bringing sandwiches and a bottle of Oros if I wasn’t so sadly hooked on popcorn. I have a terrible problem... It brings out the beast in me. A werewolf transformation takes place the moment salty popcorn touches my gums. I can’t get the next handful in my mouth quickly enough. By the time the trailers are done I’ll be half way through my second box. Twenty minutes into the movie I’ll have my cell phone out, using the light to help me put together 20 bucks in bronzies for a fresh box of the good stuff. And screw sharing. I’m a complete pig about it. Even if I’m on a first date, I’ll gladly buy a separate box so that I don’t have to share. When I'm finished my own box I'll steal from hers, too.

Its people like me that keep theatre owners selling treats for a small fortune. Bringing a packed meal to the movies is a far more affective act of protest than whining about the prices I gladly pay… there, I’m done ranting.

On the way back from East London this morning Zok and I stopped in Port Alfred again— this time to surf. It was a welcome break from the heat inside our air conditioner-less vehicle, which was starting to feel like an incinerator on wheels. We had East Beach to ourselves for a good forty minutes before a few locals joined. I managed to take a few pictures before my camera died, but it’s a crying shame I missed Zach’s barrel early on in the session. After getting thrown over the falls twice in a row, Zok stroked into a beast and set his line perfectly. The boytjie’s barrel was so sick it needed medical treatment.

Notes from a Road Trip to East London: Part 1

Hagen Engler wrote a story about PE and East London being Siamese Twins separated at birth and I finally get it. The main difference between them is waves and bars. Slummies has more of one, while PE has more of the other. Back when Turtle Morris was doing the surf report, he’d give a brief synopsis of the conditions in EL, after confirming that PE was still flat.
“What’s he say?” my brothers or friends would ask once I’d put the phone down.
“God hates PE surfers,” I’d reply, “Slummies is 6 foot and perfect.”
“And what about PE?” they’d ask, knowing in the heart of hearts exactly what the waves were like in PE.

This weekend Zok and I made an impulse decision to visit our older brother, Rokso, in Slummies. As we passed the turd factory near Blue Water Bay, I looked over and saw a group of kids playing on a windsurfing board near the river mouth. My dad had a board just like it when we were little. I remember doing the same thing with my brothers on days when we couldn’t surf, because the waves were too small.

No trip up the coast is complete without a Nanaga Pie along the way. My heart nearly stopped when I noticed the store locked up, like it’d been condemned. “Where’s it gone!” bellowed Zok. There were no signs of life. We shook our heads and moved on, mourning the loss of a great institution in a world gone bananas. With our bellies full of lost hope, we pushed on towards an imminent storm, brewing clouds like steam engine smoke.

At the other end of the freeway we found a pot of gold only South African leprechauns would appreciate: The New Nanaga Mega Store! Holy snakes. We had no idea they’d moved. The good people that gave us Lamb and Mint pies have reopened a shopping mall-sized farm stall, with a variety of original flavors that will make you cry. The new building looks fantastic and the pies as magical as ever.



By the time we reached Port Alfred rain was pelting down like gunfire from above. We decided to park the car at East Beach and wait for the weather to calm down. The wind was howling cross shore and the swell was small, but the sand banks at East Beach still looked immaculate. Although we couldn’t stop for a surf along the way, we’ve sworn to do so on the way home tomorrow. PA has some of the best waves in the Eastern Cape. Thanks to the popularity of Jefferies Bay, it’s not over run by tourists and surfing piggies— although you do have to watch your manners and pay the locals their due.

We got to Slum Town on Saturday afternoon around 4PM, at the same time a lightning and hail storm rocked the little city. Instead of dropping our bags off and going for a surf before sunset, we scrambled indoors and cracked a few cold ones, whilst the horizon lit up like a fire cracker.


It seemed as though PE had followed us to EL, as Sunday morning’s surf check reminded me of home. Eastern Beach and Nahoon Reef were gutless and small. Zach sampled the goods, but got out very quickly. “Like pipe,” was the exact expression he used to describe the waves. Even though I expected to feel cheated by the flat ocean, I couldn’t help having a good day with my brothers.



The three of us live in different cities, so the times we get to hang out are as rare as a 6 foot day in PE. We spent the rest of the afternoon driving up the coast to spots like Yellow Sands, Glen Eden and Queensbury Bay. The waves were rubbish everywhere, but walking up and down the beach and picnicking in the hillside was as much fun as anyone needs to have. The stuff you do while waiting for waves is important to remember, like playing in the river, on a dusty old windsurfer, with your brothers.

I’ll have more photos and a comprehensive entry tomorrow or Wednesday, depending on how caught up we get in PA on the way home. The waves are shocking again today, so we’ll have to carry on making the best of what’s around.


***

The O'niel World Cup of Surfing continued this weekend at Sunset Beach. When the round of 64 continues this week, we'll see the likes of David Weare, Ricky Basnett (who kicked so much ass in his previous heat it wasa frightning), Jordy Smith and Greg Emslie. you'll find the live feed on www.triplecrownofsurfing.com.

A Secret Spot Just outside PE...

I'm only joking. It's nowhere near PE. Or South Africa.

I just got this link from www.surfersvillage.com. I can't believe how crazy the sequence is. follow the link to see what Ryan Hipwood had to say about waltzing with the Devil at Ship sterns, Australia.

(http://surfinglife.com.au/cms/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=2166&Itemid=264)

All Year Round Summer Suit

It feels like I just climbed the Campanile, King Kong style.
I limped to the kitchen this morning, flicked on the coffee percolator and groaned. My fingers hurt. My legs hurt. My arms hurt, especially. My neck and head hurts.
‘Curse that devil water!’ I said. The labels I’d had last night were laced with poison, no doubt. The bar owners of Port Elizabeth want our blood AND our money.

So walking to the beach was out of the question. Instead I took my coffee and drove down casually. The wind had come up quite a bit by then, sawing yesterday’s easterly swell in half. The sand banks look ok, though (see the picture of HUMEWOOD). There might still be a few peaks at fence when the tide pulls in.



The real reason for my pain was on the bedroom floor. My sweaty trainers should have given it away— I’d clean forgotten about playing tennis yesterday. It wasn’t the greatest game I’ve played (form was shaky), but it felt lekker to be running around again. Something has to be done about these aches and groans though. I can’t be 25 pushing 60 yet.

I’ve never been interested in buffing up for summer. Or at all— I like being skinny. It’s practical, you know? It makes sense when you live in a city with waves that roar like a garden sprinkler. I also like eating pies, drinking beer and chilling round the braai. None of these pastimes lend themselves to having a figure like an MTN Gladiator.

I got a free trial pass at Virgin Active a few years ago, under the pseudonym ‘Valentino Ramone’ (a cool ‘Gym Name’, I thought). The bikes, treadmills and pool were the only apparatuses I could use with a straight face. Still, I couldn’t justify spending hundreds of Rands every month to do those things indoors. It seems like a waste of nature. The guys using the free weights in front of the big mirror were too funny, too. I had no idea how much vanity and self-love went into getting buff. It’s a real man’s activity, ‘ey?

So I’m thinking a healthy balance of surfing, tennis and Black Label should keep my kwashiorkor- figure intact through the hot summer months.

EXCLUSIVE CELEB SPECIAL!!!

Yesterday was an absolute cracker. I spent most of the afternoon wishing I could surf— my ankle is still a wreck, so I settled for a body surfing session at Pollok Beach. It’s been many moons since I darned a Speedo and took to the ocean without a board, but I was surprised by how much I enjoyed it. I left gagging for more, but feeling like I need some pointers— as I said, I’m way out of touch with the sport of body surfing.

So I got hold of an old friend, named Walter ‘6 Fins’ Chokastone, when I got home. He’s the current World Body Surfing Champion, currently on a short holiday. One of the Eastern Cape’s lesser known celebs, 6 Fins prefers to maintain his anonymity when he’s off the tour. I was disappointed to learn he’s developed an accent like Charlize Theron, but I suppose that can’t always be helped when you’ve been gone so long.

Here’s a quick Bio:

Born and then abandoned near the wild chicory fields of Alexandria, young 6 Fins hitchhiked towards the coast when he was 5 days old. It was on a wild and empty beach, somewhere close to Cannon Rocks and Kenton on Sea, that 6 Fins was adopted by a family of otters and rescued from obscurity. Initially a weak swimmer and shy toddler, it was the Chief Otter of the clan, Cramerstarch Blackclaws, who saw the potential Walter 6 Fins possessed.

Blackclaws took Walter under his wing and taught him the Otter Ways of Survival (a five step program developed by Blackclaws, which is taught to all sea mammals). It wasn’t long before Walter could source food, speak and sing in fluent otter, perform the mating ritual and (MOST importantly) ride waves like an animal born of the sea. He even developed an otter-like appearance as he got older, although he is still technically a man.

During a deep sea fishing trip, a group of American businessman saw 6 Fins doing back flips off a sperm wale, some 40 nautical miles offshore. He was caught and taken back to America straight away, where he began work at Sea World. Baby Shamu and 6 Fins got a routine going, where they choreographed Vanilla Ice’s dance moves from ‘Ice Ice Baby’ in the pool and became an instant hit. They were set for stardom. Kids came from all over the world to see Walter and Shamu’s dynamic act.

When neither Shamu nor Walter 6 Fins got the leading part in Free Willy, tempers flew off the handles. “What is this ghastly life supposed to mean!” Shamu was reported to have said in her native orca tongue, during shows after the rejection. Kids couldn’t relate to such somber material. Ratings dropped quickly.

On the other hand, Walter 6 Fins took the ordeal in his stride. He knew a great spot in California, called The Wedge, where body surfing flourished. He missed the wild. ‘Showbiz was great,’ said 6 Fins, scoffing a fresh sardine, ‘but I was getting comfortable, you know? I wanted to be a wild otter/man again… there’s something very juvenile about doing backflips for your paycheck.” With his earnings from Seaworld, 6 Fins moved to Cali and started competing in body surfing tour events. It wasn’t long before ‘Walter 6 Fins Chokastone’ became a household name in body surfing circles.

He won his first event on the WBST (World Body Surfing Tour) at 22 years old and won his first world title a year later. Today he is sponsored by numerous multinational companies that pay him a doosh load of money to wear their gear and endorse their products, whilst competing on tour. ‘Am I happy with success…’ says 6 Fins, smiling, ‘sure. Why not?’

As I was saying earlier, 6 Fins took some time out from his ruthless schedule to chat to me and illustrate the different body surfing techniques to. He sent me this picture via e-mail, as well as a description of the big wave riding technique he uses in waves of consequence.

‘The Bullet Technique’ as told by Walter 6 Fins Chokastone:



“’The tricky thing about the bullet,’ says 6 Fins, ‘is that you’ve got to keep your back arched and stiff. It’s a bumpy ride, but you’ll be golden if you can keep your body taught. I eat a strict diet of fish, seaweed and seagull droppings to give me the sort of muscle tone it takes to ride waves this big. With other styles, like The Handcuffs and The Superman Arms’ (6 Fins holds his paws out, illustrating the two styles), ‘you can guide yourself nicely in small waves, but when you’re at a spot like Dungeons (see picture), you run the risk of catching a rail with your palms. So The Bullet, although not as precise as all other methods, is the most affective when riding big waves.’

On behalf on Rail to Rail, I’d like to thank 6 Fins for speaking to me and giving me permission to run this photo. For anyone who is interested, the Walter 6 Fins Chokastone biography, ‘Fish Out Of Water’, will be coming out early next year. You can preorder it via Kalahari.com

***
It’s the usual in PE today. It’s windy and the waves are small. If you were an otter, it’d be cranking. But sadly we’re not otters, so the waves are no good.

The Beach Project in St Francis Bay has finally gotten into gear. You can check out the St Francis Bay website http://www.sfbresidents.org:80/Beach-Project.htm to see how the dilapidated St Francis Bay beaches will be restored soon (hopefully in time for the holiday season). The website also has info on the Nuclear power station that will possibly be built near Oyster Bay.

Parental Chopping Block Work

Some vital lessons make chalk powder of your self esteem. For example, returning a stolen chocolate is a mortifying experience. I saw it happen to a friend of mine when we were in junior school. He stood at the counter with fountains in his eyes, while his father and the store owner threatened a myriad of horrible forfeits. Passerby’s shook their heads and whispered. Other kids sniggered. No one was going to send an eight year old to jail for hustling a Chomp, but the little moegoe needed to be taught something important. He was finally dragged to the car by his wrists, still begging for mercy.

I escaped that day with a Sweety Pie in my pocket, believing I’d dodged a bullet. But life had a strange way of bringing me to justice…

***

During the mid nineties Groundswell Surf Club took flight in Port Elizabeth. It had all the makings of a proper organization: corporate sponsorship from Oceans Surf Shop, bimonthly contests (with results printed in the Zigzag) and weekend trips to Seal Point. There was an AGM at the end of each year, with trophies given to the winners of each division and a special prize for the most improved surfer. Even though the club T-shirt fit me like a wedding dress, wearing it made me feel invincible.

I surfed in my first Groundswell Club contest during the season of ’95. Dylan Stone and myself were the youngest kids there; in standard 4 at the time. My parents dropped me off at The Fence early that Saturday morning, smothering me with kisses and good luck wishes. I thought I was going to evaporate when my father came back to check with contest head judge, Graham Finnemore, that I would be looked after properly.

Lucky for me Graham understood the sort of near-death embarrassment a 12 year old’s parent can cause him/her; I was looked after well at the contest and not judged for being a noonie boy. In fact, it was one of the best days of my life. I spoke shop with people who understood me— everyone compared Rip Curl’s surf movies to Billabong’s, Curren vs. Occy, Pear Jam vs. Nirvana. I’d found my herd. Members included some of PE’s biggest names in surfing: Arno Lane, Joey Calhou, Frikkie Kritzinger, Brad Sorour and Jaco Kapp. All of them surfed for Province. Watching them was like a fireworks display on water. Those guys could do aerials and 360’s and sick layback tail slides like Frankie Olberholzer.

Around the supper table that night I yammered on about the contest without taking a breath. I was so busy talking I didn’t have time to think up a decent excuse when my mom interjected, asking me where my new beach towel was. It was a Christmas present from her; a very practical and expensive one. She’d written my name on it in thick black koki pen and warned me about losing it several times. And when it wasn’t in my bag that night she wanted answers. All I came up with on the spot was that someone had taken it home by accident.

I still have no idea what happened to that bloody towel. My mom started digging straight away: Who used your towel? When did they use it? Are you sure they still have it? Etc. And for all the embarrassment lying about it caused me, I wished I’d just owned up and said I lost it. I could have said I gave it away and gotten off easier.

But I wanted freedom at any cost.
I told my mom that Joey Calhou used it last—he was one of the founding members of Groundswell Surf Club and an employee of Oceans Surf Shop at the time. I wish I’d balmed it on Dylan. I thought throwing her off the trail with a name she didn’t recognize would buy me some time to make up a better story. But my mom is a blood hound when it comes to sniffing out lies.

“Call him and ask for your towel,” she demanded at 9 o clock that night.
I begged her no. Not that. Calling one of the club’s head honchos to ask for my missing towel world make the world explode.
“No mom, please! I’ll get booted out the club… mom, please, I’ll be expelled!” I sobbed.
But she was relentless. By then I was in a corner; I’d twisted my words so much and retold too many versions of the story. I felt like Macbeth, far too steeped in lies to turn back.

In the end I didn’t get booted out of Groundswell Surf Club. I called Joey Calhou and said he owed me a towel. “I’m lank sorry to ask you, bru, but my mom’s going to send me to boarding school in Hankey if I don’t come up with a towel,” I said during the phone-call. To my absolute amazement and relief, he was cool about it. A little confused as to why he was taking the fall for the disappearance of some lightie’s Colibri beach towel, but graceful. I’m sure my weepy tone helped. My mom took me round to Oceans the next day to claim one of Joey’s towels (a bright red one), which became the scarlet letter of my youth. Every time I used that replacement towel, I felt like surfing’s Hester Prynne, wearing the mark of sin.

The guilt ate me alive.
When I eventually owned up to everything about 6 months later, my mom made me return the towel. If the first phone-call was embarrassing, I can not begin to describe how bad the second one was. Joey Calhou must have thought me a complete nut. “Ah, bru, I’m lank sorry I blamed you for my missing towel. It was a kak thing to do, but I was scared. My mom says I have to give yours back now…” They were some of the most cutting words I’ve had to say, but I’m glad it happened. In the end, it was a lesson I should have learned on the day I escaped with a Sweety Pie in my pocket.

***

My friend, Rennie Pringle, picked up his new summer board last Friday. It’s the most outrageous fish— designed like a board from the 70’s. It’s a work of art, complete with handcrafted balsa wood fins. Looking at the conditions today (it’s hot, windless and flat as a pancake), his board will the ideal toy for enjoying summer.

The Reef Pro was finished this weekend. Greg Emslie was the highest placed South African in the event, making it to the Quarter Finals— a very respectable result in Hawaii.
The second event of the Triple Crown, the O’Neil World Cup of Surfing, starts its waiting period later today at Sunset Beach. www.aspworldtour.com will take you to the event site.

A Decent Spot

I get why people say the world is getting smaller. It is, so to speak. Us humans are coming up with some impressive junk. Just yesterday, via the web, I chatted to three friends in the UK, another three in the States and one in Lorraine (at almost 10 bucks a liter for petrol, anywhere further than Walmer is foreign territory to me).

On days like this— when the wind is onshore, there’s no swell and it’s raining, take a break from facebook and check out www.thesurfersvillage.com (if you MUST be in front of a computer). Thesurfersvillage.com covers everything from product development to global swell charts, spot reviews and current ecological affairs. They ran an interesting piece yesterday about the Green peace workers who dumped a load of tuna heads in front of the agriculture ministry building in Paris, in protest of the reckless tuna fishing industry- (http://www.surfersvillage.com/surfing/37640/news.htm).



It’s day 8 and there’s still no Reef Pro action going down in Hawaii. Apparently there’s a chunk of swell heading that way today, so event organizers are sure they’ll wrap it up by the weekend.

The '72 Second Hows It Broe' Conversation

Everyone tends to know everyone in PE. It's a small city, where only a handful of bars and restaurants survive at the top end (Toby Joes is something of a Cinderella story in town). And I mention bars and restaurants, because after you've been to the movies, had a go on the roller coaster at Playland, driven the go-carts next to the Gravy Train and walked through Art-In - The-Park, there isn't much else to do for consumer entertainment. So it’s where most hip, well to do people hang out. Now, with limited space, people and public facilities to work around, it's hard not to bump into someone you recognise.

In the interest of avoiding strained and awkward conversations with people you know, but don't necessarily like talking to, the 72-second ‘Hows it Broe’ conversation was born. The 72 second Hows It Broe is a white flag of sorts; a tool that gives people amnesty from rudeness.

There are a few factors that increase or decrease the level of difficulty when executing a 72 second Hows It Broe. Like how well you know someone's extended family, when you last spoke, general social politics (like if you have/ are dating this particular person’s ex, cousin or sister), your current state of mind and the amount of common interest you share (like sport and recreation).

Let's start with an example of a sober conversation between Leroy (a twenty three year old sales rep) and Vernon (a twenty one year old student/ bar tender). Leroy finished high school two years before Vernon and they lived in the same suburb as children. Leroy dated Vernon's cousin, Kate, for three months. Sadly, Kate dumped Leroy after a few short weeks. Days afterwards she began dating Solly Rogers, a guy Leroy hates for no sound reason. But this was all back in high school. Leroy is at a local pub with one Hansas under the belt, Vernon has just walked in (to meet a different group of friends). Leroy is sitting near the entrance, so Vernon can not walk passed without saying hi. Theoretically he could walk right passed and say nothing, but that would be rude, right?


Leroy: Hey, Vernon! Hows it Broe?
Vernon: Leroy, jeez man!
(They do a manly handshake. Leroy strategically turns to face Vernon, so that he won't have to introduce him to his associates)

Leroy: Jusos man, long time. What you up to these days?

Vernon: Ah, not much hey, still studying. You?

Leroy: Same old hey… Just work and so on. How's Kate?

Vernon: She's well. Busy in London. Working at a call center. How's your boet?

Leroy: Gosh I wondered why I hadn't seen her in so long.
He's cool. Still working hard.

Vernon: Jussie man, how's Province going down like that to Natal?

Leroy: Ah, don't get me started. In no time at all we're not even going to be allowed
to play at a provincial level.

Vernon: Ja, its complete bollocks.
(A momentary silence ensues. They both nod, as if to process the updates they've given one another)
Vernon: So, I'm meeting some people down there.
(Vernon points to a table of guys that are waving back smugly)

Leroy: Ja, no worries hey, don't let me keep you. We'll chat later.

Vernon: good to see you man.

Leroy: Ja, you too. See you soon pal.

Vernon: Cheers.

Leroy: Cheers.

(The part ways with the same handshake)

This is a superb example of the 72 Second Hows it Broe executed tactically. They managed to cover all the essentials: personal well being, family, common interests and work. All in all, I give them both eight out of ten. A noteworthy element of the 72 Second Hows it Broe is timing. I can't stress this enough. Had the conversation taken place several beers later, the conversation could have looked like this:

Leroy: Whoooohooooo! Hows It Broe! What's crappening bugger!
(Leroy hugs Vernon tightly)

Vernon: Ahoy! Whooohoo! Nothing much! You?

Leroy: Jussie, life is just peaches and cream all the way. Work is as much fun as a disco
In Patensie and my boss keeps accusing me of stealing toilet paper rolls. What
you been up to?

Vernon: Ah, just the usual, you know? Time travel, Lego and play dough. The usual.

Leroy: Jussie man! Tell me about it. Oh my socks, how's Kate?

Vernon: I dunno hey? She's in London now. We chat on facebook and that once in a
while..

Leroy: Jeez man, I can't believe she dumped me for Solly Rogers! You remember that
moron? What was his deal? Proper chop, that ou. You know Kate was my first?

Vernon: Jussie bru! I don't wanna hear that stuff. She's family!

Leroy: Ja, but I'm just saying, you know? Why did she dump me?
I mean I really digged her, and that ou just rubbed
It all in my face.

Vernon: No man, cut it out. I don’t mind him.

Leroy: You lucky you don't know him. He's irritating and rude!

Vernon: Jeez, Leroy, what's your deal tonight?

Leroy: I dunno man, I think I'm lonely and still heartbroken.
(Vernon looks away and checks his watch)

Vernon: I must find my friends. I'm supposed to be giving
someone a lift in a bit.

Leroy: Kay Cheers.

Vernon: Cheers man, see you soon.

(Leroy lunges for another hug, but Vernon seemed a bit too annoyed for that now. He shrigs him off and walks away.)

In this second example, the ‘72 Second Hows It Broe’ has been obliterated. My first criticism points to the length of the conversation. It’s got to be just over a minute. No more. They spoke for almost 3. Also, neither person seemed interested in what the other had to say—you’ve got to work as a team to get it over with quickly.
Leroy will feel like an idiot for talking about Kate so explicitly (and for getting blocked when he went for hug number 2), and Vernon will feel stupid for being harsh. With more alcohol, higher emotional content and aggressive personalities involved, 72 Second Hows It Broes have been known to culminate in fistfights. So it's important to assess your situation and to take into account all the variables, as each conversation is special in its own way.

The details of these conversations are often seen on facebook, which is good for anyone seeking feedback. You can log on to find out what’s happening in town at any time of the day or night. Citizens of Port Elizabeth are the most prolific and shameless facebook profile updaters on planet earth. The personal details astound me— e.g. ‘Leroy Peters is missing his baby shoes! Come Back Darling! MWA MWA’. Stuff like that is par for the course. Guys and girls like my imaginary friend, Leroy, only need to ask themselves one serious question about facebook updates: Who gives a rotten hoollie?

. And that, folks, is the 72- second Hows It Broe conversation of Port Elizabeth.

A Formal Apology to Maximus

I was up at 7am, drinking coffee on the balcony, watching a small group of surfers dart across the glassy peaks at Fence. The waves weren’t perfect, but it looked like the kind of fun kids have on a free rollercoaster. It was overcast and windless— perfect conditions for PE. Sadly I couldn’t be one of them. I’m nursing a trashed ankle after an embarrassing fall at Seals last Saturday. I pirouetted on the slime- covered rocks in the channel, twisting my foot and scraping a few essential layers of skin off my toes. So I’m landlocked until my body grows more. Maxi’s been passing me some dirty looks of late, outraged by my carelessness that has led to him being robbed of daily walks along Kings Beach. I’m sorry big guy.

If anyone wants to read about what it’s like to spend a season on the North Shore, there is a link from the zigzag website to their Hawaii blog (www.zigzaghawaiiblog.blogspot.com). There are some pretty entertaining stories on offer.

Filling the Void

The Olympic Games are incredible. The concept blows my mind: people from all over the world gathered in one place, competing in a series of interdisciplinary events. It’s all about sportsmanship and national pride (If only religion and politics could do something that cool). I was obsessed this year. Whether it was boxing, slalom kayaking, springboard diving or table tennis, my eye balls were fixed on the TV. Riveted.

There were only two disappointments. One was Judo. Watching judo brought out the school child in me. No one does anything. It’s all blocks and counter maneuvering your opponent. It felt like I was back in high school, cheering on a fight in the bathrooms. “Moer him! Come one, just Bliksem the ou, man! What’s wrong with you?” I wailed. Definitely not a spectator sport.
The other was South Africa’s medal count. Every morning Tim, my English boss and landlord, would walk down stairs with a big smile on his face. “Morning Clayton, watching the games again are you? Oh, jolly good show. Shall we have a look at the medal count then? Ooh, What’s that? England are in the top 5— South Africa…Hmmm, don’t seem to have won a medal yet after the first week?” You can only fall back on the bokke beating England during the World Cup so many times…

Anyhow, when the games were over I mourned for ages. I was still getting up at 6 to watch highlights a week later. But after you start seeing reruns for the twelfth time, you’ve got to let go and accept that it will be a matter of years before the magic happens again.

The Triple Crown of Surfing is not as big as the Olympics, but a part of me feels like its filling the void for now. Although it’s not on TV, I still find myself checking and rechecking the site every day.

The women’s heats of the Reef Pro kicked off this weekend, starting with the trial heats. You can find a highlights package on this link: http://triplecrownofsurfing.com/?cat=19. Look out for Carissa Moore (Hawaii), Laura Enever (Australia), 17, and Coco Ho (Hawaii), 17—they surfed on another level. I’ve never seen young girls kick so much ass in the water.

In the men’s event, Rudy Palmboom Jr. and Jordon Smith (both from Natal) did themselves and the country proud during Round 3. Palmboom advanced to the fourth round, making it through from the first round of competition. This is a phenomenal achievement for any 20 year old. Smith posted the highest heat score of the round.
When round 4 kicks off (which could be any day this week, depending on the conditions), all the seeded South Africans, like David Weare, Greg Emslie, Travis Logie and co. will take to the water. www.tripplecrownofsurfing.com has all the links to each event.

Unplugged in PE on a Thursday Morning

“Merciful heavens! The sun is broken!”

This is what I woke up to this morning— Selby screaming at the weather. She’s a burley woman with a beard thicker than mine. She hangs a black wrench from her belt and chews press-stick instead of bubblegum.

“What are you talking about? The sun isn’t broken. It’s probably just load shedding. Doing its bit for Eskom, or Koeboerg, you know?” I told her, rubbing sleep out my eyes as she walked through the front door.

“No, the sun is finished. It’s needed a service for years! Scientists have been wasting their time and OUR money by sending monkeys into space. A mechanic should be up there!” she wailed, waving her wrench around. She put the kettle on and threw a slice in the toaster.

“Ok, ok, the sun is broken. But so is our pool. It’s green, like blended frogs legs. When are you going to fix that? People in the complex have been asking about it” I said to her.

“No need! You can’t swim in this weather. Besides, we have bigger fish to fry— the planet’s source of light is in jeopardy! Honestly, when did you get so selfish?” answered Selby. She was sipping stale milk from my fridge when I heard more commotion outside.

Reilly Smith, the Welshman with two surnames instead of a first name, darted across the front lawn. He was knocking on people’s doors, asking if anyone had pink-eye medicine for his rattle snake, Satan. “He’ll die from this pandemic! It’s horrible! The poor dear is suffering!” said Reilly, smothering his tears into a blue hanky. I gave him a tin of Zambuk and said to rub on Satan’s tail three times a day. “Zambuk is an age old recipe. It fixes everything. Even pure evil,” I said, chuckling a bit.
“Bless you, Bless you and a thousand times more, Bless you!” said Reilly, clapping his hands.

Maxi disturbed my morning coffee afterwards, nudging a copy of Ryk Neetlings biography at my feet. “Maxi!” I snarled, “I’m not reading this garbage to you. It’s about a rich white guy that swims. End of story. Go find another book!” Maxi was less than impressed with my outburst. He went back up to my room and pee’d on my wetsuit, just to let me know who was in charge.

Yip, it’s only 9:15 and things are already getting weird. There must be something in the weather making PE folks go batty. I’ve decided to go back to bed and try waking up again. Enjoy your sanity while it lasts :)

Rip, The Car Whisperer

My car keys have a life of their own. True story. I’ve become a skilled liar because of them. Who would believe me if I said, “I’m sorry I’m an hour late for work. My car keys were hanging on Maxi’s collar. I only found them after I heard him reversing out the garage with a six pack of labels and some friends in the back.” It’s absurd, but I swear it happened.

I spent two days looking for my keys once. You know where they were: In my car, still in the ignition. I’m almost certain those keys were cursed by a witch- doctor with a penchant for natural comedy. It has to be the answer. Because every time something important is about to happen, my keys are MIA.

Like when the waves are firing. I’ll go hooting down the stairs like a wild Indian Chief and then notice my keys aren’t on the hook near the front door. So I’ll tear up my room and empty cupboards on the floor looking for them– with no luck. After I give up and resign myself to walking, I’ll find my keys dangling in my hand. And I swear they weren’t there to begin with.

So last week Maxi and I drove out to the source of my problems. I bought the car from an old war vet named Rip Petersbergson. He lives in a tin shack on small holding passed Thorn-hill. His house is less than humble, but his garage is a triple story mansion that houses thirteen cars. I had a feeling the guy was a bit too car-crazy when he handed me the keys last year.

“So listen Rip, about the car you sold me… the maroon corsa… did you ever notice something weird the keys?” I asked.
“Hmmm. Not that I can remember. What seems to be the problem?” asked Rip, adjusting his yellow Hogan-bandana.
“Jussis, you’re never going to believe me, but the keys keep playing tricks on me. It’s like the car and the keys are in cahoots… like they’re alive,” I said.
“What, like on Transformers or Herbie?” Rip asked.
“No, I wish. This thing behaves like a Tokoloshe. Seriously, it’s ruining me. I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve been late for work eight times in the last 2 weeks. I’ll get fired if something doesn’t change soon.”

I handed Rip the keys and left him to inspect the vehicle. Rip told me to go take a walk and give him some time alone with the car. “I’m a genuine car whisperer,” Rip assured me, “I was trained by the finest whisperers on earth.”
“Sheez, really? Where was that? Tibet or China?” I asked.
“Uitenhage, buddy,” said Rip, “I’ll have this key behaving itself in no time.”

Maxi and I busied ourselves on the farm next door, moo-ing at the cows and what not.
After an hour we went back and found Rip sitting on my car’s roof, doing crazy wheel spins on the grass, holding onto a bridal that was wrapped around the corsa’s bumper.
“Yeeeha! she’s fine now, got this little key to listen properly I tell you,” wailed Rip, holding on to the reigns with one hand and his bandana with the other.

At his command, the corsa stopped moving and parked outside the garage. Rip walked over to me and took the keys out his pocket.
“How did you do that— without the keys?” I asked, at a loss for words.
“Never mind, son,” said Rip, “Us whisperers know our game. Those keys won’t give you another day’s trouble.”
“Thank you! Thank you!!” I said, relieve this nightmare was finally over.
“No problems boy, that’ll be R2000. Cash only, please.”

So that’s why I’m always late. I’ll be on time from now on, Thanks to Rip, The car Whisperer.

***

If anyone’s interested, the Reef Pro starts this afternoon at around 5PM South African Time. The surf report in Hawaii says there is good swell on the way, so the contest should kick off on day 1. you can find the link on www.aspworldtour.com.

You should take a look at this

This is the link to the full sequence of that photo from the Oakley BIg Wave Contest. It's completely insane.


http://surfinglife.com.au/bigwaveawards/cms/index.php/entries/35-entries/86-kerby-brown-october-2008

Old Videos and Pouring Rain

I was going through the household storage cupboards when I stumbled across my collection of VHS Surf Movies. My brothers and I must have watched PUMP, The Green Iguana and Sons of Fun at least two thousand times over the years. I can still hear mom walking through the lounge, saying, “Are you kids watching that Again!” half in disbelief, half in disgust. Not that I blame her— it was a tad slothful. But when you’re thirteen years old in PE, obsessed with surfing and unable to convince yourself the ripples at pipe are waves, you’ve got to do something. So we either skateboarded up and down the down the driveway all afternoon or watched surfing movies. It was more productive than lighting fire crackers or sniffing glue, I suppose.

If you’re interested in stirring nostalgia, there’s a rad website that reviews the 25 greatest surfing movies of all time— http://www.listropolis.com/2008/03/25-greatest-surf-movies-of-all-time/. North Shore (1987) was robbed. It doesn’t even appear on the list. What a sham— the cast and crew were incredible: Rob Paige, Occy, Laird Hamilton and Jerry Lopez. These are some of the biggest names in surfing history staring in a full on Hollywood cheese fest. It’s right up there with Thrashin’ (a skateboarding film of the same caliber) and Point Break (a faux pas amongst the kind of surfers it moronifies).



It’s weird how only certain movies and TV programs are appreciated by all generations, like surfing movies are.

If you weren’t a teenager (or a bit silly) when Ace Ventura came out, you won’t appreciate how priceless the humor was in 1994. I tried watching it with my land lady’s twelve year old daughter a few months ago and she wouldn’t sit through more than 20 minutes. Jasmine dismissed it as “complete rubbish”! I suppose it was a bit doff, but it holds a special place in my heart— right alongside Dumb and Dumber and Terminator 2.

There is also comedy that does go stale in time. Who’s The Boss is one of those programs that can never be revisited. Tony Danza’s character is the kind of guy likely to get punched at a braai if he were real today. I can just hear my Afrikaans friends talking about the doos with the kak laugh.

Horror movies are possibly better at transcending eras. The Exorcist will always be a scary movie in my mind. Every time I see that girl walking down the stairs backwards on her hands, I want to hose my bed down with holy water. I’d also be interested to see how kids nowadays respond to ‘It’. Pennywise the clown caused me too many nights of sleeping with the light on.

I don’t know… The rain is pouring outside today and all I want to do is rent North Shore, just like when I was absent from school so many years ago.

The competitive surfing world is standing by for the most crucial time of the year. The Triple Crown of Surfing starts tomorrow on the North Shore of Oahu (the 6-Star Reef Hawaiian Pro at Haleiwa is the first event). Competition goes bananas during these three WQS events left on the calendar. Amongst them are a host of South Africans, so log on to www.aspworldtour.com in the coming weeks to see how things are panning out there.

One of the Okes

If anyone has been wondering why Rail to Rail is pink…

I believe the template was corrupted during a technical procedure of sorts. It’s nothing that won’t be fixed very soon.
I’m not exploring my feminine side, or trying on the metrosexual salmon-pink vibe. It’s just a glitch, okay?

As a show of my extreme manliness and commitment to being one of the okes, I’ve decided to post a picture of a lank big wave and write in my breeker voice.




This thing is laaak, massive hey. Whotchoo okes think?

Thanks to Brett for sending the link to me- we’ll catch up soon broe. Go eat steak and drink beer while Boots and All is on. Maybe fix our cars in the afternoon. You know, laak, a day with the boys hey.

Also, jusss, I nearly kaked my broeks this weekend during that game against Wales. Juso man, the laaast, laak, ten minutes were hectic hey? Thought the boks were gonna blow it.

Ill have some more new a bit later on. I’m just going to jog around Uitenhag quickly. I’ll probably do about 2 hundred thousand push ups when I get back and then drink a few protein shakes. You know, laak, a normal day for one of the okes.

Note: The picture comes from www.surfermag.com, where they are covering the Oakley Surfing Life Big Wave Awards.

Scales That Tickle

My friend, Jocelyn, came with Maxi and I to look at the waves yesterday. The foamy mess of white water and brown seaweed inspired a frown. “It’s two foot and ONSHORE,’ I said.
“What do you mean onshore?” she asked. My summary was a bit vague, I suppose.
“Explain yourself,” she added.

Maxi wasn’t about to sit around and listen to me babble on about surfing. So he got out the car to chase seagulls and pee on stuff.

“On shore,” I explained, “is wind that blows from the ocean towards the land (a sea breeze). Onshore wind has a crumbling affect on waves, collapsing them prematurely and churning the water into pea soup at the same time.
“Offshore wind has the opposite affect. It holds the wave’s shape as it peels over a sand bar or reef, giving it a cylindrical form.
“ONSHORE wind: think of Donald Trump’s comb over hair style. OFFSHORE wind: think of a 90’s kuif. It’s just like that.” I said.

“Oh,” said Joc, not entirely won over by my explanation.

Meanwhile, Maxi seemed to be making progress with the sea gulls. He’d infiltrated a small flock convening near the water’s edge. He was standing on his hind legs, trying to strike up conversation with a loner seagull on the outskirts of the group.

“Ok,” said Joc, “and what about feet— 2 feet is tiny. Those waves look bigger than 2 feet.”

This is a timeless question. I’m not sure why waves have always been measured in feet. Some people say it’s because you gauge a wave’s size from the back; hence the reason a chest high wave is considered a solid 2 footer.

There are different variations of feet, too. Surfers talk about waves being measured in Hawaiian feet. In other words a 3 foot Hawaiian wave would be considered 5 or 6 feet else where in the world. Or something like that.

Grant Jack, a knee boarder from PE who now lives in London, once said that waves should be measured in “Scary’s”.
Let me explain: Because waves in PE rarely reach the 10 foot mark, it seems logical to have a scale out of 10. So a 3 foot wave is surfable and not very scary, but not 3 geometric feet. It is, accurately said, 3 out of 10 Scary’s.

If you lived in Cape Town, where waves up to 30 feet are ridden, the Scary scale still holds water. A 15 footer, for example, will be measured out of 20; its bigger than 15 actual feet, but not the biggest of waves available. So you say 15 feet. That’s 75% scary within the realm of its height divisions. You couldn’t say it’s a 75%’er, so 15 feet will do.

“Am I making sense?” I asked Joc after explaining this.

“Not really, but sort of,” she replied.

Maybe that’s it. The scales and units we use to measure waves and conditions are not always accurate. They make sense in some ways, but not always. “Not really, but sort of,” is probably getting it just right.

With that, Maxi returned to the car with a mouth full of sand. The shy seagull he tried to catch for lunch turned out to be black belt in karate. Max tells me he was lucky not to have been fed his tail.

Lastly, on the topic of big waves:

Grant Baker, a Cape Town-ian big wave surfer, has been invited to compete in the Quicksilver “In Memory of Eddie Aikau”. It’s the longest running and most prestigious big wave event, held at Waimea Bay in Hawaii. That’s a great achievement and South Africa should be very proud.

Somma Syma Summer

Summers great. It means there will be warm weather, braais four times a week and plenty of festivals to go to— it’s not all about surfing.
With temperatures in excess of 25 Degrees Celsius come prominent easterly winds, flat spells and swarms of vaalies. So you have to find a way to get your kicks in despite the exodus of blue bottles, jelly fish and genital balaclavas littering the beach front. Lord knows there’s nothing quite like paddling out next to a middle aged tourists wearing a Speedo, flippers and purple zink, screaming “Surf’s up China!” at you.

Surf Lifesaving is a productive way to utilize the weather during summer. It’s not difficult to get involved, either. All you need to do is to join a club (there are several in PE, Slummies, Plett, J-bay and Port Alfred), pay your affiliation fees and start training with the buggers. Most women and men affiliated with lifesaving are mellow, friendly types who do it to give something back to the community and keep fit at the same time. Once you’ve done an SPA (Surf Proficiency Award— an exam that tests your physical ability and first aid knowledge and training), you can start doing voluntary hours at the beach as an official ‘Life Guard’. The club’s facilities, like Malibu boards and surf skis, are open to all members; most of them are as fun to use on flat days as they on days when the waves are firing.

My family plays a game called King Of The Beach. It takes the form of a body surfing contest. On days when the conditions are right (hot weather, warm water, medium swell), we body- surf for household honour. Wagers include setting up the braai for supper, picking up Maxi’s poos on the back lawn, washing dishes and answering the phone. Money never taints the game— it’s all about pride. The rules are simple. He who catches the biggest/ and/ or best wave for the longest functional distance is deemed winner- in other words, your goal is ride a wave on your stomach, and get as close to the sand as possible. It’s not that different from the old ASRO Surfing criteria.

Richard Gibello, a St. Francis local, takes the down hill skating route. The sport has a solid history (see Dog Town and the Z-Boys) and is alive across the world. Red Bull hosts a contest every year in Cape Town, show casing the country’s top down hill skaters— plenty of them are surfers, too. I don’t want to build the sport up with clichéd metaphors and comparisons to sky diving and sex. Rick gave me an amazing video clip of his down hill skating endeavours, which I've spent the last forty five minutes trying to upload. The gent at the icafe' has just informed me that I've got more chance of growing an extra eyeball than getting this 101MB clip onto the blog by the end of today, so I'm going to ask Rick if there's a way of making the beast a bit smaller. Drop me an e-mail if you'd like the video footage via e-mail.

Lastly, sober minded American’s across the world must be letting out a sigh of relief over the election of Barack Obama. What fantastic news for the USA and international politics.

Laughable Progress

I’ve been working on a story since September.

It’s about a hotel in Suffolk, England. A crazy ghost that thinks it’s a dog is freaking guests and staff members out, running amok and ruining tourism in the small seaside village. No one can work out why a see-through boy that runs like a ribbon in the wind is barking at people from the shadows of an old beach hut. A hall porter from South Africa unsuspectingly solves the mystery when he organizes a county wide Frisbee contest that lasts until midnight.

It’s been on my list of things to finish for the last two months. Every time I look at the manuscript I get more annoyed with myself for putting it off. Not that anyone besides my parents, brothers and friends are likely to read it, but I like to keep busy.

So I’m in St Francis this week on a serious working retreat. I was up at 4:30 this morning; wolfing down mugs of coffee and dissecting my broken story.
I wanted to see progress by the end of today.

At around 16:00 I took stock of the time, my supposed progress and how much I’d eaten since morning. Over the course of the day, I’d put back 6 hot-cross buns, a pack of 2-minute noodles, 3 salad rolls, a pie, 2 Energades and smoked a pack of Lucky Strike Lights. I needed to do some exercise- my story had just gotten more complicated and less easy to reassemble. The fresh air was needed.

So I loaded the car and raced down to Seals for a quick surf.
It was small and cold, but producing the odd 3 foot set with the pushing tide.
I bounced through the channel and took the long way round to get warmed up.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that my surfing has been a bit shoddy of late. A year in England has done as much for my tan as it has for my physical ability as a surfer.
But I felt ready to change that when I saw a sleek two footer come my way, doubling up nicely over full stop. I planned to unleash a ninja attack on the face of this wave, comparable to Jet Lee and Jackie Chan’s best work.

But none of that happened. I fell as the wave sucked over the shelf, cut my foot and snapped my board. I wish I had a really manly story to attach to this, but the truth is so outrageously simple. No ninja glory. No decent exercise done. Story and surfboard broken.

I sure am glad I can laugh at myself. At least I might finish my silly story now :)