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/

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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/

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.
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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.