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 :)

Bathing in Spilled Milk on a Sunday

I had to dig deep for happiness today.

The waves were cooking this morning. There were sweet, windless 3 footers at Seal Point. But I woke up at 9:30 and had a 10:30 appointment to get to, so a session at Seals had to wait.
By the time I got home the wind was pulling tree trunks out of the ground and the sea looked as tempting as an offal milkshake. The beach front parking lot was packed with frothing kite boarders, all saying, “Jussie, how kief is this wind bru?” I wanted to cut some kite lines and see how much they enjoyed the wind then.

So I decided to go home and watch the Hang Loose Pro in stead. At least I’d have the local guys to cheer for in Round 2. To my dismay (and I’m sure theirs, too) all the South Africans were knocked out by Round 3. I hardly give a flip-flop about rugby, other than the license to drink beer in the daytime it permits, but when the surfing is on I get gnarly. Just saying swear words and smashing my PC doesn’t cut it. My parents dashed downstairs, thinking an aggressive Blue Bull’s fan had hijacked their son’s body. I was promptly told to “cool it and take the dog for a walk”.

A walk with Maximus hardly did the trick. Half way down the beach he started doing handstands and moon walking on all fours, trying to impress a new beefy Alsatian on the block. She just shook her tail and left a buffalo- dung-sized deposit in our path. “Let it go Maxi, she’s way too much dog for you” I said, but he wasn’t interested in my advice.
I spent the next 20 minutes trying to stop Maxi doing a backward summersault off the sand bank and persuading the Alsatian’s owner that my dog wasn’t stolen from Boswell Wilkie.

I needed something to cheer me up.
When I’m down I usually mute the TV and pretend that all the preachers and politicians are WWE Superstars. Ray ‘The Hammer’ McCauley is one of my favorite characters to play. But today that didn’t work. I sadly give a crap about the USA’s election, so I wanted to hear what was going on between Obama and McCain.

So I’ve resigned myself to finish reading Neil Gaiman’s ‘Coraline’ and wait for this wind to die down. I would have been in a far better mood if I’d woken up very early, gone surfing and then done everything else the same. But I was lazy this morning. I chose to let the early birds get some sick three-foot worms without me and now there’s no use in crying over spilled milk.