Sunday, March 15, 2009
Change of Website
Ok, in case anyone has wondered why this blog hasn't been updated for over a week (not that i presume a multitude of people have wondered this), it's because the Herald/ Weekend Post has just launched a new website. So all the herald blogs have been relaunched from the main website- www.theherald.co.za. There is a link to 'blogs' on the new site, which if followed correctly, will lead you to the new Rail to Rail. The site looks bloody amazing, so check it out and let me know what you think. e-mails can be sent to heraldsurf@gmail.com
Monday, March 2, 2009
The Far Side of Rad
I woke up yesterday morning and cringed at the thought of driving out to Cape St Francis through such dank weather. I drank my morning coffee on the balcony, watching a gray mass of white horses and windblown slop move across the bay. The sea looked as enticing as a beef smoothie.
Still, the Eastern Province trial ran in choppy, passable conditions at Seal Point (Full stop), yesterday morning. I arrived in time to catch the open final, where Dylan Stone (2nd), Ryan Payne (1st), Etienne Potgieter (3rd) and Bruce Campbell (4th) tore the shoes off of anything resembling a wave. The standard of surfing was seriously impressive and EP looks to be in safe hands during South African Champs.
I managed to catch up with the finalists in the parking lot afterwards, where they begged me to take a photo of them together. “Ooh, please take a photo of us hugging tightly!” Etienne pleaded. “Ja, we’re such a close team, we love showing the province how much team work means to us! You should see our cheer leading routine!” Dylan fired back. “And our outfits are to die for!” Ryan confirmed.
Ha ha, jokes. They didn’t really say that.
I know the first picture is washy and too far away, but I swear that's Dylan decapitating a Seal's insider.
In other surfing news, Greg Emslie (Slummies) made it through his Round 1 heat at the Quiksilver Pro in Australia (Gold Coast) this weekend, earning a free rid to the third Round. He was the sole South African to advance during the first Round. Jordy Smith and David Weare will feature during Round 2 when the contest resumes. Jussie I said ‘Round’ a lot.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
The 100th Blog
Quiksilver and Billabong joined hands momentarily to put together a film about Kelly Slater and Andy Irons’s rivalry a few years back. It’s called “A Fly in the Champaign.”
This is a marvelous idea and really big of both companies.
Locally, Zigzag have been on top form with their website (www.zigzag.co.za). There’s a kief selection of videos, ranging from interviews, to trip footage, to contest stuff. The west coast trip with Royden Bryson and Andrew Lange looks fantastic.
Lastly, the hot weather looks to be sticking around for another few days. Later in the weekend the swell is expected to rise to 3 meters (out to sea), so let’s hold thumbs for some waves this weekend. It’s the Eastern Province Trials (senior team) on Sunday at Seals, so it’d be cool to see them held in decent conditions. I’ll have some photos of that on Monday morning.
This is a marvelous idea and really big of both companies.
Locally, Zigzag have been on top form with their website (www.zigzag.co.za). There’s a kief selection of videos, ranging from interviews, to trip footage, to contest stuff. The west coast trip with Royden Bryson and Andrew Lange looks fantastic.
Lastly, the hot weather looks to be sticking around for another few days. Later in the weekend the swell is expected to rise to 3 meters (out to sea), so let’s hold thumbs for some waves this weekend. It’s the Eastern Province Trials (senior team) on Sunday at Seals, so it’d be cool to see them held in decent conditions. I’ll have some photos of that on Monday morning.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Friday Checkpoint
Next week the World Tour begins its 2009 season with the Quiksilver Pro on the Gold Coast of Australia. Surfing related websites are inundated with predictions, rookie interviews and pre season hype right now.
Near the top of the pile is Jordy Smith’s new sponsorship with Red Bull. www.surfersvillage.com has a good interview with him, covering all the finer details.
The bay looks pretty flat right now, but the people at windguru.com bring good tidings for the weekend. The wind is expected to swing and the swell to rise a meter by Sunday.
Here’s a picture of a shorebreak I got from Brett. Have a jolly weekend, folks.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Ice Cream Headaches and Cornish Pasties
I’ve been getting daily Surfers Village (www.surfersvillage.com) news letters for the last few months. Most of the time its interesting stuff, like breakthrough technology that has passed field tests, photographs from sponsored trips and general surf industry news.
Today a headline caught my eye: “C-Skins Wetsuits signs up U.K. champ Reubin Pearce…” There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. From Cape Town originally, he was one of the top junior surfers during the mid to late nineties. I remember him surfing for Milnerton High School at SA Schools in 1997. Pretty cool that he’s the current UK Champ.
I checked out the C-Skins website and was really impressed by the range of products they offer and the layout of the site. In a country where the weather is as shocking as it is in England, I suppose good wetsuits would go a long way. I got another surprise when I looked up the other team members and saw a picture of Blue Water Bay’s Clinton Fraser. There’s another name I haven’t heard in a long time— not since Groundswell surf club days. He’s another one of C-skins team riders.
You can say what you like about going to England to work, save money and travel etc. It’s an experience that works for some people and doesn’t for others. Hats off to these chaps who are doing it a bit differently.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Viva Le Commercial Resistance’!
Between Friday and Sunday there were some of the best waves I’ve seen at The Fence in a long time. Lines of A-framed peaks bounced off the harbor wall and spun perfectly across the sand banks. Running down King’s Beach at 6AM on Saturday morning was like staring into a crystal ball that took you all the way back to ’97.
I’d like to send my best wishes to everyone infected with the merciless strain of stomach flue that swept PE on Saturday morning. Cripes, it must have been awful. And so many of you got it, too, all at the same time… My heart bled lumpy custard for you, as I stroked into one empty peak after the next.
I know you all wanted to be there. Last week everyone with girlfriends and boyfriends was claiming a cool indifference towards Valentines Day: No way, it’s a commercial; gimmick; My shnookims doesn’t care if I don’t buy her/ him a stupid card and a bunch of flowers; We don’t put a price tag on our relationship, Wadda wadda fish paste. I guess your immune systems just weren’t up to the challenge this pesky stomach flu presented.
God speed and a swift recovery, my friends :)
I’d like to send my best wishes to everyone infected with the merciless strain of stomach flue that swept PE on Saturday morning. Cripes, it must have been awful. And so many of you got it, too, all at the same time… My heart bled lumpy custard for you, as I stroked into one empty peak after the next.
I know you all wanted to be there. Last week everyone with girlfriends and boyfriends was claiming a cool indifference towards Valentines Day: No way, it’s a commercial; gimmick; My shnookims doesn’t care if I don’t buy her/ him a stupid card and a bunch of flowers; We don’t put a price tag on our relationship, Wadda wadda fish paste. I guess your immune systems just weren’t up to the challenge this pesky stomach flu presented.
God speed and a swift recovery, my friends :)
Friday, February 13, 2009
Jo Jo's Unlucky Line- Snapping Incident
“It’s going to be a stuff up! Shame upon South Africa! That’s what this monstrosity will cause, I can feel it!” bellowed Andrew Jenkinson. He was ranting about the soccer world cup as usual. Jenkinson loved to shout about social and political things.
“No boet, it’ll be amazing. It’s going to be an African world cup. Tourists have been coming here for donkeys ears. They love the place like it is. We can’t have a fancy Euro style tournament, because that’s not how things work around here. It’ll be perfect, you’ll see,” answered Ripley Amazondotcom.
They sat chatting in their flat, watching a fishing documentary: Rock Cod Diaries, the journey of Jo Jo La Patience.
“Don’t ‘no boet’ me. What about the taxi violence now? That’s just the beginning. You think this is going to stop any time soon? Those cretins need a bloody good hiding for tearing up the city! How could they burn clinics down? What will they do when the World Cup starts? Burn a stadium down?” Jenkison glared at his friend, expecting a decent response.
“It’s not that simple. The matter will be resolved before then. It has to be for everyone’s sake. Burning clinics down is outrageous…” said Ripley, gathering his thoughts.
“What for? It’s a no brainer. The taxis can mess off. What business do they have with the world cup?” asked Jenkinson.
Jo Jo La Patience was drifting over giant sea swells on the Pacific, sitting calmly in his speed boat with two rods dangling over the side and a pipe in his mouth.
“You’re not looking at the big picture. It’s like this,” said Ripley, “the BRT will exclude taxis during and after the 2010 Soccer bonanza. Who wouldn’t be hosed off about that? People across our country rely on taxis every day, and to exclude them from something this big is wrong. PE (and every other major city in SA) gears down from 5th to 1st gear without taxis. Failure to represent them during the World Cup shows an incomplete picture of our urban transport culture. The strike is completely understandable, but the violence is unacceptable. That much I agree with you on.” Less prone to ranting, Ripley based many of views on personal feelings.
“Don’t start your hippie none sense with me! They called off the strike after the army was deployed yesterday. They don’t have the courage of their convictions. If you’re going to make a point, make it and stand by your actions. This business of raising hell and then running away is cowardice,” said Jenkinson, going red in the face.
“That’s helluva swak. Again, I’m not saying I agree with the violence, but there has to be a way of making our country see that the BRT system excludes taxis. If they take the matter lying down, they’ll be left out,” said Amazondotcom.
Jo Jo La Patience watches his rod dipping. Suddenly he strikes! He’s got a beast on the end of his line, and starts reeling it in.
“No no no no. that’s horse kak. How can the taxi operators say they want to be a part of the world cup when they don’t form part of any system?” said Jenkinson.
“What do you mean?”
Suddenly Jo Jo other rod is dipping. He’s got two fish on the go is starting to look flustered.
“They don’t participate in anything orderly. How can they represent us on the global stage when taxis are a law unto themselves? They’re overloaded regularly, go through red lights, drive faster than the limit and sommer stop anywhere in the road so they can overload some more. How many drivers do you think have real licences, too?” Andrew Jenkinson took a deep breath, thinking he’d won the debate.
“That’s generalizing a bit,” answered Ripley Aamazondotcom, after a beat. "Besides, your parents bought you a car when you were seventeen and you drove it without a licence the whole year."
“That's completely different! Are you blind? That’s not generalization, boet! I just summed the whole lot up with a reporter’s accuracy!” exploded Jenkinson.
"Weren't you fined R800 last year for doing 170 down Cape Road?" asked Amazondotcom.
Jo Jo La Patience ’s lines snap. He’s lost both fish and is cursing the heavens. He sits back down and baits up again.
"Shut up, man. You're such a bunny hugger." said Jenkinson.
“That was close, ey? Jo Jo almost bagged two in one,” said Ripley.
“Ja, lank close. It’s almost impossible to do though. You can only fight one big fish at a time,” said Andrew.
“True story. Ching to see who drives to the shop?" answered Ripley Amazondotcom, turning the volume up to hear Jo Jo’s post line-snapping analysis.
“No boet, it’ll be amazing. It’s going to be an African world cup. Tourists have been coming here for donkeys ears. They love the place like it is. We can’t have a fancy Euro style tournament, because that’s not how things work around here. It’ll be perfect, you’ll see,” answered Ripley Amazondotcom.
They sat chatting in their flat, watching a fishing documentary: Rock Cod Diaries, the journey of Jo Jo La Patience.
“Don’t ‘no boet’ me. What about the taxi violence now? That’s just the beginning. You think this is going to stop any time soon? Those cretins need a bloody good hiding for tearing up the city! How could they burn clinics down? What will they do when the World Cup starts? Burn a stadium down?” Jenkison glared at his friend, expecting a decent response.
“It’s not that simple. The matter will be resolved before then. It has to be for everyone’s sake. Burning clinics down is outrageous…” said Ripley, gathering his thoughts.
“What for? It’s a no brainer. The taxis can mess off. What business do they have with the world cup?” asked Jenkinson.
Jo Jo La Patience was drifting over giant sea swells on the Pacific, sitting calmly in his speed boat with two rods dangling over the side and a pipe in his mouth.
“You’re not looking at the big picture. It’s like this,” said Ripley, “the BRT will exclude taxis during and after the 2010 Soccer bonanza. Who wouldn’t be hosed off about that? People across our country rely on taxis every day, and to exclude them from something this big is wrong. PE (and every other major city in SA) gears down from 5th to 1st gear without taxis. Failure to represent them during the World Cup shows an incomplete picture of our urban transport culture. The strike is completely understandable, but the violence is unacceptable. That much I agree with you on.” Less prone to ranting, Ripley based many of views on personal feelings.
“Don’t start your hippie none sense with me! They called off the strike after the army was deployed yesterday. They don’t have the courage of their convictions. If you’re going to make a point, make it and stand by your actions. This business of raising hell and then running away is cowardice,” said Jenkinson, going red in the face.
“That’s helluva swak. Again, I’m not saying I agree with the violence, but there has to be a way of making our country see that the BRT system excludes taxis. If they take the matter lying down, they’ll be left out,” said Amazondotcom.
Jo Jo La Patience watches his rod dipping. Suddenly he strikes! He’s got a beast on the end of his line, and starts reeling it in.
“No no no no. that’s horse kak. How can the taxi operators say they want to be a part of the world cup when they don’t form part of any system?” said Jenkinson.
“What do you mean?”
Suddenly Jo Jo other rod is dipping. He’s got two fish on the go is starting to look flustered.
“They don’t participate in anything orderly. How can they represent us on the global stage when taxis are a law unto themselves? They’re overloaded regularly, go through red lights, drive faster than the limit and sommer stop anywhere in the road so they can overload some more. How many drivers do you think have real licences, too?” Andrew Jenkinson took a deep breath, thinking he’d won the debate.
“That’s generalizing a bit,” answered Ripley Aamazondotcom, after a beat. "Besides, your parents bought you a car when you were seventeen and you drove it without a licence the whole year."
“That's completely different! Are you blind? That’s not generalization, boet! I just summed the whole lot up with a reporter’s accuracy!” exploded Jenkinson.
"Weren't you fined R800 last year for doing 170 down Cape Road?" asked Amazondotcom.
Jo Jo La Patience ’s lines snap. He’s lost both fish and is cursing the heavens. He sits back down and baits up again.
"Shut up, man. You're such a bunny hugger." said Jenkinson.
“That was close, ey? Jo Jo almost bagged two in one,” said Ripley.
“Ja, lank close. It’s almost impossible to do though. You can only fight one big fish at a time,” said Andrew.
“True story. Ching to see who drives to the shop?" answered Ripley Amazondotcom, turning the volume up to hear Jo Jo’s post line-snapping analysis.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Siamese Twins
You know, Kgalema's Motlanthe's run as president of South Africa reminds me a lot of CJ Hobgood’s 2001 World Title. The circumstances are different (duh, surfing and politics are as similar as fried eggs and steel wool), but it’s the sentiment of these two roles that I’m talking about.
After the Twin Towers were attacked in 2001, the World Tour was cut short and CJ Hobgood was declared world champion (he was the ratings leader at the time). He’s an incredible surfer and more than capable of winning a world title during a full year of competition. He hasn’t finished lower than 19th in the last ten years on tour, and five of those years he’s been in the top 10. Yet when people talk about 2001, he doesn’t get the full World Title Holder respect he deserves. A lot of people say things good have gone differently had the tour run its full course that year.
Now, fast forward to 2008. Thabo Mbeki was forced to resign after inter-parliamentary mutiny took place. So an acting president was sworn into the saddle until new elections take place the following year. Many people don’t recognize Kgalema's Motlanthe’s role as president of our country. Yes, he's the acting president, but that's better than no president at all. I was talking to folks the other day who didn’t even know his name! He’s a solid candidate. His credentials on paper are impeccable: Over 30 years of political experience, 10 years on Robben Island and experience working for the City Council in Johannesburg.
I’m not saying this as a CJ Hobgood fan, or an ANC supporter. It’s just an observation. Both Hobgood and Motlanthe have just played the hand history dealt and I think it’s strange that both have been slightly snuffed by some.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Sam 'Big Bucks' Mazambulo
Sam ‘Big Bucks’ Mazambulo read my palms yesterday. She told me not to make a funny face when the wind changes direction. “Stay the course, child of light. I sense indecision in your aura. You don’t want to end up cross eyed when the wind turns westerly.”
“You’re crazy, Big Bucks,” I said, “I don’t know why I asked you to be my psychic. Let’s play monopoly. The tide will be high in an hour, so there’s time for a quick round.”
‘Big Bucks’ is horrible at board games, but she speaks the truth. I’m as indecisive as anyone can possibly be about everything. I met her in the parking lot at Greenacres when I was 20. A group of abortion protestors didn’t take kindly to the open discussion I suggested. The crowd turned on me as soon as I mentioned ‘pro choice’ as a debatable point. It was weird. A great big mob of people, wielding signs that said ‘Killing Babies Is Wrong’, running after a little pip squeak like me. “I’ll rip your voice box out, heathen scum!” screamed the lady in charge.
That was when Sam Mazambulo joined the party. She was PE’s first car guard. She taught herself Taekwando, Ninjutusu and kick boxing by reading a variety of books, mostly penned by her hero, the great Billy Blanks— mainstream advocate of the ‘One Inch Punch’. Anyhow, this is a bit off the topic. ‘Big Bucks’ came to my rescue and issued a series of One Inch Punches to the heavy weight that had me in a choke hold. The man dropped like a bag of soil, uninjured, but in a great deal of physical pain.
Afterwards she explained to the mob why she was forced to use a pinch of violence, and that she was sorry things ended that way. She helped most of them to their cars and made R600 in tips in the process— Hence the name ‘Big Bucks’. Meanwhile, I was still on the pavement, bent in half and puking up chunks of breakfast. We’ve been pals since.
Today Big Bucks makes more than most senior lawyers in Johannesburg. Palm reading, Gymkhana and long distance hop scotch (all of which she excels at) are some of her more recent endeavors she does for pleasure. Kicking ass and making friends is still her full time job, though.
Anyhow, back to yesterday’s palm reading and monopoly show down. I was building hotels in Eloff Street before Sam could say Macaroni. The hours passed quickly, and before I knew it I was late for my afternoon appointment with the sandbanks at Fence.
“Big Bucks, I’ve got to vuma lapa broe, waves are coming,” I said, pointing at the sea.
“Ah, always doing two things at once. You’re not going to get to the beach and realize there’s a TV program you’re missing?”
“Never! TV rots your mind!” I snapped.
“That’s not the point,” said Big Bucks, smiling at walking me out.
I had a strange surf yesterday; it felt like I had two right legs. Sam Mazambulo always makes a point and keeps you thinking days later. She gives the advice people need. Oprah and Dr. Phill can’t offer you that sort of wisdom.
Anyhow, be mindful of car guards today. Sam Mazambulo has eyes on the back of her head and will keep your belongings safe. You’ll find her at the Fence parking lot, this afternoon when the tide is high, and she doesn't ask for much. Just a few bucks is all you need to remember.
***
If anyone is looking to kill time at work, the Hang Loose Pro is on in Brazil, at a place called Fernando de Noronha. The web site is all in Portuguese, so it’s a bit tricky navigating your way round, but it’s a contest well worth watching.
http://www.hangloose.com.br/noronha/pt/index.php?p=aovivo
“You’re crazy, Big Bucks,” I said, “I don’t know why I asked you to be my psychic. Let’s play monopoly. The tide will be high in an hour, so there’s time for a quick round.”
‘Big Bucks’ is horrible at board games, but she speaks the truth. I’m as indecisive as anyone can possibly be about everything. I met her in the parking lot at Greenacres when I was 20. A group of abortion protestors didn’t take kindly to the open discussion I suggested. The crowd turned on me as soon as I mentioned ‘pro choice’ as a debatable point. It was weird. A great big mob of people, wielding signs that said ‘Killing Babies Is Wrong’, running after a little pip squeak like me. “I’ll rip your voice box out, heathen scum!” screamed the lady in charge.
That was when Sam Mazambulo joined the party. She was PE’s first car guard. She taught herself Taekwando, Ninjutusu and kick boxing by reading a variety of books, mostly penned by her hero, the great Billy Blanks— mainstream advocate of the ‘One Inch Punch’. Anyhow, this is a bit off the topic. ‘Big Bucks’ came to my rescue and issued a series of One Inch Punches to the heavy weight that had me in a choke hold. The man dropped like a bag of soil, uninjured, but in a great deal of physical pain.
Afterwards she explained to the mob why she was forced to use a pinch of violence, and that she was sorry things ended that way. She helped most of them to their cars and made R600 in tips in the process— Hence the name ‘Big Bucks’. Meanwhile, I was still on the pavement, bent in half and puking up chunks of breakfast. We’ve been pals since.
Today Big Bucks makes more than most senior lawyers in Johannesburg. Palm reading, Gymkhana and long distance hop scotch (all of which she excels at) are some of her more recent endeavors she does for pleasure. Kicking ass and making friends is still her full time job, though.
Anyhow, back to yesterday’s palm reading and monopoly show down. I was building hotels in Eloff Street before Sam could say Macaroni. The hours passed quickly, and before I knew it I was late for my afternoon appointment with the sandbanks at Fence.
“Big Bucks, I’ve got to vuma lapa broe, waves are coming,” I said, pointing at the sea.
“Ah, always doing two things at once. You’re not going to get to the beach and realize there’s a TV program you’re missing?”
“Never! TV rots your mind!” I snapped.
“That’s not the point,” said Big Bucks, smiling at walking me out.
I had a strange surf yesterday; it felt like I had two right legs. Sam Mazambulo always makes a point and keeps you thinking days later. She gives the advice people need. Oprah and Dr. Phill can’t offer you that sort of wisdom.
Anyhow, be mindful of car guards today. Sam Mazambulo has eyes on the back of her head and will keep your belongings safe. You’ll find her at the Fence parking lot, this afternoon when the tide is high, and she doesn't ask for much. Just a few bucks is all you need to remember.
***
If anyone is looking to kill time at work, the Hang Loose Pro is on in Brazil, at a place called Fernando de Noronha. The web site is all in Portuguese, so it’s a bit tricky navigating your way round, but it’s a contest well worth watching.
http://www.hangloose.com.br/noronha/pt/index.php?p=aovivo
Friday, February 6, 2009
Heinz Catches A Big One
This Zambezi Shark was caught in the Breede River during an expedition this year (http://www.sharkconservancy.org/zambezi.html).
I don’t like this one little bit. Being attacked by a bull shark in a river would really upset me. Being stacked by any shark anywhere would really upset me, but I’d be especially hosed off if I was fishing or wakeboarding when it happened.
I heard a story a few years ago. I’m sure you know it, or a version of it, so please bear with me. A German tourist, Heinz, was holidaying in Plett with his wife, Dee, and their young son, Alex. On a sunny December afternoon, not unlike today, Heinz went swimming with Alex in the shallows at Lookout Beach.
Alex was having a ball in the mighty Indian Ocean, learning to body surf and blow bubbles, when a Ragged Tooth Shark (probably Alex’s age in shark years) bit him on the leg. The sound of Alex’s shrieks was enough to send Heinz into a rage.
After ensuring his son’s safety, Heinz combed the area, looking for the perpetrator. He did eventually found a shark (whether or not it The shark was unspecified), and pulled it to shore by the tail. One they were on dry land, Heinz set to work dishing out punishment. Just like Pop-eye, Heinz picked the beast up and swung it around his head (amongst other things).
Heinz got a few nasty cuts in the end, too, but that is to be expected when you’re pistol whipping a Ragged Tooth Shark. Alex was fine in the end, but the same cannot be said for the shark or Heinz, who felt terrible about letting his son’s life fall into danger.
This is all neither here nor there. My point is that I’d probably react very similarly if I were attacked by a shark in a river. I wouldn’t go back and take a Bull Shark on in a bare knuckle dual, but it would take all of god’s morphine to calm the inner rage I’d feel if I lost a leg. Or an arm. If I died— I’m fairly certain I’d haunt the kak out of the river shark that did it if I died.
On the other hand, it would be the ultimate irony to get eaten whole by a shark while fishing.
Have a good weekend, everyone.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Emslie Signs with Derevko
South African WCT surfer, Greg Emslie, has just signed with Derevko Wetsuits, a new local company. This is great news for local manufacturers looking to compete with international big shots like Billabong, QS. It's really cool to see our country's surfing leaders backing local brands.
check out:
http://www.zigzag.co.za/site/awdep.asp&depnum=27636_47_11_A3
for the full story.
Hanging Out At The Boardwalk
The Information Super Highway of Port Elizabeth is a force to be reckoned with. It matches the Internet in terms of speed, but is beyond machines or electricity— it’s in our minds. When someone tells a story in PE, people ask “who?” first, because odds are they know who it’s about. That kind of response is preprogrammed and carried through generations. Science can’t match it.
It was business as usual when word got out about the demolition of Sea Acres Holiday Resort, a popular caravan park/ holiday bungalow jol facing Hobbie Beach. I heard they were going to build the first Space Exploration Centre there, or a skate park and a church, or just a big statue of Nelson Mandela. No one knew for months, but the guessing game got outrageous. “No man, they’re building a water park,” Kendrick Steiner, a famous tall story teller from school, told me, “The biggest slide’s going to be as high as the Campanile… that’s what they’re going to call it- Campanile Water Park. Ja, and there’s going to be a Great White pool, where trainers will make those unholy bastards jump through hoops like they do with dolphins at Sea World. I swear, my dad told me this stuff. He’s not a liar.”
Eventually it became known that PE would be getting a Casino complex, one that would match the fire power of Cape Town’s V and A Waterfront and Jo Burg’s Century City. They would call it, ‘The Boardwalk’. Jussie, I was excited. Everything was going to change once the Boardwalk was finished. It was going to put us on the map. We’d get more bands coming to PE, for starters. “Brian Adams and Westlife can get lost. I heard Metallica and U2 are coming to the Boardwalk’s opening NIGHT,” said Kendrick, after hearing about the casino.
I was in Matric when the doors to The Boardwalk opened, and found myself having a great year so far. High school was almost over, I’d made the EP senior surfing team, I was old enough to drink (after getting bounced from every pub in PE until I turned 18), I got my drivers license (3rd time lucky) and I was hopelessly in Love with a girl living near my house. She was beautiful, kind and fun. She smiled and my knees wobbled. Every time I spoke to her I mutated into a ham fisted moron who couldn’t speak or sit still.
It was on a rare August afternoon that I came up with a plan to show her I was cool. The sun was baking down after school, without a breath of wind in the air (a complete freak show for PE). I had a three part plan that looked masterful on paper: pick her up in Blou Bliksem (my 1981 VW), go to Humewood beach for a swim (where I could show off my amazing body surfing skills) and then hit The Boardwalk for an ice cream afterwards. What could be simpler?
I summoned my older brother before setting off. He sorted me out with a pair of his shorts and some Lenny Kravitz shades. “Just be careful, Bugs, those shorts have a tricky zipper.” Sure thing. These words would come back to haunt me.
Back to the story though. Phase one and two of my plan went swimmingly, so to speak.
I managed to get Blou Bliksem to the beach without stalling or getting lost. At the beach, we frolicked and splashed each other in the shallows; we spoke and laughed like old friends who’d known each other since time began. She smiled at me and I managed not to die. I was higher than a homeless man with a liter of petrol and cabana bottle of sniffing glue.
By the time phase 3 of my operation was underway, we were holding hands on a regular basis. All that was left was The Boardwalk.
***
Dulce’s is a good 200 meters (or so, I suppose) away from the parking of The Boardwalk. On a sunny day at The Boardwalk, you pass another person every second step. In the Boardwalk’s first month of business, almost every person in PE was there, daily, to check out the amazing new structure that was going to liberate PE from its reputation as a mechanics village.
To say that I was proud while walking beside this amazing young lady would be a gross understatement. I was moonwalking next to her. As we passed a host of onlookers I got funny looks from older patrons and their young ones. I just assumed that the funny grin on my face was unsettling to people.
We had our ice creams and marched through the complex hand in hand, admiring the accomplishments of PE’s architects. It was only once we were ready to leave that I heard sniggers coming from a group of teenagers nearby.
As we passed them, I wondered out loud, “what were they laughing at?” As the words left my mouth, something HORRIBLE became evident, and my brother’s words of warning rang clear in my head.
I looked down and saw (to my awkward 18 year old horror) that my zipper was all the way down, and my entire package was hanging out.
Now, there are moments when something is so terrifying that is silences you. It’s a whole new ballgame when you freak out and scream in terror. I let my Love’s hand go, on impulse, and ran to Blou Bliksem, wailing Blue Murder, where it would take me a good 20 minutes to explain my actions. Like I said earlier, she was fun and kind, so she found it quite funny, but I sure as hell struggled to stomach the incident for a while.
The next day at school, Kendrick Steiner was telling a new story that went something like, “Jussie ous, did you hear about Trussie streaking through The Boardwalk yesterday? Security had to escort him in handcuffs, after they bust him harassing an old lady! By the way, who’s up for Roxette on Friday? I heard Brian Adams is opening for her.”
It was business as usual when word got out about the demolition of Sea Acres Holiday Resort, a popular caravan park/ holiday bungalow jol facing Hobbie Beach. I heard they were going to build the first Space Exploration Centre there, or a skate park and a church, or just a big statue of Nelson Mandela. No one knew for months, but the guessing game got outrageous. “No man, they’re building a water park,” Kendrick Steiner, a famous tall story teller from school, told me, “The biggest slide’s going to be as high as the Campanile… that’s what they’re going to call it- Campanile Water Park. Ja, and there’s going to be a Great White pool, where trainers will make those unholy bastards jump through hoops like they do with dolphins at Sea World. I swear, my dad told me this stuff. He’s not a liar.”
Eventually it became known that PE would be getting a Casino complex, one that would match the fire power of Cape Town’s V and A Waterfront and Jo Burg’s Century City. They would call it, ‘The Boardwalk’. Jussie, I was excited. Everything was going to change once the Boardwalk was finished. It was going to put us on the map. We’d get more bands coming to PE, for starters. “Brian Adams and Westlife can get lost. I heard Metallica and U2 are coming to the Boardwalk’s opening NIGHT,” said Kendrick, after hearing about the casino.
I was in Matric when the doors to The Boardwalk opened, and found myself having a great year so far. High school was almost over, I’d made the EP senior surfing team, I was old enough to drink (after getting bounced from every pub in PE until I turned 18), I got my drivers license (3rd time lucky) and I was hopelessly in Love with a girl living near my house. She was beautiful, kind and fun. She smiled and my knees wobbled. Every time I spoke to her I mutated into a ham fisted moron who couldn’t speak or sit still.
It was on a rare August afternoon that I came up with a plan to show her I was cool. The sun was baking down after school, without a breath of wind in the air (a complete freak show for PE). I had a three part plan that looked masterful on paper: pick her up in Blou Bliksem (my 1981 VW), go to Humewood beach for a swim (where I could show off my amazing body surfing skills) and then hit The Boardwalk for an ice cream afterwards. What could be simpler?
I summoned my older brother before setting off. He sorted me out with a pair of his shorts and some Lenny Kravitz shades. “Just be careful, Bugs, those shorts have a tricky zipper.” Sure thing. These words would come back to haunt me.
Back to the story though. Phase one and two of my plan went swimmingly, so to speak.
I managed to get Blou Bliksem to the beach without stalling or getting lost. At the beach, we frolicked and splashed each other in the shallows; we spoke and laughed like old friends who’d known each other since time began. She smiled at me and I managed not to die. I was higher than a homeless man with a liter of petrol and cabana bottle of sniffing glue.
By the time phase 3 of my operation was underway, we were holding hands on a regular basis. All that was left was The Boardwalk.
***
Dulce’s is a good 200 meters (or so, I suppose) away from the parking of The Boardwalk. On a sunny day at The Boardwalk, you pass another person every second step. In the Boardwalk’s first month of business, almost every person in PE was there, daily, to check out the amazing new structure that was going to liberate PE from its reputation as a mechanics village.
To say that I was proud while walking beside this amazing young lady would be a gross understatement. I was moonwalking next to her. As we passed a host of onlookers I got funny looks from older patrons and their young ones. I just assumed that the funny grin on my face was unsettling to people.
We had our ice creams and marched through the complex hand in hand, admiring the accomplishments of PE’s architects. It was only once we were ready to leave that I heard sniggers coming from a group of teenagers nearby.
As we passed them, I wondered out loud, “what were they laughing at?” As the words left my mouth, something HORRIBLE became evident, and my brother’s words of warning rang clear in my head.
I looked down and saw (to my awkward 18 year old horror) that my zipper was all the way down, and my entire package was hanging out.
Now, there are moments when something is so terrifying that is silences you. It’s a whole new ballgame when you freak out and scream in terror. I let my Love’s hand go, on impulse, and ran to Blou Bliksem, wailing Blue Murder, where it would take me a good 20 minutes to explain my actions. Like I said earlier, she was fun and kind, so she found it quite funny, but I sure as hell struggled to stomach the incident for a while.
The next day at school, Kendrick Steiner was telling a new story that went something like, “Jussie ous, did you hear about Trussie streaking through The Boardwalk yesterday? Security had to escort him in handcuffs, after they bust him harassing an old lady! By the way, who’s up for Roxette on Friday? I heard Brian Adams is opening for her.”
Friday, January 30, 2009
A Farewell
Big news today is that Wayne ‘Rabbit’ Bartholomew has stepped down as ASP International president after 10 years in the cockpit. He’s one of the most prolific figures in professional surfing, whose contributions to the sport of surfing are appreciated by several generations. His career reached its first apex in ’78, when he won the world title.
Since then, he has played an important behind the scenes of pro surfing. Having worked with people like Jack McCoy on surfing videos (e.g. Pump, The Green Iguana), he helped revolutionize contest surfing with events like The Billabong Challenge (J-bay and Australia). From novelty events like The Challenge, you get what is referred to today as The Dream Tour— the ASP World Tour.
For a full bio on Wayne Bartholomew’s career and contributions to surfing, log on to:
http://surfermag.com/photos/flash/rabbit_bartholomew_reflective/
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Considerate Criminals
Keeping fit has been a hassle of late. The waves have been horrendous. It’s been too small to surf. End of story.
And my tennis form is up the creek. It felt like I was playing with racket made of lead the other day. Everything I touched went over the fence, under the net or backwards. You know you’re having a shocker when people cheer you on for returning service properly— “Nice shot Clay!” for getting one over really means, “It’s about bloody time!”
And I won’t to go to a public gym. It crosses too many personal boundaries. I like to think I’m above the quest for arms that can strangle a rhino.
So this evening I decided to jog. It’s healthy, free and strenuous enough to make me feel like I’ve earned a few beers later.
As I cruised along the hills of upper Humewood, admiring the lovely houses, a message became very clear: Trespassers will be annihilated. Every street was armed by a plethora of artillery. If it wasn’t vicious dogs, it was electrically charged- barbed wire fencing, armed response teams or front gates like the walls of Babel. Holy snakes, the whole neighborhood is a booby trap.
And all this got me thinking. What if we made burglarizing houses an Olympic sport? Seriously.
There are many parallels to old Roman gladiators— battling bullmastiffs could be like fighting lions. Armed response teams, like fighting Roman soldiers. I could go on. And think of the team we’d have! In South Africa, we still have one of the most alarming crime statistics, despite the level of protection available. We must be harboring some of the planet’s most capable athletes.
Look, we don’t want a repeat of Beijing in 07. I’m looking out for everyone’s best interest here. The world is changing, and we must change with it. So why not create a space for our fellow wayward citizens to use their great skills. Breaking into any of those houses is beyond the reach of average human hands. It could be like Million Dollar Baby, or any one of those uplifting movies about a skom gat los kop who is taken under the wing of organized society? Just think about it. That’s all I’m saying.
Eish, I sure do hope the waves get better, so I can start writing more constructive blogs. Peace.
And my tennis form is up the creek. It felt like I was playing with racket made of lead the other day. Everything I touched went over the fence, under the net or backwards. You know you’re having a shocker when people cheer you on for returning service properly— “Nice shot Clay!” for getting one over really means, “It’s about bloody time!”
And I won’t to go to a public gym. It crosses too many personal boundaries. I like to think I’m above the quest for arms that can strangle a rhino.
So this evening I decided to jog. It’s healthy, free and strenuous enough to make me feel like I’ve earned a few beers later.
As I cruised along the hills of upper Humewood, admiring the lovely houses, a message became very clear: Trespassers will be annihilated. Every street was armed by a plethora of artillery. If it wasn’t vicious dogs, it was electrically charged- barbed wire fencing, armed response teams or front gates like the walls of Babel. Holy snakes, the whole neighborhood is a booby trap.
And all this got me thinking. What if we made burglarizing houses an Olympic sport? Seriously.
There are many parallels to old Roman gladiators— battling bullmastiffs could be like fighting lions. Armed response teams, like fighting Roman soldiers. I could go on. And think of the team we’d have! In South Africa, we still have one of the most alarming crime statistics, despite the level of protection available. We must be harboring some of the planet’s most capable athletes.
Look, we don’t want a repeat of Beijing in 07. I’m looking out for everyone’s best interest here. The world is changing, and we must change with it. So why not create a space for our fellow wayward citizens to use their great skills. Breaking into any of those houses is beyond the reach of average human hands. It could be like Million Dollar Baby, or any one of those uplifting movies about a skom gat los kop who is taken under the wing of organized society? Just think about it. That’s all I’m saying.
Eish, I sure do hope the waves get better, so I can start writing more constructive blogs. Peace.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Middle Child Blues
It’s crowded down here. Way too crowded indeed. Maxie has a new sister, Fern, and she’s driving my poor canine brother up the pole. Not only is Fern younger, cuter and getting more attention, she’s got the entire household cleaning her poop with a smile. Maxi knows the rules. If he leaves processed dog food on the floor there’s hell to pay. But not Fern— she’s too young to know right from wrong. Her little piles of puppy dung are met with chortles of adoration. “Ow, would you wook at what puppy wuppy has gone and weft us on wa fwoor!” someone will say, armed with a rubber glove and a clump of toilet paper. Fern gaily marches out the door to chase butterflies and trip over her unusually long legs.
She’s cuter than Kelly Clarkson in a Christmas hat. I’ll give her that much. But my heart goes out to Maxi during these dark times. George, the oldest hound in the pack, is unfazed. We could just as well have brought home a pet ostrich and George would barely notice. She’s too old and regal to give a hoot about competition. But poor Maxi has become a middle child overnight. I walked past his kennel the other day and heard ‘My Chemical Romance’ blaring from his stereo. “My dog’s into emo!” I gasped in horror.
So today, even though it’s windy and kak on the beach, I’m vowing to get Max outside. He’s got to get out of this funk. I won’t have him sleeping till 12, painting his claws black and growing a ridiculous fringe. Not on my watch.
***
Obama mania continues. He even body surfs! Brett sent me this link yesterday, which has a video clip of Obama showing his skills in Hawaii.
http://www.wavescape.co.za/swell-lines/no-54-obama-rides-a-bomb.html
She’s cuter than Kelly Clarkson in a Christmas hat. I’ll give her that much. But my heart goes out to Maxi during these dark times. George, the oldest hound in the pack, is unfazed. We could just as well have brought home a pet ostrich and George would barely notice. She’s too old and regal to give a hoot about competition. But poor Maxi has become a middle child overnight. I walked past his kennel the other day and heard ‘My Chemical Romance’ blaring from his stereo. “My dog’s into emo!” I gasped in horror.
So today, even though it’s windy and kak on the beach, I’m vowing to get Max outside. He’s got to get out of this funk. I won’t have him sleeping till 12, painting his claws black and growing a ridiculous fringe. Not on my watch.
***
Obama mania continues. He even body surfs! Brett sent me this link yesterday, which has a video clip of Obama showing his skills in Hawaii.
http://www.wavescape.co.za/swell-lines/no-54-obama-rides-a-bomb.html
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Mother Nature's Top Hat
I woke up feeling medium rare. By 7 AM the sun had been slow roasting me for almost two hours. The slatted blinds at my window form a braai grill for the sun’s rays to pierce through on mornings like this.
But hot, windless conditions are deceptive in PE. They trick people into making HORRENDOUS beach decisions. I’m sure anyone who woke up this morning, looked outside and then leaped the car for a day in J-Bay feels duped right now. I’d be hissing bile if I was sitting in the Supers parking lot, scared to open my car door in case the wind tears it off.
There’s a ‘Quiksilver in Memory of Eddie Aikau’ contest update on www.surferssvillage.com. Apparently conditions haven’t been right to run the event so far— the waves need to be 20 feet at least to please organizers. Prestige and honor aside, I think you need to be a special kind of bedonered to get involved with that kind of surfing. They’ve posted a video with the update, of the worst wipeouts at Waimea Bay during the Eddie. It makes your skin crawl to see people go down like that. For more on the event and its history, check out http://live.quiksilver.com/2008/bigwave/index.php.
But hot, windless conditions are deceptive in PE. They trick people into making HORRENDOUS beach decisions. I’m sure anyone who woke up this morning, looked outside and then leaped the car for a day in J-Bay feels duped right now. I’d be hissing bile if I was sitting in the Supers parking lot, scared to open my car door in case the wind tears it off.
There’s a ‘Quiksilver in Memory of Eddie Aikau’ contest update on www.surferssvillage.com. Apparently conditions haven’t been right to run the event so far— the waves need to be 20 feet at least to please organizers. Prestige and honor aside, I think you need to be a special kind of bedonered to get involved with that kind of surfing. They’ve posted a video with the update, of the worst wipeouts at Waimea Bay during the Eddie. It makes your skin crawl to see people go down like that. For more on the event and its history, check out http://live.quiksilver.com/2008/bigwave/index.php.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
New Irish Surf Documentary
The new Irish surfing documentary, Waveriders, premiers in the USA tonight.
In 2005 the Malloy brothers did a Transworld Surf special on Ireland, exposing its many low key breaks. This new documentary takes that knowledge a step further.
The film has already won Audience Award for Best Film at the Dublin International Film Festival. Check out http://www.surfersvillage.com/surfing/38576/surf-news.htm for all the details about it.
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Chips That Lie Under The Couch's Pillow For Months and Still Taste Good
The early nineties was an era of change and debuts. People across the world were peeping through the gaps in their fingers, unsure about when it would be safe to look. Too much was happening at the same time:
South Africa held its breath when F.W. De Klerk made the decision to release our country’s future leaders. Many people believed peace and a new beginning would follow the death of apartheid. Many people also bought guns and electric fences in case a civil war erupted.
A hole was discovered in the Earth’s Ozone Layer, which changed the way people apply sun cream to their bodies. The risk of skin cancer became real over night. Suddenly Madonna’s mole wasn’t cool anymore and people were surfing in luminous zink again.
Freddy Mercury died of AIDS. The world was shattered by the loss of such a great talent. Religious folk blamed AIDS on homosexuality and bestiality. Distraught liberals blamed secret organizations and governments for creating the HIV virus. The answer still lies hidden bellow the surface, along with photos of the yeti, extra terrestrials and the map to Atlantis.
The Cold War between Russia and the USA ended. The Berlin Wall was pushed down and Russia entered a brutal recession, making it one of the cheapest tourist destinations for clubbing fundis during the ecstasy boom. At the same time South African forces withdrew from Angola (a war entwined with Russia and the US), and many soldiers returned in pieces.
It was a time when kids got their education around the supper table and on the playground. No one really knew what their parents were talking about at the supper table, and everyone on the playground claimed they did.
“Have you been to Angola?” Little Johnny would ask his friend, Stan, on the swings.
Stan would nod his head, fix his glance on the horizon and say, “John, my parents told me about that place. It’s in England I think. Too far to drive. I heard something a Queen who was a peephole pirate that lived there. Apparently she died.”
“Ja,” answers Johnny, “I’ve heard of it. My uncle Pete went there to fight the Reds. They’re a rugby team, aren’t they?”
Of all the rumors surrounding the wars, turmoil and conflict of the time, there was one issue that split us down the middle: were you a ‘Waxy’ or a ‘Homie’? In the midst of these international changes, two categories redefined and polarized the youth of white suburbia in the Eastern Cape.
Rap and Grunge formed the base of these two groups, in a very Communist Verses Capitalist kind of way.
On one side of the spectrum, Waxies identified with Kurdt Cobain and Layne Stanley’s “I don’t give a hoot about anything” sentiment. Surfers and skateboarders were largely affiliated with the group, drawn in by the music’s sloppy dress sense, poor hygiene and dancing rituals (head banging and moshing). At house parties they were the ones who jumped in the pool, broke chairs and smashed windows. Of course PE wasn’t Seattle, and we were only twelve years old, so when things like that happened parents were called and parties cancelled.
The “Homie” (or Homeboy) subdivision was characterized by the bravado and baggy pants of early nineties white rappers, Vanilla Ice and Snow. The Homies were far superior to the Waxies in dancing ability, but notably less reflexive because of their need to look tough. At house parties they would show up with butterfly knives or nun chucks. Like the waxies and their acts of destruction, their parents would be called and parties would cancelled when these things were found out.
It’s funny how two groups emerged during the era— one group fought the turmoil, the other tried to scare it away. And everyone else just nodded and said, “Jussie, I’m neither of those things,” a bit like apathetic voters.
South Africa held its breath when F.W. De Klerk made the decision to release our country’s future leaders. Many people believed peace and a new beginning would follow the death of apartheid. Many people also bought guns and electric fences in case a civil war erupted.
A hole was discovered in the Earth’s Ozone Layer, which changed the way people apply sun cream to their bodies. The risk of skin cancer became real over night. Suddenly Madonna’s mole wasn’t cool anymore and people were surfing in luminous zink again.
Freddy Mercury died of AIDS. The world was shattered by the loss of such a great talent. Religious folk blamed AIDS on homosexuality and bestiality. Distraught liberals blamed secret organizations and governments for creating the HIV virus. The answer still lies hidden bellow the surface, along with photos of the yeti, extra terrestrials and the map to Atlantis.
The Cold War between Russia and the USA ended. The Berlin Wall was pushed down and Russia entered a brutal recession, making it one of the cheapest tourist destinations for clubbing fundis during the ecstasy boom. At the same time South African forces withdrew from Angola (a war entwined with Russia and the US), and many soldiers returned in pieces.
It was a time when kids got their education around the supper table and on the playground. No one really knew what their parents were talking about at the supper table, and everyone on the playground claimed they did.
“Have you been to Angola?” Little Johnny would ask his friend, Stan, on the swings.
Stan would nod his head, fix his glance on the horizon and say, “John, my parents told me about that place. It’s in England I think. Too far to drive. I heard something a Queen who was a peephole pirate that lived there. Apparently she died.”
“Ja,” answers Johnny, “I’ve heard of it. My uncle Pete went there to fight the Reds. They’re a rugby team, aren’t they?”
Of all the rumors surrounding the wars, turmoil and conflict of the time, there was one issue that split us down the middle: were you a ‘Waxy’ or a ‘Homie’? In the midst of these international changes, two categories redefined and polarized the youth of white suburbia in the Eastern Cape.
Rap and Grunge formed the base of these two groups, in a very Communist Verses Capitalist kind of way.
On one side of the spectrum, Waxies identified with Kurdt Cobain and Layne Stanley’s “I don’t give a hoot about anything” sentiment. Surfers and skateboarders were largely affiliated with the group, drawn in by the music’s sloppy dress sense, poor hygiene and dancing rituals (head banging and moshing). At house parties they were the ones who jumped in the pool, broke chairs and smashed windows. Of course PE wasn’t Seattle, and we were only twelve years old, so when things like that happened parents were called and parties cancelled.
The “Homie” (or Homeboy) subdivision was characterized by the bravado and baggy pants of early nineties white rappers, Vanilla Ice and Snow. The Homies were far superior to the Waxies in dancing ability, but notably less reflexive because of their need to look tough. At house parties they would show up with butterfly knives or nun chucks. Like the waxies and their acts of destruction, their parents would be called and parties would cancelled when these things were found out.
It’s funny how two groups emerged during the era— one group fought the turmoil, the other tried to scare it away. And everyone else just nodded and said, “Jussie, I’m neither of those things,” a bit like apathetic voters.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Desert Spider's Chain Letter
I’d like to know who wrote the first chain letter. The concept is a stroke of evil genius. I get at least two every week, all promising me agony or ecstasy, depending on my response to the e-mail.
I’ll give you an example:
To whom it may concern,
Oh boy, it’s your lucky day!
What you are reading is a magic message, penned by claws of Desert Spider himself, king of a distant netherworld. I’ve been asked by Desert Spider to do a survey on people who believe in elves. Please sign the attached list of names (after stating ‘yes’ or ‘no’) and pass it on to at least 25 recipients from your list of contacts.
Failure to pass Desert Spider’s Magic Message on will result in poverty, impotence, low self-esteem, high blood pressure and tummy aches for the next 12 years.
Remember to tick ‘yes’ or ‘no’ wisely, too. Those stating that elves are not real will be dealt with harshly in the afterlife. The sentence is generally 35 reincarnated life times as a one legged dassie in Hankey.
Please enjoy your day and keep smiling.
Hail Desert Spider!
I remember being in Standard 1 when I received my first chain letter. At the time, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were the coolest thing to hit the street since Brave Star and Bionic 6. They were huge. Every child loved the program, the action figures and the costumes.
After a CNN reported on a group of kids in America who decided to jump down a manhole in New York (to search for the REAL turtles) and died in the process, the ninja turtles were deemed Satanic in Port Elizabeth. I knew children whose entire collection of ninja turtles toys were burnt and buried by their hysterical parents.
Rules were tight after that. Children were bored. Even pretending to play ninja turtles was banned at school.
Then, one fateful day, this guy named Lloyd gave me a chain letter. IT promised fatal doom if I didn’t send it to 20 people within 2 days. This scared me senseless; at 9 years old I only knew about 7 people outside my family. And I didn’t want anyone in my family to suffer Desert Spider’s hell whip for not believing in the letter’s magic. So I sucked it up and learned to use my dad’s work’s photo copying machine for something other than taking pictures of my anus.
When I distributed the sheets of paper at school the next day, the news spread like fungus in a gym shower. Kids were losing their heads badly, bawling their eyes out and phoning their parents to pick them up— saying anything to get to a copying machine and a post office by that afternoon.
Some kids were jumping on the cricket nets, pee-ing in the fish pond and sliding down banisters, under the assumption that imminent death was a license to live freely. When teachers got wind of the situation we were all addressed and told to ignore it. “This letter is the Satanists way of making little boys and girls scared! Don’t believe in it and nothing will happen!” our teacher promised us. We were told to forget the letter ever existed.
The next two days were hell. Its power was too real for anyone to forget the letter. I was sweating bullets. I made a deal in my head: if all the boys in Standard one suddenly died, I would take Lloyd down with me.
But, thankfully, nothing happened. Even though I still sleep with one eye open, fearing the appearance of Desert Spider, I delete chain letters on sight.
Hail Desert Spider
I’ll give you an example:
To whom it may concern,
Oh boy, it’s your lucky day!
What you are reading is a magic message, penned by claws of Desert Spider himself, king of a distant netherworld. I’ve been asked by Desert Spider to do a survey on people who believe in elves. Please sign the attached list of names (after stating ‘yes’ or ‘no’) and pass it on to at least 25 recipients from your list of contacts.
Failure to pass Desert Spider’s Magic Message on will result in poverty, impotence, low self-esteem, high blood pressure and tummy aches for the next 12 years.
Remember to tick ‘yes’ or ‘no’ wisely, too. Those stating that elves are not real will be dealt with harshly in the afterlife. The sentence is generally 35 reincarnated life times as a one legged dassie in Hankey.
Please enjoy your day and keep smiling.
Hail Desert Spider!
I remember being in Standard 1 when I received my first chain letter. At the time, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were the coolest thing to hit the street since Brave Star and Bionic 6. They were huge. Every child loved the program, the action figures and the costumes.
After a CNN reported on a group of kids in America who decided to jump down a manhole in New York (to search for the REAL turtles) and died in the process, the ninja turtles were deemed Satanic in Port Elizabeth. I knew children whose entire collection of ninja turtles toys were burnt and buried by their hysterical parents.
Rules were tight after that. Children were bored. Even pretending to play ninja turtles was banned at school.
Then, one fateful day, this guy named Lloyd gave me a chain letter. IT promised fatal doom if I didn’t send it to 20 people within 2 days. This scared me senseless; at 9 years old I only knew about 7 people outside my family. And I didn’t want anyone in my family to suffer Desert Spider’s hell whip for not believing in the letter’s magic. So I sucked it up and learned to use my dad’s work’s photo copying machine for something other than taking pictures of my anus.
When I distributed the sheets of paper at school the next day, the news spread like fungus in a gym shower. Kids were losing their heads badly, bawling their eyes out and phoning their parents to pick them up— saying anything to get to a copying machine and a post office by that afternoon.
Some kids were jumping on the cricket nets, pee-ing in the fish pond and sliding down banisters, under the assumption that imminent death was a license to live freely. When teachers got wind of the situation we were all addressed and told to ignore it. “This letter is the Satanists way of making little boys and girls scared! Don’t believe in it and nothing will happen!” our teacher promised us. We were told to forget the letter ever existed.
The next two days were hell. Its power was too real for anyone to forget the letter. I was sweating bullets. I made a deal in my head: if all the boys in Standard one suddenly died, I would take Lloyd down with me.
But, thankfully, nothing happened. Even though I still sleep with one eye open, fearing the appearance of Desert Spider, I delete chain letters on sight.
Hail Desert Spider
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Who Wants to be A GAJILLIONAIRE!
I was pleasantly surprised by fun waves at Seals this morning. Zok and I took a courtesy drive there after breakfast and ended up paddling out (not what we expected). After an hour or two we called it a day— the south easterly came up and started making seaweed broth of the water. But I’m smug as you like now; sun burnt, tired and glad to have squeezed a surf in, during these times of beautiful weather, harrowing wind and kak waves.
Today I’ve decided to run a small competition. We’re going to play Who Wants to be a Gajillionaire. There are 7 questions. You can e-mail your answers to heraldsurf@gmail.com. If you send me porn, spam or chain letters I’ll be very upset and probably disqualify you from the competition (amongst other things). The winner gets a gajillion Rail to Rail Bucks to spend on whatever he/she likes. I must warn you, most shopping centers are a bit iffy about accepting Rail to Rail bucks. But this is your problem, not mine.
Let the Game Begin:
1. For 100 Bucks: If you were going surfing at Humewood Beach, why wouldn’t you be allowed in the water between 9-5PM on weekends and public holidays.
A. Because the ANC Youth Legue holds secret meeting in the pylons during working hours on weekdays.
B. Because Great Whites patrol the area during those times, feeding on anything with warm blood and a pulse.
C. Because the lifeguards don’t really like surfing and feel it makes their job harder
D. Because the lifeguards cannot allow a hard-bottomed wavecraft in the bathing area, by law or something like that
2. For 100000 Bucks: PE has a surf spot in the reserve known for nudity and near perfect sand banks during North Easterly winds. Name this place.
A. Pipe
B. Lochness
C. Secrets
D. Cuppers Cove
3. For 500000 Bucks: The large structure at Hobie Beach, known for being a nudists diving board and a dark corner for many hopeful teenagers trying to come right during late hours, is:
A. Shark Rock Pier
B. The Red Windmill
C. Hobie Pier
D. Cuppers Cove
4. For 500001 Bucks: The reason many people shy away from surfing while in the Transkei is:
A. Rabid cows that are known to attack innocent beach-goers.
B. They are just too grilled (Normally linked to concerns about A).
C. Rip currents will literally cart you off to Antarctica before you can say, “Rabid cow!”
D. The area is known for some hungry sea-life, of the cartilaginous variety.
5. For 1000000 Bucks: Which of these South African public figures is known to surf from time to time:
A. Ollie Le Roux
B. Tim Curran
C. Julis Malema
D. None of the above
6. For 50000002 Bucks: During the mid nineties a group of Supertubes locals formed a club/ team who policed th famous surf spot like a pack of armed officers on hell’s sidewalk. The borrowed their name from a pack of Hawaiian locals who did the same thing (many years earlier). They were called:
A. Patensie Surfers United Front
B. J-Bay Underpants
C. J-Bay Underground
D. J-Bay Under belly
7. For 2 Gajillion Bucks: Which PE Surf spot has hosted the South African junior and senior Champs the most number of times?
A. Fence
B. Cuppers Cove
C. Pipe
D. Main Rights
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Killing Time
The wind has been playing musical tempests of late, changing from Easterly to westerly every few days, maintaining the force of a nuclear hair dryer. And it’s doing nothing magical to the waves. If you do feel like surfing today, I’d advise harnessing yourself to a sign post in the street first. But, hopefully, if windguru.com aren’t wrong, there’ll be a bit of swell and moderate wind by the weekend (I feel like checking the weather several days in advance is as accurate as asking the magic 8- ball for a prediction).
My heart goes out to tourists on days like this. Especially people laving this afternoon. There’s nothing like seeing a Mercedes full of enthusiastic foreigners trying to squeeze in ONE LAST SWIM before heading back to a beach-less city.
There’s not a whole lot going on at the moment, as far as local and international surf competition goes. The O’Neil Sebastian Inlet contest has been held off for two days, because Florida and PE are experiencing similar plumbing issues. It’ll be as great contest to watch when it does start. To kill time until then, or until the waves play ball, here’s how I’ve been using internet quota productively:
www.youtube.com – top searches: Bob Dylan live Visions of Johanna, Jordy Smith rodeo flip, South African braai etiquette (this is hilarious!), Saturday Night Live Tina Fey Sarah Palin (also priceless), Tim Curran Focus clip
Otherwise Neil Gaiman’s blog/ journal is pretty darn fantastic. http://journal.neilgaiman.com/
My heart goes out to tourists on days like this. Especially people laving this afternoon. There’s nothing like seeing a Mercedes full of enthusiastic foreigners trying to squeeze in ONE LAST SWIM before heading back to a beach-less city.
There’s not a whole lot going on at the moment, as far as local and international surf competition goes. The O’Neil Sebastian Inlet contest has been held off for two days, because Florida and PE are experiencing similar plumbing issues. It’ll be as great contest to watch when it does start. To kill time until then, or until the waves play ball, here’s how I’ve been using internet quota productively:
www.youtube.com – top searches: Bob Dylan live Visions of Johanna, Jordy Smith rodeo flip, South African braai etiquette (this is hilarious!), Saturday Night Live Tina Fey Sarah Palin (also priceless), Tim Curran Focus clip
Otherwise Neil Gaiman’s blog/ journal is pretty darn fantastic. http://journal.neilgaiman.com/
Monday, January 12, 2009
Why I’d hate to be a South African rugby or cricket star.
I like to believe I’m above certain sporting events. The Currie Cup, Seven a side rugby matches, 5 day cricket tests and soccer. That stuff is for hardcore fans- the sort of people who subscribe to DSTV for the sports channels. Not me. Unless it’s the world cup, or an equally lofty event, I’d rather be doing something else.
I learned something about myself this weekend though— I become a monster when I watch a South African team compete. My cool indifference to sports is just a way of saving face.
During the SA/ Australia 20 20 game yesterday I found myself standing on the couch, biting my nails and wailing instructions at Gibbs, Boucher and Morkel. I wanted to climb through the TV set, pad up and bat for the guys. And I’m willing to bet that most people finishing standard 1 this year know more about cricket than me. It’s just way sporting events get your blood pumping that makes a maniac out of people who are normally relaxed that concerns me. Thank heavens there weren’t a few brandy and cokes in the mix before the match started.
And then I try to imagine what it must be like for a South African rugby or cricket payer cruising through a shopping center after losing to the Ausies. I’m pretty sure everyone who played cricket in school must stop them and say, “Hey! Check it out! It’s Mark Boucher! Pleasure to meet you. Listen boet, my old coach, Bernie Earst, showed me this trick when I was in under the 11 B team. What you gotta do the next time Tait bowls a lekker fast one at you is…” and so on.
That’s precisely why I don’t watch sports (except on special occasions).
I learned something about myself this weekend though— I become a monster when I watch a South African team compete. My cool indifference to sports is just a way of saving face.
During the SA/ Australia 20 20 game yesterday I found myself standing on the couch, biting my nails and wailing instructions at Gibbs, Boucher and Morkel. I wanted to climb through the TV set, pad up and bat for the guys. And I’m willing to bet that most people finishing standard 1 this year know more about cricket than me. It’s just way sporting events get your blood pumping that makes a maniac out of people who are normally relaxed that concerns me. Thank heavens there weren’t a few brandy and cokes in the mix before the match started.
And then I try to imagine what it must be like for a South African rugby or cricket payer cruising through a shopping center after losing to the Ausies. I’m pretty sure everyone who played cricket in school must stop them and say, “Hey! Check it out! It’s Mark Boucher! Pleasure to meet you. Listen boet, my old coach, Bernie Earst, showed me this trick when I was in under the 11 B team. What you gotta do the next time Tait bowls a lekker fast one at you is…” and so on.
That’s precisely why I don’t watch sports (except on special occasions).
Friday, January 9, 2009
The Fox and the Hooter
I do something terrible every time I drive passed the St Francis Bay golf course (the fairway runs parallel to the main road). I wait until an unsuspecting golfer takes their back swing on the 15th hole (a long par 5) and then slam my car’s hooter! The result is exhilarating. There’s nothing like causing someone to duff their tea off shot, while you drive away like a bank robber in a getaway car. I’ve claimed many a scalp in my time— pensioners, middle aged businessmen, golfing sugar mommies, multi racial four balls, family four balls, solitary week day golfers. Many have sworn at me, some have leapt the fence and come running and several have pulled lewd signs; I’m still waiting for someone to chase me in a golf cart.
“You’re going to get donnered one day,” Uncle Jonah often tells me.
“None sense,” I’ve always insisted, “who can catch someone driving in a car?”
“Your time will come. Don’t think these things go unnoticed.”
“Yes, yes, yes…”
***
About a week ago I spotted a crew of youngsters setting up on the fifteenth hole. What luck! I was on my way to the shop for something unimportant, so I did laps along the main road, back and forth, waiting until the biggest of them set up his tee shot. He was a bulky kid with a lamb’s wool bokkie, a streaked mullet and bad temper (I would soon learn of this last trait). Let’s call him Dwayne.
Dwayne set up his ball and took two practice swings. I adjusted the pace of my car, so that I’d be right beside him as he took his back swing. As Dwayne pulled back I let rip on the hooter: “BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP.” I was still pressing the hooter when Dwayne hurled his one club at the car like a javelin and then hopped the course fence like a hurdlest.
I smelled trouble and darted home without going back to the shop. If that’s what Dwayne was capable of, I’d best steer clear.
***
A few days later, I decided to walk to the shop. The wind was howling onshore and I felt in need of a spot of exercise.
I took a slow walk passed the gold course, seeing if I could spot any former victims. There was no one I recognized. Still, I had a good time imagining getting a few of the players I could see.
I got to the road that leads towards my house, right near a bushy paddock that leads towards my front gate. I was at the corner when my mom drove up beside me, in my car. She opened the window and said, “Bugs! I’m just going to borrow your car for an hour! That okay?”
“Sure thing mommy!” I said, in my cutest voice.
I waved as she drove off, and carried on walking.
As my mom was out of sight I heard a deep voice, like a fog horn— void of pitch— ring out terrible. “AH Bukthi! I think you and I have somth-thing to talk abouth!”
Merciful Heavens, it was Dwayne and his friends; all hopped up on criotene, hormones and god knows what else.
I didn’t have time to scream— I just ran. I looked back and saw them piling into a bakkie, and come driving straight at me. I turned into the bushy area and moved through the area like springbuck in the veld. Over thorn trees and Port Jackson Willows I leapt, fully aware of Dwayne’s droning lisp calling out behind my back, “There he ithhh! Don’t let him geth away!”
At one point I fell over and lost my glasses; I picked myself up without worrying about them and moved on. I could hear they were on foot now, hot on my trail. I felt like a tired fox being chased by hunters and beagles. Eventually I got to my back fence and flew over it like a gymnast, relieved to be on home turf.
Maxi started barking at me (he’s not used to guests arriving by air mail), so I picked him, grabbed him by the snout and hid in his box. “Don’t move a muscle boy,” I whispered sternly in his ear, “these cretins will break us in half— you hear me?” Maxi nodded and promised to be quiet.
It was just like the scene in Lord Of The Rings, when Frodo is hiding from the Dark Riders. Dwayne and his oversized crew of teenaged friends leapt over the wall on all fours— like a frog. Maxi and I saw them at the same time and turned to stone.
They sniffed around the garden, examining pot plants and dog leashes, moving like ogres. Dwayne picked up a handful of soil and sniffed if deeply, “I know he’th Here!” barked Dwayne, “I can sthmell him!” he bellowed.
He moved closer to Maxi’s box, grunting and chortling awfully. I was trying to get my cellphone out my pocket— to phone the police, when someone called out from the road side, “I see him!”
In one foul motion the team of dark riders vacated my garden. Moments later I heard the bakkie spinning down the road, after some unfortunate bugger they thought was me. I plopped out of Maxi’s box with tears in my eyes, thankful to be alive. Uncle Jonah opened the front door, stepped out and looked down at me. “What happened?” he asked.
“You’re going to get donnered one day,” Uncle Jonah often tells me.
“None sense,” I’ve always insisted, “who can catch someone driving in a car?”
“Your time will come. Don’t think these things go unnoticed.”
“Yes, yes, yes…”
***
About a week ago I spotted a crew of youngsters setting up on the fifteenth hole. What luck! I was on my way to the shop for something unimportant, so I did laps along the main road, back and forth, waiting until the biggest of them set up his tee shot. He was a bulky kid with a lamb’s wool bokkie, a streaked mullet and bad temper (I would soon learn of this last trait). Let’s call him Dwayne.
Dwayne set up his ball and took two practice swings. I adjusted the pace of my car, so that I’d be right beside him as he took his back swing. As Dwayne pulled back I let rip on the hooter: “BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP.” I was still pressing the hooter when Dwayne hurled his one club at the car like a javelin and then hopped the course fence like a hurdlest.
I smelled trouble and darted home without going back to the shop. If that’s what Dwayne was capable of, I’d best steer clear.
***
A few days later, I decided to walk to the shop. The wind was howling onshore and I felt in need of a spot of exercise.
I took a slow walk passed the gold course, seeing if I could spot any former victims. There was no one I recognized. Still, I had a good time imagining getting a few of the players I could see.
I got to the road that leads towards my house, right near a bushy paddock that leads towards my front gate. I was at the corner when my mom drove up beside me, in my car. She opened the window and said, “Bugs! I’m just going to borrow your car for an hour! That okay?”
“Sure thing mommy!” I said, in my cutest voice.
I waved as she drove off, and carried on walking.
As my mom was out of sight I heard a deep voice, like a fog horn— void of pitch— ring out terrible. “AH Bukthi! I think you and I have somth-thing to talk abouth!”
Merciful Heavens, it was Dwayne and his friends; all hopped up on criotene, hormones and god knows what else.
I didn’t have time to scream— I just ran. I looked back and saw them piling into a bakkie, and come driving straight at me. I turned into the bushy area and moved through the area like springbuck in the veld. Over thorn trees and Port Jackson Willows I leapt, fully aware of Dwayne’s droning lisp calling out behind my back, “There he ithhh! Don’t let him geth away!”
At one point I fell over and lost my glasses; I picked myself up without worrying about them and moved on. I could hear they were on foot now, hot on my trail. I felt like a tired fox being chased by hunters and beagles. Eventually I got to my back fence and flew over it like a gymnast, relieved to be on home turf.
Maxi started barking at me (he’s not used to guests arriving by air mail), so I picked him, grabbed him by the snout and hid in his box. “Don’t move a muscle boy,” I whispered sternly in his ear, “these cretins will break us in half— you hear me?” Maxi nodded and promised to be quiet.
It was just like the scene in Lord Of The Rings, when Frodo is hiding from the Dark Riders. Dwayne and his oversized crew of teenaged friends leapt over the wall on all fours— like a frog. Maxi and I saw them at the same time and turned to stone.
They sniffed around the garden, examining pot plants and dog leashes, moving like ogres. Dwayne picked up a handful of soil and sniffed if deeply, “I know he’th Here!” barked Dwayne, “I can sthmell him!” he bellowed.
He moved closer to Maxi’s box, grunting and chortling awfully. I was trying to get my cellphone out my pocket— to phone the police, when someone called out from the road side, “I see him!”
In one foul motion the team of dark riders vacated my garden. Moments later I heard the bakkie spinning down the road, after some unfortunate bugger they thought was me. I plopped out of Maxi’s box with tears in my eyes, thankful to be alive. Uncle Jonah opened the front door, stepped out and looked down at me. “What happened?” he asked.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Joobs's Great Cycle Tour
Jonathan ‘Joobs’ Hamilton-Brown has been on a mission of late. I saw him in J-Bay a few weeks ago, cycling along the freeway. That’s a long way for a surfer from Cape St Francis to be taking a bike ride into the wind. Days later I saw him near the ostrich farm outside Humansdorp, steering his mountain bike away from home. “Holy snakes, Joobs, that Lance Armstrong Autobiography blow you away a bit?” I asked him over a few beers one night.
“No, bru, I’m training for a charity cycle tour to Kilimanjaro,” he answered, much to my humble surprise.
To limit my description of Joobs as a ‘surfer from Cape St Francis’ short-sells his wide range of talents and interests- He's an accomplished long boarder, shortboarder, harmonica player, refrigeration technitian and guitarist. Having already biked his way across the UK, he now focuses on the Kilimanjaro expedition for two reasons. Firstly: to fulfill a long term goal of experiencing more of Africa. “Being an African, I want to get in touch with our continent,” says Joobs. Secondly: to raise awareness (and funds) for Marine Bird Rehabilitation— a cause he feels very strongly about.
The preparation work he’s putting into this trip is mental and physical. The route he’s taking will start at Seals and move over the Baviaans Kloof, then through Cockscomb, towards the Free State. Some 4600 Kilometers later he’ll arrive at the border of Tanzania. He’s not stopping at Kilimanjaro either. Joobs fully intends on climbing the highest mountain in Africa before riding home.
To get into shape for this trip, he’s cycling almost 40 kays a day, between work, and 80- 100 kays on weekends (the number of kays he’ll be doing, ideally, on a full riding day during the trip). Still, there’s more to this trip than getting superhumanly fit and packing enough hemorrhoids cream to last 12000 km’s on a bike. It’s an eight to twelve month camping trip he’s going on. “I’m going to be living outside with the sun, the rain, the insects and 40 KG’s of gear.” Some of the extra ‘gear’ he’s talking about is as follows— 8 liters of water a day, a tent, sleeping bag, multi fuel cooker, GPS, solar charger for his cellphone (MTN Africa Roaming at R5 minute), spare tires, repair kit, extra spokes, a comprehensive medical kit and “an infinite supply of sun cream.”
He’s no stranger to harsh conditions our continent can produce. In Mozambique, back in 2000, he was caught in a cyclone whilst doing repair work on generator sets at a processing factory. “A 2 week working trip ended up taking 2 months,” reflects Joobs on his experience. Not only was he stuck in Mozi whilst rain and wind hissed fury across the coastline, he caught malaria in the process.
In spite of all the potential dangers he’s preparing for, Joobs is excited about the trip. He was astonished by the responses he got in Wales, Scotland and Ireland whilst biking through the countryside there. “People are so welcoming when you’re cruising through on a bike and want to set up a tent for the night. I was welcomed by farmers, gypsies and just about anyone I came across.” To do a trip through Africa will be a completely fresh version of his experience as a cycle tourist. “I can’t wait to meet people and share their homes in the same way, just get to know people who live differently to you. The only thing I’m bummed about is not being able to take a board— I’ll be going right passed Toffino!”
It’s a self funded mission he’s on, but anyone wanting to support OR join Joobs on his trip, or just to ask a question or two about it, can contact him via: joobiejoobs@gmail.com
Joobs will be diarizing his trip via a blog when he get’s started. As soon as that site is up and running I’ll have the link posted.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
A Blog That Reads Like Something From The Letters Page/ It's Not On
This morning I was stopped by a traffic officer on the freeway outside Humansdorp. She was a tall woman, wearing a neon orange waist coat over her blue uniform and a smile full of gold teeth. ‘Standard road block,’ she assured me, scanning my wheels for bald edges and scrutinizing my driver’s license photograph.
I knew she’d sting me for the out of date license disk on the windscreen. I’ve avoided replacing it since October, using detours and driving as little as possible. She signaled me out the car by curling her index finger. I nodded, shut the engine off and took a walk with her to the caravan under the bridge.
‘Maneer Truscott, yourrrr dishk is stok oud. I’m afraid you’ve won yourrseylf a little prize to take home. Congratulations.”
I smiled and did a little victory dance. Fair play.
On my way back to the car, I noticed someone else, in a silver corsa bakkie, getting fined. He wouldn’t leave his seat when a mustachioed officer asked him to take the ‘caravan walk’. The officer said the same expired disk shpeel, but the driver was having none of it. He spoke about rights and regulations, to the tune of, ‘I don’t hef to do a balladdi theeng yoo say. Aa’ve got the right to sit here the hol taam. Yoo got mu laaisince, so jist use it to take ma details. Wots so hard aboud that?’
I watched this chap get angrier and angrier about the fine. To get out of it he tried being funny, being nice, then swearing a lot, and finally ended by asking them to understand, ‘like any good Christian would’. I got bored after 20 minutes and drove off before they finished up. Another 15 minutes passed before a silver corsa bakkie shot passed me down the road at about 180km/hr.
Now, hear me out: I’m not saying that I enjoy traffic cops or police having ANY sort of say over my actions— I think HAVING to pay a fee to surf the reserve is heinous enough. The concept of a society watched and monitored by authorities disappoints me. But what I’m talking about has more to do with the public’s response to police and traffic officials.
It’s because of people like the nincompoop in the silver bakkie that we have to play ball and follow the law. He’s the sort of guy that complains about taxis and public transport being dangerous, but drives like a fool himself. There is no ‘special treatment’ when it comes to public safety. Drunk driving is another one. I’ve been very guilty of this MANY times. It’s not on. I hope I get caught if it happens again… no, actually I don’t. But I hope IT doesn’t happen again. Faulty public transport vehicles, reckless speeding, drunk driving, speaking on the cell phone at the wheel; they’re all equally dangerous. All classes are guilty of these crimes at the same time. I’m sick of hearing wealthy people whine about ‘them’ (taxis, buses, people with fake licenses), like they’ve got nothing to feel guilty about it.
***
You can probably tell by the length of this blog that the waves are shocking again. I'm sorry if you feel like you've been reading a rediculous letter to the editor about the service you got a Pick 'n Pay last Friday (or something equally petty).
The wind is howling straight east, and its looking to swing offshore by Friday. On the plus side, it’s building the swell quite nicely— kite boarders are probably having a ball at the moment. There’s a great website my cousin Mase put me on to a while ago, called windguru.com. It’s marvelous. They give you wind direction, swell period, size and direction for a week in advance.
I knew she’d sting me for the out of date license disk on the windscreen. I’ve avoided replacing it since October, using detours and driving as little as possible. She signaled me out the car by curling her index finger. I nodded, shut the engine off and took a walk with her to the caravan under the bridge.
‘Maneer Truscott, yourrrr dishk is stok oud. I’m afraid you’ve won yourrseylf a little prize to take home. Congratulations.”
I smiled and did a little victory dance. Fair play.
On my way back to the car, I noticed someone else, in a silver corsa bakkie, getting fined. He wouldn’t leave his seat when a mustachioed officer asked him to take the ‘caravan walk’. The officer said the same expired disk shpeel, but the driver was having none of it. He spoke about rights and regulations, to the tune of, ‘I don’t hef to do a balladdi theeng yoo say. Aa’ve got the right to sit here the hol taam. Yoo got mu laaisince, so jist use it to take ma details. Wots so hard aboud that?’
I watched this chap get angrier and angrier about the fine. To get out of it he tried being funny, being nice, then swearing a lot, and finally ended by asking them to understand, ‘like any good Christian would’. I got bored after 20 minutes and drove off before they finished up. Another 15 minutes passed before a silver corsa bakkie shot passed me down the road at about 180km/hr.
Now, hear me out: I’m not saying that I enjoy traffic cops or police having ANY sort of say over my actions— I think HAVING to pay a fee to surf the reserve is heinous enough. The concept of a society watched and monitored by authorities disappoints me. But what I’m talking about has more to do with the public’s response to police and traffic officials.
It’s because of people like the nincompoop in the silver bakkie that we have to play ball and follow the law. He’s the sort of guy that complains about taxis and public transport being dangerous, but drives like a fool himself. There is no ‘special treatment’ when it comes to public safety. Drunk driving is another one. I’ve been very guilty of this MANY times. It’s not on. I hope I get caught if it happens again… no, actually I don’t. But I hope IT doesn’t happen again. Faulty public transport vehicles, reckless speeding, drunk driving, speaking on the cell phone at the wheel; they’re all equally dangerous. All classes are guilty of these crimes at the same time. I’m sick of hearing wealthy people whine about ‘them’ (taxis, buses, people with fake licenses), like they’ve got nothing to feel guilty about it.
***
You can probably tell by the length of this blog that the waves are shocking again. I'm sorry if you feel like you've been reading a rediculous letter to the editor about the service you got a Pick 'n Pay last Friday (or something equally petty).
The wind is howling straight east, and its looking to swing offshore by Friday. On the plus side, it’s building the swell quite nicely— kite boarders are probably having a ball at the moment. There’s a great website my cousin Mase put me on to a while ago, called windguru.com. It’s marvelous. They give you wind direction, swell period, size and direction for a week in advance.
Monday, January 5, 2009
World Junior Champs
The World Junior Champs are on in Australia at the moment. Rudy Palmboom Jnr. Caned his round 2 heat this morning, getting the second highest heat score total of the day. You can see it all on www.billabongpro.com. There are some good clips, photos and coverage of the event.
A Full Day’s Dawdle
Of all the sounds that woke me today, the most prominent was the scraping of feet against the tarmac. It sounded like tired snakes were slithering across the parking lots of Port Elizabeth, chanting a sad mantra about the traffic on Beach Road at 8:30.
I don’t think anyone believes its Monday the 5th of January, 2009. Collective denial has won the province. I poked my head out the window and saw a woman dragging her husband to the car. She had his left leg in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He was only wearing polly shorts and a set of braai tongs dangling from a string round his neck. “No honey, YOU’VE got it wrong! It’s only the twelve of December! What do you mean I’ve got work today!”
Mrs. Duiker was bawling outside her front door in a three piece suit, looking at her watch and car keys the way someone stares at a 3D picture that won’t reveal itself.
I’m not sure what to say to all these disappointed people. If it makes anyone feel better, the waves are rubbish today. A fresh onshore wind is churning the water into fish pate’. Occasional showers are expected later— it’ll be like surfing in England.
The only way to get over post December Blues is to move on. Bugger the five steps of grief. Don’t get angry, or try to bargain your way home from work early this afternoon. Just accept that your allotted twelve days of Christmas are over.
As a way of getting back into the sad swing of work, I’ve decided to draw you a picture. The man/ woman in the barrel is you. The magic box on the beach is filled with your favorite cold beverages, placed there to quench your thirst after a full day in the water. Your towels are being tumble dried in my portable tumble dryer, also put there for your enjoyment. A fire has been lit, too, for the post surfing braai. The weather is perfect, as you can see from the warm UV rays beaming down. Feel free to kill time with it during work. Add your own touches with Microsoft paint (bosses can’t ban it, like gmail and facebook) — beach party scene, black jack table, hammock between two palm trees. That sort of thing.
***
The waiting period for the Quiksilver In Memory of Eddie Aikau big wave contest started last month, and will continue through February (until the contest is surfed). It’s an awesome event with a rich history. A link to the contest’s live feed, as well as a bio on the event can be seen on www.aspworldtour.com.
I don’t think anyone believes its Monday the 5th of January, 2009. Collective denial has won the province. I poked my head out the window and saw a woman dragging her husband to the car. She had his left leg in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He was only wearing polly shorts and a set of braai tongs dangling from a string round his neck. “No honey, YOU’VE got it wrong! It’s only the twelve of December! What do you mean I’ve got work today!”
Mrs. Duiker was bawling outside her front door in a three piece suit, looking at her watch and car keys the way someone stares at a 3D picture that won’t reveal itself.
I’m not sure what to say to all these disappointed people. If it makes anyone feel better, the waves are rubbish today. A fresh onshore wind is churning the water into fish pate’. Occasional showers are expected later— it’ll be like surfing in England.
The only way to get over post December Blues is to move on. Bugger the five steps of grief. Don’t get angry, or try to bargain your way home from work early this afternoon. Just accept that your allotted twelve days of Christmas are over.
As a way of getting back into the sad swing of work, I’ve decided to draw you a picture. The man/ woman in the barrel is you. The magic box on the beach is filled with your favorite cold beverages, placed there to quench your thirst after a full day in the water. Your towels are being tumble dried in my portable tumble dryer, also put there for your enjoyment. A fire has been lit, too, for the post surfing braai. The weather is perfect, as you can see from the warm UV rays beaming down. Feel free to kill time with it during work. Add your own touches with Microsoft paint (bosses can’t ban it, like gmail and facebook) — beach party scene, black jack table, hammock between two palm trees. That sort of thing.
***
The waiting period for the Quiksilver In Memory of Eddie Aikau big wave contest started last month, and will continue through February (until the contest is surfed). It’s an awesome event with a rich history. A link to the contest’s live feed, as well as a bio on the event can be seen on www.aspworldtour.com.
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