Notes From The Line Up

Change of Website

2009-03-15T21:25:00.000+02:00

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

The Far Side of Rad

2009-03-02T09:53:00.004+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

The 100th Blog

2009-02-26T08:29:00.002+02:00

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

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

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

World War 2 Syndrome

2009-02-24T11:24:00.000+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday Checkpoint

2009-02-20T12:55:00.002+02:00

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

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

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

Ice Cream Headaches and Cornish Pasties

2009-02-19T12:10:00.003+02:00

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

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

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

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

Why I Don't Surf Pipe

2009-02-17T11:13:00.001+02:00

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alberto and Percy were never found though…

Viva Le Commercial Resistance’!

2009-02-16T11:41:00.003+02:00

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 :)

Jo Jo's Unlucky Line- Snapping Incident

2009-02-13T10:21:00.002+02:00

“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.

Siamese Twins

2009-02-11T09:05:00.007+02:00

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.

Sam 'Big Bucks' Mazambulo

2009-02-10T09:41:00.001+02:00

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

Heinz Catches A Big One

2009-02-06T09:40:00.002+02:00

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.

Emslie Signs with Derevko

2009-02-04T11:22:00.001+02:00

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

2009-02-04T10:46:00.001+02:00

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.”

The Poison Dwarf and Rat Face

2009-01-31T08:14:00.003+02:00

The first time I saw them was during a trip to Gold Reef City, 8 years ago or so. The queue for the boat ride (the one that swings like a pendulum and hangs upside down for a few seconds) was crowded. ‘25 Minutes To Front‘, said a small cardboard sign at the back. I was determined though. The bumper cars and tea cups weren’t cutting it. I needed adrenalin.

There was a tense vibe amongst people waiting in the line. As each new crew got on the boat, the screams got louder and closer. The boat seemed to triple in size and height, too. Grown men got off the ride and sniveled into the arms of sympathetic wives. Teenagers wet their pants. One lady had to be carted off on a stretcher, having gone mildly psychotic from all the excitement. She started screaming the moment the ride moved, yelling at the controller to let her off. Several minutes later she was certified crazy. I stood in line with my eyeballs in my fists.

People spoke in hushed tones, trying not to expose their fear. I was near the front when someone belched louder than all the collective cries coming from the ride. It shook the ground like dreadful thunder and curdled the sweat on people’s faces. There was a moment when the whole park fell silent and looked around, trying to identify the perpetrator.

Poison Dwarf burst out laughing, claiming ownership of that ghastly noise. Her shrieks were awful; it was the laughter of bullies and snobs. “What are you looking at?” she asked, taking a bite of her pork burger, when someone pointed her out. The matter was quickly dropped. She was a muscularly package of napalm back then, with a voice to match a fire siren. She speaks two languages: english and snake. Her beady eyes followed you, even when standing beside her. Her posture always looked ready to attack.

It was finally time to board the boat soon after that.

“We were clip clopping along the wooden platform, waiting to be locked into our seats by someone in charge, when a voice called out to The Poison Dwarf from behind the ride’s barrier. “Go Honey, I love you shnookems!” He was a lanky individual in his late twenties. His eyes bulged and he twitched constantly. As cool and collected as The Poison Dwarf was, her lover exuded quite the opposite. He was jumpy like a provoked poodle. His most prominent feature was a set of front teeth that hung over his sharp jaw.
Poison Dwarf shot a glance at her dearest and smiled. Shoving her right palm into her left arm pit, she made a collection of farting sounds audible to all of Gold Reef City. He returned the gesture, much to the sour glares of all present.

I can hardly remember the ride itself. That awful woman’s yelling stung my skull and broke my will. I stumbled off to find my folks after that, wounded and nauseous. The last of The Poison Dwarf and her Rat Faced boyfriend that day was at bratwurst stand, where they were having tomato sauce and mustard fights with two security guards.
***

Since then and over the years I‘ve seen them everywhere. No jokes: At Spar, bumping people’s trolley’s over for the last loaf of white Sasco Sam. At the super tubes, taking pictures of one another going down the fast slide. At the beach front, doing wheels spins in the Pollock Beach car park. Even in Dubai last September. The Poison Dwarf was waving a bottle of water at Starbucks attendant, screaming, “one hundred Dierems! One blumun hundred Dierems’s for this blumun bottle of water? Are you smoking mandrax!” They stain my eyes with squid’s ink and give me an itch at the back of my throat.

I thought they might be a figment of my imagination until a few years back.
I was driving with a mate when they stole my parking at the boardwalk. I was thrilled to find a spot near the entrance when they zoomed in and swung their souped up uno in front of me. Out of nowhere. There was no doubt about it being them, too. She got the car quickly and pulled a nasty little fist at me, just in case I was thinking of taking the matter up with them.

“Jussie, what was that?” asked my associate.

“Just the most evil pair of scum bags on earth,” I answered, mildly glad about confirming my sanity.

***
So it came as no surprise to me when I saw them on the way to Cape Town yesterday.

We set off at first light and made the pass above Plett just as it was getting hot outside. We pulled over at the station in Riversdale towards noon, desperate for water and wees. I hung back at the car to inspect the roof racks and make sure the boards weren’t getting ready to fly away.
I was feeling satisfied with my handiwork, shaking the boards around to test their durability, when I heard a voice I’d never forget. “Hey, back wave surf dog!” shouted the Poison’s Dwarf’s boyfriend.

I was about to say, “get lost, Rat Face, I don’t like your kind,” when I noticed him waving the hand of a little girl at me. In the arms of Rat Face lay his and Poison Dwarf’s first born daughter. She looked like an infant WWE Wrestler, with buck teeth and a sharp chin. Instead of saying anything, I waved back and smiled at them. None of us really knew what to say after that.

That’s when I hear The Poison Dwarf shouting. “Jasper! Come here! We’re leaving now. Get our little girl away from that man- he’s the funny looking one we always see in PE!” In all these years, they hadn’t changed much, but it was very funny for me t know they’d always thought of me as the funny looking one.

With that, Jasper the Rat Face and his daughter snuffed their noses at me, turned and headed back to The Poison Dwarf, the matriarch of their wonderful new family.

So I’m not sure what to make of all this. I want to congratulate Rat Face and The Poison Dwarf on their new baby girl, wherever you are right now. Please try to be nicer to strangers in future.

***
I have some more industry news here. Ex- EP surfer, Jaco Kapp has just signed a new contract with Island Style this year. For those of you that don't know who Jaco is, he was the guy who could make Pipe look like it was cranking any day of the week. The man has a special gift for surfing small waves extremely well. That's not to take anything away from his performance in the solid stuff, too. He's an amazing all round surfer. Nice One, Jaco.

A Farewell

2009-01-30T08:41:00.000+02:00

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

2009-01-28T20:07:00.000+02:00

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

2009-01-27T09:35:00.000+02:00

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

Carrel the Girlie Boy's Big Entry

2009-01-23T12:35:00.000+02:00

Carrel was turning eight years old and going into his second year of Big School. He was feeling apprehensive about the first term of Sub B. Most kids were still calling him ‘Girlie Boy’ at the end of last year. To make matters worse, he had fewer teeth than his two year old cousin— his grand parents kept offering him their false teeth to make him feel better. This didn’t work.

Outside his curricular interests, like phonics homework and playing Star Wars, he was starting nippers at Kings Beach Lifesaving Club. This was a special concession made by his Uncle T-bone, the club’s mustachioed chairperson. What a nightmare for poor Carrel, who wouldn’t go near water because he saw dinosaur sharks lurking in the deep end of the school swimming pool.

The nipper season kicked off on the first Sunday of February. A week’s time. In preparation for the physical demands of being a Nipper, Carrel hit the beach with his family— his parents, Sue and Gill, and his big brother, Robyn, the club’s top U/15 Nipper. If the strain of conquering his own fear of water wasn’t bad enough, Carrel also felt the added pressure of being compared to his brother, who almost certainly contained dolphin DNA in his genetic makeup. Lucky no one in class knew that his whole family had girlie names.

They set up camp at Miller’s Point on a perfect Saturday morning. The sand was hot underfoot and the water shone in the sun’s glare. The wind was blowing somewhere between 12- 18 knots in a south westerly direction— what day in PE is complete without wind, ey?

After Sue covered the family in Zink and factor 80 sun screen, the troop split up. Sue steadied herself in under the umbrella. Gill bought himself a luminous orange paddle ski he was dying to try out, and Robyn felt like swimming butterfly laps around Bird Rock.
Carrel sat at the sewer outlet that lead into the ocean, building sand castles and contemplating excuses for not going in the ocean. Gill bought a single- fin polystyrene surfboard for Carrel, which he left with Sue, unfazed by its presence.

***
It was on the same day, at the same place, that a young entrepreneur by the name of Steven Stevenson, a stage name, was opening an Extreme Boerewors Roll Stand. He’d kitten his electronic rickshaw out to look like the Death Star, and was wearing a Darth Vader costume his uncle brought back from America in the 80’s. The operation was called ‘Star Wors’, which he’d written on a cardboard sign, in thick Koki Pen above the roof of his Death Star Rickshaw. Beside it was the classy slogan, “May the Wors be With You.”

Business was going swimmingly. The wors rolls were selling like hotcakes. Hungry surfers and beach goers couldn’t order the next one quickly enough. The only downside was wearing the Darth Vader outfit, which attracted heat like a steel manhole in the sun. Very stupidly, Stevenson had told many, many women that he was a dolphin trainer at Sea World, and was on holiday in PE. This was the key reason for the outfit.

***
Carrel’s family was lapping up the sunshine. Gill’s paddle ski went like the clappers. He got a few beauties that ran all the way to Hobbie Beach, and let out a hoot of approval at the end of each wave. Robyn had gotten bored of circling Bird Rock, and decided to swim to Bluewater Bay, underwater, taking single breaths every 4 minutes. Sue was glued to a romance novel about Bo Arrowson, the American Heavy weight boxer who falls in love with a bearded circus lady. Terrible story.

Carrel’s masterpiece sandcastle was washed away by the incoming tide. After that happened, he began capturing hermit crabs, which he used to form an army of shelled warriors in a rock pool of his choice. The tide moved in a little further and freed all his crabs, so Carrel just ambled around the sewage pipe, searching for trap doors that lead to somewhere unaffected by tidal changes.

***
Stevenson was in trouble. It was unbearably hot in his Vader outfit and business was flying at a rate he could hardly cope with. Every so often he’d throw a handful of ice blocks down his helmet and feel them melt before reaching his chest. As soon as one order was finished, another family would show up and ask for 13 more boeire rolls. He simply couldn’t cope, and was inches away from passing out.

***
. “Hey mom! Look, it’s Girlie Boy!” The day couldn’t have gotten any worse for Carrel. Some kids from his class had shown up and started calling to him from the parking lot. The pang of frustration was merciless.
Two more class mates joined in and started chanting, “Girlie Boy, Girlie Boy, Girlie Boy!”

Carrel was at his wits end. He was about ready to burst out crying when a different voice caught his ears. It was a call for help, coming from the ocean. Carrel ignored the kids in his class for a moment and got on top of the Sewer Pipe. From that vantage point he could make out a black helmet bobbing in the line up. Holly Snakes! thought Carrel, It’s Darth Vader! And he’s in trouble! It could have been anyone else, and Carrel would not have noticed. But Darth Vader!

Carrel acted swiftly and kept his cool. The polystyrene surfboard was still at the umbrella. He swooped past his mom and whipped the board under his arm without her missing a sentence in her naughty book. With ninja-like precision, Carrel paddled out and got to Vader just before he went under.

Here! Take my board! Screamed Carrel, loading DV onto the kiddies sized polystyrene board. Steven Stevenson, who’d had that nervous breakdown I mentioned, abandoned the Death Star Rickshaw to charge into the water. It was only after he got into shoulder depth water that he realized swimming was impossible with the suit on. As the tide moved in, the suit became a death trap.

After a long struggle Stevenson managed to get his helmet off and puke up the liter of saltwater blocking his throat, thanks to Carrel.

A crowd had gathered at the water’s edge and two people were on their way out to give them a hand in.
Carrel took a look around from the backline of Millers Point, floating on his first surfboard (that he never wanted to begin with) next to Darth Vader. Just as help was arriving, Darth Vader said to him, “Thanks little man. You’ll make one helluva lifeguard one day.”

***
Sorry folks, there are no waves today. And almost no news. Check out www.aspworldtour.com for an interview with Andy Iron’s about his sabbatical in 2009. He sounds very reasonable and I hope he comes back in 2010, ready to give it hell.

Mother Nature's Top Hat

2009-01-22T10:18:00.001+02:00

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

2009-01-20T09:45:00.003+02:00

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

2009-01-19T18:25:00.002+02:00

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

2009-01-16T13:34:00.001+02:00

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!

2009-01-15T15:19:00.003+02:00

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

2009-01-14T12:30:00.000+02:00

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.

2009-01-12T11:37:00.000+02:00

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

2009-01-09T11:46:00.001+02:00

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

2009-01-07T11:40:00.006+02:00

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

2009-01-06T14:00:00.007+02:00

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

2009-01-05T19:33:00.001+02:00

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

2009-01-05T09:56:00.004+02:00

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.

MAHOOOSIVE

2008-12-26T17:46:00.005+02:00

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

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

Waves and Goodbyes

2008-12-24T11:25:00.004+02:00

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

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

Rail To Rail Body Surfing Extravaganza

2008-12-22T14:40:00.009+02:00

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

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

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

5 Minutes of Reflection

2008-12-21T17:09:00.002+02:00

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

Rail to Rail Body Surfing Extravaganza

2008-12-17T19:23:00.003+02:00

Hello friends,

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

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

The calendar looks as follows:

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

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

09:45: first heat goes into the water

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

The judging criteria is as follow:

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

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

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

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

Thank you,

Clayton Truscott

Soul Muti

2008-12-17T09:55:00.005+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SPFING

2008-12-16T12:41:00.002+02:00

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

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

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

Bull Nonesense Revisited

2008-12-12T08:47:00.005+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

Independant Biltong Slices

2008-12-10T10:11:00.000+02:00

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

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

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

Hadida's Creek on the first weekend of December

2008-12-09T10:14:00.001+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Staircase to Sunset

2008-12-05T08:44:00.003+02:00

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

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

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

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

A Tale of Forced Redemption and Justice

2008-12-04T11:39:00.002+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Notes from an East London Surf Trip: Part 2

2008-12-02T17:33:00.003+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

Notes from a Road Trip to East London: Part 1

2008-12-01T12:00:00.005+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

A Secret Spot Just outside PE...

2008-11-28T17:44:00.003+02:00

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

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

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

All Year Round Summer Suit

2008-11-27T10:18:00.003+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

EXCLUSIVE CELEB SPECIAL!!!

2008-11-25T09:24:00.004+02:00

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

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

Here’s a quick Bio:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parental Chopping Block Work

2008-11-24T08:22:00.003+02:00

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

A Decent Spot

2008-11-20T10:52:00.003+02:00

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

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

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

The '72 Second Hows It Broe' Conversation

2008-11-19T10:40:00.002+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vernon: good to see you man.

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

Vernon: Cheers.

Leroy: Cheers.

(The part ways with the same handshake)

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

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

Vernon: Ahoy! Whooohoo! Nothing much! You?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leroy: Kay Cheers.

Vernon: Cheers man, see you soon.

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

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

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

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

A Formal Apology to Maximus

2008-11-18T10:08:00.001+02:00

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

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

Filling the Void

2008-11-17T09:29:00.003+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unplugged in PE on a Thursday Morning

2008-11-13T09:42:00.004+02:00

“Merciful heavens! The sun is broken!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rip, The Car Whisperer

2008-11-12T10:45:00.000+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

You should take a look at this

2008-11-11T17:02:00.000+02:00

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

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

Old Videos and Pouring Rain

2008-11-11T10:22:00.000+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of the Okes

2008-11-10T07:33:00.000+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scales That Tickle

2008-11-06T11:23:00.000+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lastly, on the topic of big waves:

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

Somma Syma Summer

2008-11-05T08:55:00.000+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

Laughable Progress

2008-11-03T20:36:00.000+02:00

I’ve been working on a story since September.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bathing in Spilled Milk on a Sunday

2008-11-02T12:51:00.000+02:00

I had to dig deep for happiness today.

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

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

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

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

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

Night Feverish

2008-10-31T08:13:00.000+02:00

It’s definitely NOT for lack of trying that white people can’t dance. I know that’s a blanket statement, but I’m speaking about the average Jack and Jill who boogie once a month. Or just for myself. Of course there are exceptions.

Bosses across PE must be cursing today.
I’m pretty sure more than half the province was at Goldfish last night, dancing shamelessly till the wee hours of the morning. That’s what I’m telling myself to feel better. I was squeaking my hooves like a maniac last night and it feels like I ran the Knysna Marathon in my sleep. I woke up and thought my alarm clock was joking. “7 O Clock” I said out loud, “get the hell out of here.”

Thank goodness its flat, else I would have been a livid to give surfing a skip on such a beautiful day. My legs are too pooped to do anything physical. I checked out the weather report and things look great for beach goers this weekend. That is if you like building sand castles, playing touch rugby or braaing with the buggers. There is absolutely no swell. It’s quite amazing, actually. The ocean is bordering on lake status. It could be different towards East London, but as far as PE is concerned it’s a lake out there.

I keep wondering why my ‘flat day apathy’ doesn’t force me to invest in a longboard. You can surf anything on one of those. I would definitely surf more, no doubt. And maybe it would do something for my dancing form?

Murhy's Calling

2008-10-29T09:45:00.000+02:00

Everyone is busy at the moment. Everyone. My friends at varsity have exams to prepare for. My friends with real jobs are working over-time for their Christmas bonuses. My friends who don’t work or go to varsity have anarchist ventures to explore. Or they’re still waiting for their parents to give them petrol money.
Even Maximus was up at 5 this morning, digging important holes and repee-ing his scent around the garden. When I called him for a walk, he just barked on about the recession and a merciless Bullmastiff that keeps pinching loaves near the gate.

It’s a pity the South Easterly is still pumping, because I would have had the bay all to myself if there were waves. But the swell is building in this wind, so after it changes to South West tonight there should be decent waves. Hopefully everyone will still be too busy then.

WCT NEWS

The Hang Loose Pro (Brazil) started yesterday. It’s the second last stop on the World Championship Tour; surfers looking to drop their worst results will be putting in exceptional effort. Jordy Smith (Durban) had an outstanding first round, getting the highest heat score total of the event so far, but was given two interference calls near the end of the heat! An unfortunate tactical boo boo on his part. Jordy and the other Saffas will be in round 2 as soon as competition resumes. http://www.aspworldtour.com/ has all the news and links for the Hang Loose Pro.

Billabong Junior Series

2008-10-28T15:39:00.000+02:00

If anyone is interested, event #5 of the Billabong Junior Series will be on Supersport 1 at 7PM tonight. That's the Jbay stop, where the waves were cranking until day 3.

The Life and Times of Marlowe Truman Sorenson (aka. Speedy)

2008-10-28T11:50:00.000+02:00

When guys are between 3 and 7 years old, there are two things that significantly affect your social standing
1. How fast you can run.
2. How strong your dad is.

The play ground is like a small city. Kids are territorial. The Jungle Gym, for example, is an apparatus in high demand. Some fresh faced 3 and a half year old can’t just step out of the car pool and sommer swing from the high bars. You’ve got to earn your stripes. Tell the older guys a bit about your old man and then do a few laps around the yard. Show them you mean business.

The sand pit is another one. You can’t just rock up one day and hang with those artistic elitists in the big pit. You’ve got to work you way up. Shine during play dough class (call the teacher over and make her show the class your work), carry a bucket and spade for the older kids once in a while. In time you’ll be making sand castles with the big dogs. Having a dad that can jump over the Campanile doesn’t hurt, either.

There were some tough cats back my day at Hillel Pre Primary School. Some tough cats indeed…

Willy Lyon’s father could lift a building up in each hand AND balance a rhino on his nose at the same time. Impressive stuff. Lyon always got the best scooter during break time.

Bo Ferreira could throw snails over the school roof and swing higher than everyone. He always slept on the soft part of the carpet near the teacher during naps.

There was one child so fast he was nicknamed ‘Speedy’. That’s hardly a creative masterpiece, but it was given to him by his 4 year old class mates— Monkey’s Crazy Hotel and cartoons were the only frame of reference we had to work with. Speedy’s dad, a mechanic named Moses, could run faster than a red ninja (the fastest of all ninjas) and wrestled buffalo on weekends to make biltong. I’ve heard rumors about Moses running at twice the speed of sound on a full tummy; if Speedy’s pace was anything to go by, I’d put a pink note down saying its legit.

Speedy was born with a cows lick in his hair and started shaving at 2. By the time he got to the middle class in Pre- Primary, Speedy was sporting a goatee like AJ from the Backstreet Boys.
He is the only child in history to avoid being ‘stuck’, during Stuck In The Mud for two years straight. He was playing wing for the rugby club side all the maintenance guys played for by 5 and a half. One child’s mother even asked Speedy out on a date.
Given Speedy’s credentials, it came as no surprise that he was the most popular boy at Hillel. But things were about to get tougher for Speedy at Big School.

He was quickly pulled out of the Smarties and Peppermint Rugby League during Sub A. “That boy has legs like cheetah and a deranged kudu!” exclaimed the head master, after Speedy scored 103 tries during his first game for the peppermints. After 4 months Speedy was captain of the Under 13 A’s, leading his team to victory against schools like Selborne, Grey Bloem and Dale College. It was a great day for Speedy’s coach when the nine year old tackled Grey Bloem’s prop so hard that he left the field crying. I remember a significant change in Speedy after that. You could se he resented all the demands on him and was starting to play angrily.

The stress of such early stardom seemed to build. By the end of Sub B Speedy developed an attitude. He was getting aggressive with scholars and teachers alike. The pressure of being so quick and having a dad as cool as Moses weighed heavily on Speedy’s shoulders. The December Holiday’s of 1991 couldn’t come quick enough for him.

It was not until the month of January, 1992, that I witnessed the fall and rebirth of Speedy.
He mastered Phys-ed with ease during the past two years, winning games like Stingers and Shipwreck with natural ease. And when the time came for swimming trials, everyone expected Speedy to basically run on water.
But Speedy hung back and stood awkwardly near the water’s edge. Locks of chest and back hair hung from his body like a poncho. There was a look of sick terror in his eyes as he made his way onto the diving block.

When the ‘Go’ whistle blew, Speedy flopped into the water and thrashed about hopelessly. A strange yelping came from his slow moving trail of bubbles, which sounded similar to a dog having its tailed clipped. Coach Cramer dropped his clipboard and dived in to save the prized sportsman, lest he should be responsible for anything bad happening to Speedy.

But when Cramer lifted Speedy out the water, the young boy was laughing heartily. No one had seen him smile or laugh like that before.

***

I saw Speedy last week when I was in Jo burg. He coaches a junior school swimming team and lives in the hostel on campus. He is a happy guy today, married with 2 kids of his own. Speedy tells me his13 month old son can run the hundred in 10, 05 already. Thanks to modern medicine and laser treatment Speedy only shaves twice a day and leads a pretty normal life, otherwise.

Speedy never touched a rugby ball again. He went on to swim for E Team right through Junior School, and never progressed passed the 3rd team in high school.

It was strange and ironic that he chose to pursue a career coaching a sport he was so horrible at, when Speedy could have captained the Boke by standard 5. I guess you can’t laugh at anything you don’t enjoy.

***

The waves are Terrible today! Mximus and I walked along the beach this morning and checked out the spots up the coast. Its tiny everywhere. That’s why I took 2 hours to recount the story of my friend Speedy. The wind is south easterly, too, and only getting stronger. But its sunny outside, so you might be able to catch a few decent cold ones at Barney’s a bit later.

Wish I was There

2008-10-27T11:46:00.001+02:00

There are lots of important people and events I’ll never see, simply because I was born too late or in the wrong place. Woodstock is a good example. I’m almost bitter I wasn’t around in ’69, somewhere close to New York, where I could have been watching The Who and Jimi Hendrix. Now I’ll never see them, because neither The Who nor Jimi are around to provide this service.
And why wasn’t I in PE during the seventies, when Millers used to break consistently from Bird Rock to Hobie Beach? I bet you the wind didn’t even blow so much back then. It’s not fair.

That’s why I’m building a time machine. True Story. I’ve talked this over with my friends a thousand times and have decided it’s the right thing to do. I just need to pick when and where.

There are a few factors to consider before I embark on this journey. Like how far back to go? It’s pointless getting beamed into the 17th or 18th century. That would be like going on a permanent holiday with my great parents to their house in the Karoo, where there’s no TV and endless chores to do. Forget it. I’d become a social pariah or get lynched if I went back there, too. All that colonizing in the name of religion isn’t my bag of potato chips. Whenever the preachers would say, “The End Is Nigh,” I’d probably open my mouth and be like, “Errr… sorry bucko. I’m afraid you’ll be tending those fields till the day your body turns to compost. You heard of roller blades yet?”

If I’m going to go back in time, I want to do it the right way. I’d want to see the pyramids being constructed, the Sistine Chapel being painted or Coliseum being used. Like a Contiki tour on steroids. While I’m there, I may as well do a bit of ground work for my family in the distant future. The first thing I’d do is host a sporting event no one has seen before. I was thinking of something like the Red Bull Down Hill Skating Contest, except everyone will be in donkey carts. Or I’d fashion Frisbees and pogo sticks, and then name them after my friends so they’d know I made it there ok.
I could also write a book or two and accurately predict the future, in almost perfect detail. Nostradamus will be hissing fire over his new competition.

Alternatively I could go back to the 60’s and 70’s, when traveling was easier than today’s visa fiasco. First, I would study electrical engineering before I left, ensuring my impossibly unfair advantage over the human race at large. Once I’m there I’d get rich quickly by inventing something cool, like mountain bikes. Then I would need to cover some important bases and make sure a few good people stay alive. Steve Biko and John Lennon, to begin with. I’d have to consult someone about political issues, so we could end apartheid and allow me to enjoy my journey with a clear conscience.
Then I’d sit back and do everything I want to do.
Bob Dylan would still be in his prime, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison would still be alive. Kurt Cobain would still be growing up, so I’d have Nirvana to look forward to. J-Bay would still be an untouched diamond in the rough, so I could surf perfect waves on retro boards with almost no one else out. I’d probably buy a chunk of land overlooking super tubes and move there. I would (hopefully) live to see my family, which is a major bonus.

It’s going to be a selfish Endeavour, this time travel mission I’m going on, but someone’s got to do it.

There was a bit of swell early this morning (Fence looked like there were signs of life), but the wind is sending trees trunks and toupees seawards now. Maybe on the full tide this afternoon, but its not looking positive right now.

There’s going to be a new contest format next year for the dream tour, with the ultimate goal of making a one tour for both WQS and WCT surfers (similar to the golf or Tennis pro tours). Its complicated stuff, but if you log on to http://www.aspworldtour.com/ all the details are there.

In WQS news, Rosanne Hodge, Greg Emslie (both from Slummies) and David Weare (Durban) are all looking good to qualify for next year’s WCT. All three surfers are sitting in the top ten, heading into the last leg of the tour (Hawaii).

Dog Eared Yellowing News Paper Clippings

2008-10-24T16:04:00.000+02:00

My mom has a thing for news paper clippings. She finds pieces she likes and posts them under insect fridge magnets made from wire and pretty beads. She pins and press sticks them to a few places around her home: notice boards, the back of toilet doors, and so on. Places for newspaper clippings. Places people will find them. Very thoughtful of her.

Press stuck to one such notice board next to her computer is a (yellowing) one by Hagen Engler from his Weekend Surf column titled “Hey! That greatest guy in the world is from PE!”. It starts as follows: “There’s a game played by natives of Nelson Mandela Bay that is as old as the ancient granite cliffs of the mighty Baakens River. Its called ‘The Guy’s From PE, Hey’”. The point of the game, he explains,”is to illustrate that PE breeds quality people for export and that we’re all world beaters”. So in the spirit of this game, pointed out by one such world beating export, you might want to check out another PE surfer making waves: Michael ‘Stone’ Sternberg.. Together with friends Tim Harris and John ‘Lurker’ Flemming, ‘Stone’ made his way along the West coast of Africa (beginning in Cape Town ending up in London well over a year later), scouring the coast for waves in an old Land Cruizer.

Zig Zag surfing magazine recently ran an article on the trio and so you may know something of their adventure, but for a more detailed story check out their website www.africansurfer.co.za . There are photo galleries, video clips from Namibia, Cot d’Ivoire, Gabon, un-surf-related footage from their trip and an interview he and ‘Lurker’ did with the BBC, to name just a few features from their site. Did I mention that Stone cut his teeth at the Fence? “Hey! That guy is from PE, hey”. Salute.

In the same spirit Stanley Badger was recently on the cover of the latest edition of African Surf Rider magazine. Though Stan is not from PE, he’s from Cape St Francis. Still, ‘That guys is from the Eastern Cape, Hey’. Salute.

All that Glitters

2008-10-22T12:13:00.000+02:00

Free stuff is mostly awesome. Free concert tickets are awesome. Free property mail is a pain. Free cheese samples at Spar are awesome. Free Spam mail is infuriating. Free holidays to Zanzibar are awesome. Free T-shirts at a bar in Minneapolis for drinking 8 tequila shots in a row are sneaky. This is the way I see anything free; awesome or suspicious, but mostly awesome.

As the world gets more influenced by marketing and advertising gimmicks, everything starts to appear free. Like credit cards. Banks are always sending out letters saying that you’ve qualified for a free credit card. There’s normally a picture of someone in a Jacuzzi near the ocean, sipping pink liquid out of a coconut, captioned: The new Heavy Weight Gold Card takes you places. There’s bugger all free about getting something you’ll spend the next forty years paying for.

I can’t help looking back to a time when there were only two free items on my mind. Before there were any of the above mentioned freebies, there was Simba Surprise and Reggie’s Toy Rush. One meant shame in its rawest form, the other glory unparalleled.The thought of being Simba Surprised terrified me. I could picture being in school assembly, minding my own business, when the pretty blonde presenter would burst through the stage door and scream, “Surprise!”

“Holy Snakes, Not me!” I’d think.
She’d walk through the hall, scouring a sea of little faces saying “Is Clayton Truscott here, Clayton Truscott, where are you little monkey?” Simba is still standing in the doorway clapping his hands and jumping around, knocking over empty seats foolishly.
There would be no escaping the inevitable. She’d find me; the whole hall would be pointing and giggling at my grave misfortune.

I’m still not sure if I would have blasted my way through an exit, screaming “Enough, you crazy bastard! I’m too old for this!” Or maybe Simba and the presenter would have won me over. I could have ended up on stage, claimed my prizes with a smile, hugged the 7 foot lion and roared into the microphone. Either way, the whole thing would be on KTV for everyone in South Africa to laugh at. Social suicide at 13 years old.

On the other hand there was Reggie’s Toy Rush. The Toy Rush was to kids what the lottery is to adults. It was the only program not animated or presented by a purple dinosaur that had lighties screaming at the TV like it was the Currie Cup Finals. Two children were selected each week to mission through a Reggie’s Store and fill a trolley with anything they wanted for 30 seconds. You could see the sheer sense of bewildered excitement in the face of whoever was on the Toy Rush.

I’d spit snakes at the useless one’s that wasted time in the puzzle section of the store. It was unfair to the countless children watching for a contestant to walk away with humble takings. It was the kind of thing you should research a bit first. Think hard about what you want and make sure you know where to find it. Had I been selected, I would have drawn a map and planned a route. I acctually did do a few practice rounds in the Reggie’s at Greenacres; just to get a feel for the territory should I ever be selected. It was timeless, too. Through the ages my preference changed. I wanted everything from Ninja Turtles figurines to Lego, He-man, GI Joes, Thunder Cats, Bionic 6 and Brave Star. I coveted all.

It’s strange that I never entered Simba Surprise, but feared being on the show like it was made to embarrass me alone. I know that sounds self-absorbed and narcissistic, but I probably was. Then again, I entered the Reggie’s Toy Rush furiously and never heard a peep from them. I’m not sure what to make of that?

Anyways, Let's have something to do with surfing. The waves bumped up a bit yesterday. I saw Seal Point in the afternoon and it looked pretty decent. Today that bump in the swell is still around, but the wind is blowing it socks off. The South Westerly has come out with its teeth showing, which will probably flatten it out again. With the cold front moving in this afternoon, we might get something for the weekend.

The Fanta Super Hero

2008-10-20T20:00:00.000+02:00

My friends and I will always remember a super hero named Guru. Guru is surfing’s everyman. His wetsuit was four seasons old, but very well looked after; the bright orange panels still glowed like they were made from solid Fanta. His board was inches short of a full length diving board, but he needed some extra buoyancy to support his boep. He’d arrive at Avalanche at 5:30pm in his work bakie (White Lightning), still wearing a carpenters overall, Ciggie dangling from the corner of his handle bar moustache. Saw dust and elbow grease stained his clothes and his skin was the colour of milky hot chocolate; you could see he worked outside all year round.
We’d be shivering in the parking lot, weak with hunger and sporting a snot doughnuts round our noses from the cold wind, waiting impatiently for our mothers to arrive. Guru would stop in front of the parking lot and stick his head out the window. After scanning the horizon for 20 seconds he’d whip White Lighting into a devastating wheelspin, placing his steed dead between two white road lines with plastic surgeon-like precision. Jaws aloft, we’d see Guru get suited up in nano seconds, still sitting in the single cab (like superman in a tikkie box stall). Our Fanta superhero, the one named Guru, would emerge and be dashing down the beach before we ever had time to ask his real name.
His skill and agility saw Guru over the rocks and into the line up just as my mom always arrived. From the back seat of my mom’s Kombi, we’d watch Guru stroke into his first set wave, Rothman’s Red still in his mouth, and cheer him on as his boogied down the line on his giant surfboard. He never won any contests or earned critical acclaim, but his tight fisted claim after riding a cracker two foot wave at Avos will always stand out in my mind as the epitome of awesomeness.
I had the honour of gracing the lineup beside Guru once. It was on a Thursday afternoon. Avos was firing— the waves were somewhere around 3 foot and glassy, so in PE that qualifies. I’d seen my mom’s Kombi, but I was hard pressed to get out of the water. She was flashing her brights and hooting, but I couldn’t leave until I got a good last wave in. I sat at the back waving at my mom, signalling one more wave. Amidst all my flustered waving, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed White Lightning peering at the line up. Suddenly everything went black. The Fanta Super Hero cracked me across the back of the head before I had a chance to say, “Jissus, It’s Guru!”
I gathered my senses and turned towards him, but before I could ask why he klapped me The Guru said, “Only a peephole doesn’t listen to his mother.”
And with those words I left the line up, apologised to my mother and got in the Kombi. From the boot of my mom’s car I watched Guru stroke into wafting three footer and ride it clumsily down the point. Although I couldn’t see it in fine detail, because of the afternoon glare (and because I lost a contact lense when Guru belted me), I knew it was him. He howled like a wolf on its last night in the forest and claimed it like Super Hero.
Today the waves were appalling. The conditions weren’t that bad, there was no swell whatsoever. Even driving down the coast from Cape Town, I saw no swell activity along the West Coast. Maybe with the imminent Cold Front and easterly winds we’ll have something to shout about by the weekend?
The South African Team ended up seventh at the World Surfing Games, which is a marvellous achievement. For photos and fine details (like heat sheets and video highlights), check out www.wsg2008.com

World Surfing Games

2008-10-19T21:04:00.000+02:00

Put your hands together for Matthew Moir (Cape Town), now the 2 time World Surfing Games Champion. David Lee also made the finals of the body boarding event, placing 4rth overall. Thats brilliant stuff from the South African Team. I'll have the overall team standings posted as soon as they're available.

Something for Friday

2008-10-17T11:06:00.000+02:00

It's been a wild week. Not that every week isn't full or surprises, but this one has just been a particularly sneaky dingo. New political parties are forming, the stock market is blowing chunks at worried investors, rugby fans are up in arms over a Hate Speech bonanza. My nerves are shot. I almost expected the waves to be insanely big in PE today. Thankfully some things will never change. I even phoned the surf report to make sure. It's small again, chaps, just like it always is. Earth is still round and life goes on.

There are a few Saffas competing in Lanzerote today, at the Santa Pro. The results and live feed are on the website:
http://www.aspeurope.com/2008/events08/lanzarote08/index.php

Things are still going well for the SA Team at the World Surfing Games. Tarryn Chudleigh won her round 3 heat, as did Matthew Kruger. He joins the rest of the open team in Round 4, which will run today. (www.wsg2008.com)

The Ties that Bind Us

2008-10-16T16:01:00.000+02:00

I made several promises to myself the other day. Not New Years Eve- type resolutions. I’m talking about serious, life changing stuff. Decisions that will have a positive affect on the way I feel—simple things that mean a lot. I wanted to start each day by making my bed, not just when grandparents are visiting. Surf when the waves are kak, and try to enjoy it. Pay my library fines. Take George and Maximus for walks on the beach more often. Be kind to Jehovah’s Witnesses and Christians. Grow veggies. Have drinks with the buggers a little less. That sort of thing. A pay it forward type of revolution.

That afternoon I took a drive that sent my progressive ideas to the cleaners. It wasn’t a long trip— like from Humewood to Kragga Kamma and back. It was just down the road, to the Spar centre for a DVD and some niknaks that caused me to loose it like Bulldog in a tutu. The source of my frustration: Traffic circles…

They’re pretty new to our part of the world. I had only seen pictures of them in the Learners Licence manual, until a few at the back of Summerstrand went up 2 years ago or so. I remember people talking about them like aliens had landed. There hadn’t been so much controversy in PE since ‘There’s Something About Mary’ was almost taken off the big screen.

Throughout the driving demographic spectrum, you’ll see panic, confusion and inner turmoil set in as cars approach one. No one can process the actual meaning of a Traffic circle. Everyone sees something else. Old folk see a cul-de-sac; they park in for a while and rethink their route, before reversing and turning round. People swear and shout, but the old dear behind the wheel normally sticks his/her head out and explains that the road is closed.

Taxi drivers see a road block or one of those red cones that you doge in drunken driving experiments; they just swerve on through, regardless of the waiting order. White people rarely challenge taxi drivers, because they assume they’ll be shot.

SUV drivers see a chance to show off their kiff bakkies, and ride over them. More accidents per capita are caused by enthusiastic meatheads than any other vehicle.

Nervous, middle aged parents see a dangerous intersection, where ‘all these blood crazy drivers are just somma going whenever!’— They hold up the traffic longer than anyone else. I could go on.

I got back from my trip to Spar spitting snakes. I was furious. What kind of baboonery possesses this city’s drivers? I asked myself while pouring a stiff drink at 2 PM.

Anowhow, it’s all fair and well to get upset with Eastern Cape drivers. Yesterday I was flung off my high horse by a farm buckie that passed me on Sir Lowry’s Pass.
I was driving about 70 Kays an hour, in the right hand lane, when this stuffed out old farm vehicle whizzed by in a cloud smoke from the exhaust. The driver looked miserable and irritated, and was probably muttering something about East Cape drivers being the worst on earth. His staff members on the back were h9olding on to the canopy, pretending to fly like super man and swim breaststroke. I thought it was a pretty funny scene, but also realised that I’m as kak a driver as anyone born and bred in the Oos Kaap. Lekker.

In surf related news, Donnie Paarman, the globe trotting, eccentric surfer from Cape Town has just released his autobiography. It’s called ‘Lunatic Surfer or Destiny’, and it chronicles his crazy life, from the hippie days of the 1960’s till now. He is one of the most iconic surfers to emerge from South Africa and his story will be a screaming read, no doubt. Lunatic Surfer or Destiny can be purchased via www.surfpix.co.za or at stores nation wide.

At the ISA World Games yesterday, Slummies surfer Devon Mattheys went down in the second round. That’s a sad blow to the team, as he’s a brilliant competitor. That’s the way contests go sometimes though. Ryan Payne (St Francis), Mat Kruger (Durbs) and Klee Strachen (CT and Durbs) are still in contention, and they’ll be competing in the repo round 3 today. For the live feed, news, heats sheets and photos, check out www.WSG2008.com.

I couldn’t tell you what the waves are doing in the bay today, because I’m in Cape Town for the week, but I checked the weather report and see that the wind is turning offshore this afternoon. I assume after the easterly wind this week Fence will have some swell and waves when the tide is full.

Cointest Stuff

2008-10-14T23:51:00.000+02:00

Just got word that Shaun Joubert placed third overall at the Oakley Junior challenge, and Nick Godfrey came fifth. That’s really impressive stuff.

Also, check out http://www.wsg2008.com/ for the latest results at the World Surfing Games in Portugal. Everyone from the South African side is still in the contest after day 4 wrapped up this afternoon.

Sharks and Stuff

2008-10-14T11:27:00.000+02:00

There’s been a lot of hype about shark repellent products.
The shark Shield and Shark Pod are well documented on the net. There are plenty of testimonials, guarantees and scientific explanations as to how and why either device will keep you safe, and I believe them. The evidence looks good and I’m an easy sell. If a scientist told me that rubbing Vaseline in my ears and lining my wetsuit with cabbage leaves would protect me from sharks, I’d do it. All I want to know is how much the sucker costs.

I’d like to be like those surfers who frequent secret spots, where big sharks are known to breed and eat trespassers. The waves are generally worth the risks. Look at the Transkei— beautiful place, amazing waves, full of big sharks. But if I don’t have modern technology protecting me, I want at least 5 other people around to give me better odds of survival. Without that sort of assurance I’m too scared of losing limbs or dying. Forget about braving the reserve in PE alone, or having a quick session at Rocky’s after work by myself. I can’t get into that sort of mind frame. I’d rather slog it out at Pipe with 40 other people. I’ll sit at the backline and talk about the old days with John Scheepers and co, which is almost as entertaining as a surf in good waves.

But here is the crux of the matter: if the shark pod or shark shield costs 50 thousand Rand, I can’t have one. And it seems awfully strange that none of the websites advertising them will break the news of how much you’re in for. They butter you up with diagrams and video footage of some guy open water diving next to a 6 meter Great White.

I’m not him.

Maybe it’s a good thing the shark shield and pod are not a huge commercial success though. Tourism and industry can wreck a place like the Kei.

Anyone see read the paper this morning? David Jacobs is my new hero- he's the Michaelangelo of building sand castle. Check out http://www.theherald.co.za/.

Oakley Pro Junior Global Challenge
Nick Godfrey (Cape St. Francis) and Shaun Joubert (Mossel Bay) have both made it to the quarterfinals of the Oakley Pro Junior Challenge. Joubert will be up against a Brazilian laaitie name Miguel Popo, while Godfrey takes on Hawaiian Dusty Payne. As far as I know there is no live feed for the event, so we’ll have to wait for those results to be released. If you want to see footage of round 2 and the lay day’s free surfing session, follow this link: http://www.surfline.com/video/video_player/video_player.cfm?id=19308

WQS NEWS
Greg Emslie came second in the Rio Surf Pro International last week. Nice one. The result sees him go from 17th of the WQS to 9th on the qualifying tour. David Weare is now sitting at 6th, so there are two South Africans looking at Championship Tour re-qualification.

TO MASE AND FAYE: THANKS FOR THE BRAAI

2008-10-13T11:35:00.000+02:00

When I win the lottery I’m going to spend every cent hosting the World’s Biggest Braai.

I want it to be on a Sunday like yesterday— the weather has to be perfect. Special guests will include Jacob Zuma, Morgan Tsvangirai, Steve Hofmeyr, Tom Curren, John Irving, Julius Malema, Osama Bin Laden, Hillary and Bill Clinton, Hugh Masekela, Laura Marling, Ani Di Franco, Robert Plant, Helen Zille, Angus Buchan and many, many more. Once the marketing project is launched, Bono and Elton John will sponsor the event. There’ll be enough food for every living person on earth to have seconds. Black Label and Red Stripe are going to be on tap all night long. My back yard might be a bit small, so we’ll have to find a different venue. But those are the details that we can worry about later.

I’ll call it ‘Operation Yeeeha!’ The sole purpose of the braai will be to initiate global discussion and have the fattest jol ever executed. Monday morning might have to be declared an international public holiday, just so everyone has time to get home.

I tell you, we’ll fix everything during Operation Yeeeha. We’ll come up with a reasonable solution for all the world’s problems. Can you imagine Barack Obama, Morgan Tsvangirai and Nicolas Sarkozy chatting round the fire? No formal EU conference setting. No pretentious language barriers. If someone wants to know what the people of Zimbabwe, France or Korea have to say on a particular topic, they’ll just ask— everyone will be there, after all. Once everyone becomes friends, international relations will become a reality. Not a pompous discussion between the rich people who run each country.
We could resolve serious issues liker food crises, gender inequality, racial tension and THE MANY REASONS WAR IS SUCH A DUMB IDEA. And everyone will have a marvelous time while doing it.

Once the night rolls on, we’ll all take turns prank calling Robert Mugabe, one of the few people on earth not invited- Operation Yeeeha will be limited to red blooded human beings. “Err.. Mister President. Bob. Is your fridge running?” Jacob Zuma will say, stifling his laughter, and using Salman Rushdie’s cell-phone to avoid the call being traced back to him. “What do you mean ‘is my fridge running? Who is this! Guards!” Robert Mugabe will shout from his Queen sized bed in Borrowdale Brooke, Harare. His palace will be empty though, because even Robert Mugabe’s guards will be invited to Operation Yeeeha.

During the wee hours of the morning we’ll have the worlds largest Rock, Paper Scissors contest, to see who has to go to the petrol station for pies. Abdullahi YUSUF Ahmed and
The Dalia Lama will square off in a ‘best of three’ competition that sees the loser off to Sasol and Debonairs for the biggest order placed in history.

I believe in braais. They can unite people from all walks of life, religious backgrounds and classes. Throw in a game of rugby/ soccer/ tennis/ anything competitive on the TV and you’ve got yourself an afternoon anyone can enjoy. It’s somewhat barbaric— gathering around a fire to cook animal flesh and talk about stuff. But that shows you how something barbaric can be beautiful at the same time. Think about how much more productive EU conferences and leader summits would be if everyone went to someone’s house and had a braai.

Oh, the things I’ll do when I win the lottery…

There are fun looking conditions today. The swell is really small though... but the wind is not that strong (for PE) and it’s warm outside. It’s the perfect day for social surfing. I’m told St. Francis and J-bay are pretty much the same- small, but fun. Fence could be fun when the tide pulls in. The banks look a bit wonky, so we'll have to wait and see.

Has anyone noticed the dolphins of late? Since last week there’ve been dolphins cruising up and down the bay, feeding on something beyond the breakers.

Quiksilver have updated their website with a special feature on Kelly Slater. Check out http://surf.quiksilver.com/ks9/index.aspx for interviews, products and videos of the man with endless talent.

ISA World Games
The South African team got off to a solid start in Portugal. Matthew Moir (Longboarding), David Lee, Sacha Specker (both Mens bodyboarding) and Pamela Bowren (women’s bodyboarding) all won their opening heats during the first round of competition. The event carries on through the week and will be broadcasting live via http://www.wsg2008.com/ .

Oakley Pro Junior Global Challenge Champs
Shaun Joubert (Mossel Bay) and Nick Godfrey (St Francis Bay) won their round two heats at Oakley Pro Junior Global Challenge Champs (Bali). Competition is currently on hold, as event organizers are waiting for the waves to get better before resuming. Joubert went on to win his round three heat before competition was cut short. Nick Godfrey will take on Keito Matsuoka (Japan) when round 3 continues. The waiting period for competition lasts until the 17th of October, so they have a good time frame to hold a few days of competition in solid surf.
See http://www.oakleyprojunior.com/ for photos and news.

meniscus. now. schupit laaightie...

2008-10-10T12:05:00.000+02:00

When I was 19 I had the worst job in PE, next to cleaning the prison showers. I was the sole day bar tender at a restaurant dwindling into bankruptcy. To boost its clientele they sold cheap liquor and offered free peanuts (this was considered a marketing gimmick by management). After a while the restaurant closed and they stayed open as a bar, which was fine with me— I kept my job. The only people who came there were alcoholics and perlemoen poachers, anyways.
I would arrive at half past eleven. By then most of the regulars had already ditched work and were waiting to be served their first round. 22 sets of thirsty eyes calling me obscene names and yelling for beer or brandy would be the morning chorus I knew well.

Morning drinkers are shy before they’ve had a few. After a couple of rounds the party would get started. Everyone would school together and tell the most outrageous stories; it became a competition. Bert the fish tank salesman would tell a tale of bedding 4 nymphs after he’d downed a bottle of klippies, when Jonas the army vet would interrupt like so, “ Agg jussie man, thats bladdy girlie shtuff! Lemmie tell yoo okes a real storie...” And so the next round of “Ripley’s believe it or not” would begin.

The worst part of the day came when someone ordered a shooter. It was always Jurgermeister or Tequila, and heaven help me if they weren’t poured right. I would be slandered and crucified. To this day I cannot pour a shot without hearing a voice screaming at me” Remmemer laaightie! Yoo just bladdy remmemer to pour mine wif a meniscus! else there’s gonna be kak. Kay doos?” After a while I became immune to it and laughed with them, but for the first two weeks it was more terrifying than satanic animal rituals.
I will always look back at the one time I told Bert that he’d had enough jurgermeister. “No more Bert, you’re too drunk,” I said shyly. He took off all his clothes and then threatened to “beat me up to the sky.” When Ronnie the manager came in to close up shop later, I was curled in a ball near the ice machine, covered in tears and snot, wailing for help.

Abalone poachers were the nightmare of nightmares. They’d come in and startle everyone, drink four shooters, and then race away in a souped up Monza. And there was no way in hell I would have said anything to those guys. I would have paid for their drinks all night to avoid having my arms torn off. I once saw three of them take two shots of tequila, shnarf a nose-full of salt and then squeeze lemon into their eye. They all threw the shot glasses at me and left without paying. “Thanks guys, come again soon, I’ll get this one” I said as they walked out.

I prayed for a bouncer. True story. I got down on bended knee and asked my heathen gods for “A breeker who wears New Rocks and takes steroids” to get hired. Alas, the breeker of my prayers never started working at the bar. I quit after 3 months, vowing to burn the place down if it didn’t fold before I had the means to.

I think I’m rambling about this, because I was smashed by a bouncer last night. After the Wonderboom concert, my friend Brett tried to sneak a label out the bar. Now, I agree with Brett— if you pay for a label, it’s yours. In or out the bar. But rules is rules. And the bouncer in charge had other ideas. He flattened me on the sidewalk while charging Brett down, with a classic clothesline maneuver. I lay on the floor afterwards, seeing stars and yellow birds. It felt like I’d been bliksemed by a WWE wrestler. When I got my head together, I looked up and met the scornful glare of a giant, wearing New Rocks. “You came!” I screamed.

Without the backing story, he didn’t know what I meant. “Jussis China, take your moffie friend away,” he told Brett, releasing him from the cage fighter’s choke hold he had him in, “It’s time for you two to wai.”

So I just have to tell the bouncer who slammed me into the ground last night: Thank you. Good work, you knights in shining New Rocks.

I'm not entirely sure what I can take away from my days as a day bar tender. Yes, I gained priceless knowledge in the department of pouring a shooter with a meniscus- which is a shooter poured to the brim, so that it forms an oval on top. But what did I really learn as far as life lessons and morality goes? I’ll figure it our eventually. I’m just really glad Bert didn’t beat me up to the sky when he had the chance.

The waves are really small again, but it’s magnificent outside. It’s about a foot at the Fence. J-bay and St Francis are small, too. The wind yesterday blew everything away. It’s a good day for chilling on the beach and nursing a sore head.
.

One that Ends Like An Episode of Jerry Springer

2008-10-09T11:51:00.000+02:00

After a session at the Fence yesterday, a buddy of mine cracked open an ice cold can of coke. I don’t drink coke regularly and I’ll never buy it out of choice. But I was hellishing thirsty and needed a small sip. I tell you, it was the most blissful mouthful of liquid I’ve ever had. I had to have a can of my own. Straight away I high tailed it to Santo Antonio café, where I bought my first can of coke in years. After two sips reality kicked in. I was sorely disappointed. It was as bad tasting as I remember it ever being.

It only tasted good when it belonged to someone else and I’ve tried to trace the source of this phenomenon in adults— I think I’ve got it.

At a braai in 1988 with some of my parent’s friends, a kid brought his limited edition Castle of Gray Scull (from the children’s series He-Man and Maters of the Universe). It had all the bells and whistles— lights that flickered, a device that blew steam out the eyes and rooms almost big enough for a five year old to play in. His parents bought it in America a month earlier, and it was the only one of its kind in Port Elizabeth. I couldn’t believe my eyes—it was surely the greatest toy in existence.

As it turned out, this child didn’t even like He-Man that much. He was far more interested in someone else’s whistling yoyo. I saw a gap and moved in quickly. There were three figurines in the castle that I could use: 2 Goodies (He-man and Orko) and a Badie (Beast Man) to annihilate. I stayed in there for hours; after a while I made more characters, using twigs and leaves, furthering the pot line. I even skipped supper, opting to snack on songalolos and ants to maximize my time.

My heart broke when my parents said we were leaving; I knew it would be the last I saw of that amazing castle. But then I noticed all the kids were sad to leave. The one who brought the castle was gutted about parting ways with someone else’s yoyo. The kid who spent all night jamming on my push scooter felt nailed to the floor, now that he was walking again. A queer boy howled like a wolf when letting go of some girl’s Barbie dolls. It was so strange…
Everyone at this braai went home devastated over losing something that never belonged to them in the first place.

People are weird. When adults drive pimped out cars with fancy tires, lights and oversized engines, or spend heaps of cash on clothing, hairstyles and electric gadgets, are they trying to avoid feeling envious of anyone else. Are they still filling the empty void created after a metaphoric night in Gray Skull? Do we all just want that magical sip of someone else’s Coca-Cola to last forever?

I’m sorry if you feel cheated out of the last 4 minutes. I just needed something else to write about, because there are no waves today. When I tell you its flat and windy, I mean that very literally. I’ve seen bigger waves breaking on Lake Superior. It’s cross shore outside the bay, so that won’t be any good either. If you’re desperate to do something surf oriented, check out Jordy Smith’s section on the new movie ‘Stranger Than Fiction’— http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=sQ6tVSSCjjM. It is unbelievable.

In other surfing news, Royden Bryson won the third stop if the Nixon WTA, earning himself a limited edition Nixon timepiece for getting the longest barrel of the Billabong Pro (Spain). The Nixon WTA is novelty series that awards a custom, limited edition Nixon timepiece at four stops on the WCT. Royden is the first South African to win
one, so hats off to him.

Enjoy your Thursday afternoon. Remember that a stranger’s castle of gray skull as real in our heads and hearts as it is in that kid’s dusty garage. Remember someone else’s coca cola is just fizzy cool drink to them, and that ice cold water will quench your thirst for half the price.

Ode To Charity Shop Worker

2008-10-08T10:52:00.001+02:00

I don’t learn from mistakes quickly. In London I wouldn’t carry an umbrella if it wasn’t raining when I left the house. In 4 months I had to buy 17— without one it would look like I swam to work. I’d get to Colliers Wood Station at around 8 AM most mornings, step on to the high street and see gray clouds peering through the first traces of morning light. Minutes later it would be hissing buckets. The lovely Asian lady at the charity shop came to know me well. I’d step inside soaking wet and she’d bust out in chorus, “Herro again! Yooo forget umbrerra— erra erra erra! You sing too, forgetful boy!”

The weather today reminds me a lot of England. It’s expected to pour for most of the morning, with the odd thunder storm and some strong offshore winds. The barometer has dropped quite low, indicating kaka weather till further notice. I had a look at the waves before the fog moved in. Fence has potential to turn on this afternoon when the tide pulls in. Not a reason to fake a case of the jets and ditch school or work, but it looks like it could be fun (2ft or so).

The South African Surfing Team leaves for Portugal today, where they’ll compete in the ISA World Surfing Games (October 11-19). In the Open Men’s division Ryan Payne (from St Francis Bay) was selected as touring captain of the side. Pamela Bowren (also from EP) will be competing in the women’s bodyboarding division. Excellent stuff. If you fancy watching, the Games will be broadcast live over the net via http://www.isasurf.org/.

The SA Team looks like this

Men
Ryan Payne (capt) (Eastern Province)
Devyn Mattheys (Border)
Matthew Kruger (KZN)
Klee Strachan (Southern KZN)

Women
Tarryn Chudleigh (Western Province)
Chantelle Rautenbach (Boland)

Longboard
Matthew Moir (Western Province)

Men’s Bodyboard
Sacha Specker (Western Province)
David Lee (Central KZN)

Women’s Bodyboard
Pamela Bowren (Eastern Province)

Managers
Niezaam Jappie
Mike Sheppard

Coach
Kevin Olsen

There are also a handful of South Africans competing in the Ocean and Earth Ocean & Earth Pro (La Caja de Canarias). You can check the live feed on http://www.aspeurope.com/live/.

Anyhow, I wonder who that special woman is selling an umbrella to these days?

Cruel

2008-10-07T10:49:00.000+02:00

These are the days I felt most frustrated about during high school. The weather is magnificent and the waves look really fun across the bay (and most of the Eastern Cape, my sources tell me). But the wind (SW) is expected to come up by this afternoon. By the time scholars get to the beach, it will already be crowded, windy and no where near as perfect as it is right now.

I’m pretty sure this sort of disappointment filters through all sporting activities. Whether you are busting for a game of touch rugby, a swim at the local swimming pool or a fiddle in the new veggie garden, odds are you’re feeling cheated out of good weather. So my heart goes out to anyone staring out the window of a muggy classroom or office, wondering why people chose to use the best hours of every day at work.

I’ll have more to say this afternoon. Right now I’m going to take advantage of the conditions I kept missing in high school. I tried to take a photograph of the waves, but the glare is a bit bright still.

Apocalypse Blues

2008-10-06T14:01:00.000+02:00

Has anyone been to Sardinia Bay lately? I nearly fell off my leopard when I saw the beach last Friday. The tidemark has moved right up near the road and a few new rock beds have been exposed. It’s like a different beach altogether, which might be the most exciting place to visit in PE since Belizza opened up.

In St. Francis Bay a big chunk of the Anne Avenue parking lot is now under water. It’s bizarre. The area where a shower block used to stand is washed away entirely. A few weeks ago I saw people fishing off the back of a bakkie, because the tide had moved so far up the beach.
True story.

I don’t want to get into hysterics about this. Al Gore gets way too much credit for pointing out (and then sensationalizing) the obvious, and I strongly doubt the end is nigh. Some practical action need to happen though. The new Hybrid cars from Lexus and Pure Organic products sold by soccer-mom supermarkets aren’t going to stop the ocean from wrecking houses. I’m not saying its bogus to assume the global climate isn’t changing, but there is no need to get all Chicken Licken about it. The sky isn’t falling, but earthquakes, hurricanes and shifting tide lines are causing more hassles than our rubber factories are worth.

A classic example of municipal buffoonery is the St Francis Bay Beach Restoration Project. Residents and holiday makers have watched the beach erode further every year, swearing something will be done about it soon. And every year there is a different excuse about why nothing happened. The project has stayed a pie in the sky, while the owners of sea facing houses sweat heavier bullets every year. Between hearsay about a new pier, building an artificial reef and summoning an army of magical beavers to put together a damn wall, nothing has been done.

Maybe the only way of getting everyone’s attention is to sensationalize the facts. But it still seems like we have two kinds of people commenting on the issue of Global Climate Change— those that swear earth will disintegrate in the next four years and those that don’t think it’s financially viable to do anything about it. Regardless, it’s making everyone crazy.

Anyhoo, enough about that.

The wind is blowing a hoolie today. It’s a South Easter with fangs. Fence is a wash of white horses and foam. Surfing might be out of the question today, but as soon as the wind turns off shore (it’s expected to happen on Wednesday) there should be some decent wind swell around.

Lastly, EP might suck at rugby, but province did pretty well at the SA Junior Surfing Champs last weekend at St. Mikes, in KZN. They placed 3rd overall, behind KZN and WP.

Here are all the results:

FULL RESULTS

U18 BOYS
1. MATTHEW BROMLEY (WP)
2. CHAD DU TOIT (KZN)
3. BRENDAN GIBBENS (WP)
4. SHAWN DENNIS (KZN)

U18 GIRLS
1. CHANTELLE RAUTENBACH (BOL)
2. KIRSTY DELPORT (KZN)
3. ALICE MCGREGOR (BOR)
4. FAYE ZOETMULDER (EP)

U16 BOYS
1. DAVEY BRAND (WP)
2. MICHAEL FEBRUARY (WP)
3. JACOB MELLISH (BOL)
4. DEVIN LANE (KZN)

U16 GIRLS
1. BIANCA BUITENDAG (S/CAPE)
2. HEIDI PALMBOOM (KZN)
2. TANIKA HOFFMAN (WP)
3. HOLLY ARMSTRONG (WP)

U14 BOYS
1. SLADE PRESTWICH (KZN)
2. STEVEN SAWYER (EP)
3. DYLAN LIGHTFOOT (EP)
4. DIRAN ZAKARIAN (BOL)

U14 GIRLS
1. SARAH BAUM (KZN)
2. CARRYN MACNICOL (KZN)
3. COURTENAY ELLISH (SKZN)
4. ROXY GILES (S/CAPE)

U12 BOYS
1. BENJI BRAND (WP)
2. MAX ARMSTRONG (WP)
3. JASON HARRIS (KZN)
4. MATTHEW MCGILLIVRAY (EP)

U12 GIRLS
1. INGE MCLAREN (BOR)
2. ANOUSH ZAKARIAN (BOL)
3. TAHRA UREN (EP)
4. CHANELLE BOTHA (SKZN)

FREEDOM CUP
1. KZN 40,740
2. WESTERN PROVINCE 38,486
3. EASTERN PROVINCE 32,442
4. BOLAND 30,078
5. SOUTHERN KZN 27,592
6. BORDER 26,506
7. SOUTHERN CAPE 26,230
8. DEVELOPMENT ACADEMY TEAM 18,040

SURFER OF THE CONTEST
KHAYELIHLHLE NCGOBO (SKZN)

MOST IMPROVED SURFER
SIMO MKHIZE (SKZN)

SPORTSMANSHIP TROPHY
AMY BOSWORTH (WP)

ZIG ZAG BLOWING UP AWARD
SARAH BAUM (KZN)

BEST TEAMKWAZULU-NATA

Royden's 10

2008-10-03T17:43:00.000+02:00

Check out www.billabongpro.com for the video clip.

Bully for Slater

2008-10-03T17:37:00.001+02:00

Kelly Slater won his ninth world title today. Holy snakes. That makes him the record holder for most titles won, youngest surfer to be world champ (20, back in ’92) and now the oldest (36 this year—simple math, duh…).
I’m not sure what to say about the matter. In next month’s issue of every surfing magazine available (on planet earth), someone will have a description of how great Kelly Slater is. And I agree. He is. The greatest, even. Human freak show. Possible alien. Genius talent. I could go on.

So well done, Kelly Slater. Your parents must be very proud.

But even though the world title race is over, the Billabong Pro at Mundaka is not. Competition got as far as the quarter finals today. The event should finish tomorrow, provided the wave stick around (which seems likely).

Our Proudly South African moment came from Royden Bryson (Slummies)— he holds the highest heat score of the event (19.37 out of 20) so far. Bryson caned his round 2 heat, with a perfect 10 and a 9.37 back up score, taking out Damian Hobgood (USA).

Back in PE, there weren’t exceptional waves today. If you were busy all day (like myself) and never got a chance to surf, here is a photo that will make you feel better. It’s Pipe at around 4:30PM.

See you at the pub.

Work

2008-10-02T10:59:00.000+02:00

I finally realize the kind of artistic anguish a weatherman might experience. When Saakie the weather guy starts using a French loaf as a pointer or wearing flippers to show you it’s rainy, you know the poor man is crying to spice things up.

There are only so many ways a guy can say the waves are really small and it’s windy outside. Because that’s what it is. You can go down and have a look, but you’ll probably squint your eyes in the glare and say, “Juss, its kak” before driving back home.

Doing the surf report must be infuriatingly monotonous. My brothers and I used to suspect Turtle Morris had a video camera set up near the harbor parking lot. After reporting that Fence was fife foot and sucking bellow sea level, he’d watch swarms of surfers swerve through the 5 o clock traffic, desperate to squash a wave in before dark. Of course there’d be no waves and everyone there would cuss the corporate world for making us work during the best hours of the day. “Ag man, I bet it was sick at about three o clock, before this bloody westerly blew all the swell to China!” someone would say. Meanwhile, Turtle’s got his feet up on the couch, watching the best kind of reality television available to humankind.

Anyhow, Round 2 of the Billabong is on today. Mundaka is around 4 feet and it looks pretty fun. It’s not cooking, but still decent. I was reading Bede Dubrige’s blog on the ASP website (http://www.aspworldtour.com/) and he had similar sentiments about Mundaka as a venue. It’s too fickle and tidal, but the potential for perfection is there.

Slater has to win his next heat to take the world title a ninth time, but this will only happen tomorrow (more than likely). Ricky Basnett, Jordy Smith and Travis Logie (all from Durban) are surfing later in the morning.

Notes from the School Holiday in PE

2008-10-01T11:14:00.000+02:00

Its school holidays at the moment. You can smell it everywhere. The Bridge Shopping Centre was like a biltong flavoured teen movie yesterday. Tables full of awkward teens were gathered at the Steers, nursing ice creams and milkshakes; some naughty kids got busted trying to run up the escalator that goes down; young girls were walking around with bags of new clothes. You know the scene.

I can’t believe how popular long hair and skateboarding have become.

Skating was always a substitute activity for surfers when the waves were kak— which is pretty often in PE. But it was an underground, rebellious pastime. Your boards had to stay in the garage or out of sight.
We’d ride up and down the streets of Walmer or Mill Park, pretending to get barreled in shrubberies or doing airs off the pavement. It was hardcore. House wives, Grannies and shop owners would chase us down the road with wooden spoons or metal rulers, screaming, “You bloody kids are making scrape marks on my stoep!” and so on.

Anyways, so I was browsing through Musica yesterday when this swarm of (+-) 12 year olds walked in with a stern looking mother. All of them (except the mom) had long, dark hair hanging in their faces and were holding skateboards. I wanted to warn them and be like, “Jussis guys, your old lady is right there! Stash the boards near the dance music section; she’ll never suspect a thing!” I held my tongue though, waiting for them to get a scolding.

Instead mommy walked them over to the rock music stand and picked out a CD full of swear words and teenage angst, and they all left jovially. Shocking, but also strangely cool.

I took the dogs for a walk on the beach this morning. The weather is perfect outside, but there is hardly a drop of swell. The waves at Kings Beach were about three goat’s feet. All the spots that work on a north easterly must be really fun though, if you’re prepared to take a drive. The reserve, Blue Horizon Bay and Ducks are probably the only places worth a look on the PE side of the Eastern Cape. Otherwise Port Alfred and East London will be worth checking out before the wind gets too strong.

The Billabong Pro (Mundaka, Spain) started today. The waves look similar to PE, but it’s still an exciting event to watch. I’ve never surfed at Mundaka, or even been to Spain, but it seems like this particular tournament is plagued by kak waves every year. I’ve seen video footage and pictures of Mundaka firing. And the advert for the contest has a picture of Joel Parkinson getting monstrously barreled by a Mundaka Cyclops, but the waves are always appalling. Maybe a change of venue or time frame for the event is necessary? I don’t know. I probably sound like one of those guys that played high school rugby you see at Barney during Super 14 games. He’s the guy wearing a Sharks jersey, nursing his 4th pint before the match has started, swearing he knows the way to victory for our boys in Green.

Whatever. I checked the Spanish surf report online, and it said the swell would get better towards Friday, so maybe I'll eat my words. I’m sure Al Hunt and the boys at ASP wouldn’t even care. Jordon Smith’s heat is just about to start, so I’m going to put on a green singlet, pour myself a drink and start shouting.

When life throws you kudus on the freeway, make biltong.

2008-09-30T10:30:00.000+02:00

I want to rip my hair out when the weather man calls the tornado outside a ‘moderate to fresh breeze’. But I’m also sick of moaning about wind in the Eastern Cape. There’s nothing to be done about it. You just have to accept that on certain days, anything not nailed to the floor is going to end up at sea or near Graaf Rienet. Walking my mom’s poodle, George, can be a bit like flying a kite during a heavy South Westerly.

As far as surfing goes, the wind can be a friend or foe at the same time. Yes, it brings in swell and helps make the waves hollow when it’s offshore, but who feels like dodging flying poodles and deck chairs in the water, or paddling through 6ft white horses?

I was having a good rant about it the other day, when my friend, Jono Exley, told me I’ve got it all wrong. ‘Start Kiteboarding,’ he said. He likes the wind. True story. ‘The stronger the better for kiteboarding,’ he explained.

I’ve always been a bit skeptical about Kiteboarding as an alternative to surfing. It’s mostly because of how much the equipment costs and my fear of involuntarily riding to Australia on the wings of a gale force westerly.
Equipment is outrageously expensive, but such is the nature of any new commercial product (the sport itself is only a decade or so old). Otherwise he assures me it’s a safe and mellow sport, and that people are mostly friendly, helpful and mindful of one another. I like the sound of that and I’ve seen a few photos of him doing some crazy bolamakisies on a kite board, so maybe I will give it a go. I’ll put it on my list of things to do after winning the lottery.

Conditions in the bay look very similar to yesterday. Fence might have a peak or two on offer when the tide pulls in. I’m completely biased when it comes to spot selection, though. Pipe will also more than likely have waves (or ripples than qualify as waves by default), but I’d rather down a glass of sand than surf there. Contrary to my absurd hyperboles, the wind does look moderate to fresh. Probably not strong enough to kiteboard, but just right for Goergie to go flying round the beachfront later.

When I Was Your Age

2008-09-29T09:45:00.000+02:00

I was looking at the facebook group ‘PE Surfers’, clicking through the photo archive, when something very strange occurred to me: I am old enough to start saying, “When I was your age…” to younger people, and actually tell a story about a time when things were different.

Things weren’t immensely different 15 years ago, but some stuff that was once there isn’t today. Like the mighty Chinese Takeaway shop and the Put- Put course at Kings Beach. Gone now. There was a time when the Supertubes were cool. In about 1992 it was rammed every Saturday afternoon; you’d wait in line for at least 5 minutes, before going down the main slide. That actually happened! What about Pipe during the pre- Summer Seas days? Nobody remember the hotel that used to be there, not the luxury apartments? And Hobie Beach before the Pier?

I’m sure people in Jefferies, St Francis and East London must have similar stories.

Maybe another telltale sign of growing old is suddenly giving a crap about the historic significance of architectural geography in our city. I don’t think any of this would be interesting to a fourteen year old, unless you had photos of a tiger chasing people down beach road, or something similarly bizarre.

Maybe it’s also because I’ve just had the Time Realization Epiphany thing. I’m in the ‘mid-life puberty’ sort of phase, where realizing I’m not a lightie anymore freaks me out. My grandpa has much cooler stories to tell. PE must have looked a hell of a lot different when he was growing up. He’s had time to nurture his Time Epiphany and grow into zen. If I had a head full of memories from 1940 (and the war), I’d probably be screaming from the roof top with a microphone and an overhead projector. I’d demand people appreciate the landscape for what it is now.

There’s a point I can’t quite work out, too. Were the waves more consistently bigger 15 years ago, or was I just a lot smaller? Back in the day, my brothers and I would join a massive throng of people for a quick session before school. Fence was like Pipeline on some mornings. Frikkie Kritzinger and company would be getting stand up barrels.

I don’t know man… this is giving me a headache. I’m going to listen to Nirvana albums and stew over how different things were in 1994.

Today’s surf report is nothing different for the Eastern Cape. The South Westerly has just picked up and it’s small in the bay. There are some little peaks at Fence (nothing like they were 15 years ago!), so maybe on the full tide there’ll be something worthwhile. It will probably be a lot windier this afternoon though, so who knows. J-bay and St Francis are also windy and small, but I hear East London looks pretty good. No surprises there.

Some interesting news on the World Qualifying series: 1980’s and 90’s surfing beast Sunny Garcia is sitting at number 20 on the ratings. The top 17 qualify for the World Championship Tour (Dream Tour). Now, with the Hawaiian leg of the tour looming in December, Sunny is looking set to qualify (he’s won the Triple Crown several times already). That’s brilliant. I’m so excited to see one of my hero’s from childhood take to the tour next year.

This reminds me a bit of Demolition Man, in a way. The only way Kelly Slater can be stopped is by hiring someone from the past (his own era) to kick his ass. So Kelly is like the Wesley Snipes character on tour, almost completely unstoppable. Sunny is Sylvester Stalone character, summoned to take on his old rival. Should be very interesting stuff.

Other exciting surfers to watch are Saffas David Weare (Durban) and Greg Emslie (Slummies), also looking to requalify for the Dream Tour next year.

Going Bananas

2008-09-26T16:47:00.000+02:00

Weird Dreams and Bad Eating

“Eating a banana before bed will give you awful nightmares!” My mom used to tell me when I was a youngster. I always believed her and made sure I didn’t, despite digging bananas above all the other fruit or snack products available at Spar or Pick ‘n Pay. But last night I found myself out of options.

I ate an early supper at 5:30Pm. A day’s surfing had flattened me. I thought I’d be asleep by 9pm at the latest. But 4 rented movies saw the hours pass without me knowing about it.

So no shops are open in St Francis after 8pm. At 11 PM, after Dream Catcher, my stomach demanded more. The popcorn was finished, the bread was stale and the marmite left in the cupboard had gone moldy. I was ready to salt up a plate of dog pellets, until I noticed the fruit bowl.

Like Cinderella staying on the dance floor for one more number at 11:57, I decided to push the envelope and break the golden rule. I munched 3 bananas and dropped like a stone down a well, into a night of crazy dreams that have stayed with me all day.

The weirdest of them went like this:

I was surfing at a popular spot in East London, Nahoon Reef. The locals out there didn’t appreciate a stranger on their turf. I sat at the backline nervously, fully aware that everyone was eyeballing me.
Finally the burly guy in charge paddled over and told me to get lost.
“But it cost me 400 bucks in petrol to get here, and I’m not making any trouble!” I protested.
Unconvinced, he summoned a pack of great white sharks to escort me back to shore. Before I knew what was happening, I was flanked by a group of the biggest sharks on earth. They were simply monstrous— as big as rugby fields and able to leap a hundred meters in the air. I was a goner for sure.

In the end I rode a massive female shark, named Eleanor, holding on to her dorsal fin like she was a tame dolphin. Terrifying stuff.

As it turns out, the local surfers at Nahoon Reef had signed a peace treaty with the shark race. In exchange for weekly shipments of celebrity tabloid magazines and human fast food (the popular stuff, like Mc Donald’s and KFC), they would police the surf spot. No blood would be shed and its popularity would be arrested.

Once I became aware of this, it didn’t seem so bad being forced to leave a surf spot for the good of peaceful relations. I can understand that kind of logic. Fair trade, if you will.

I woke up today in cold sweat, promising myself never to eat bananas before bed again.

Contest Update

France- The Quiksilver pro finished this week. Australian Adrian Buchan beat Kelly Slater in the final, which is a refreshing change— Slater’s won all but three events this year. Now, I like seeing Kelly win as much as the next guy (he was as much my hero in ’92 as he is today), but I have to admit to enjoying seeing someone else on the winner’s podium (even if it was an Ausie). Although Slater didn’t manage to take the world title at this event, he can do it in Spain next month if he places 9nth of better. With his current form, this seems pretty likely, but stranger things have happened than Kelly Slater dorking an important event.

Although no Saffas made it into the final rounds, Durban’s Jordy Smith did post one of the top 10 highest scores of the event. Yay. Check out www.aspworldtour.com for full tour news and ratings details.

Surf Report

It’s freezing and windy outside. But the cold front seems to be bringing in a bit of swell. When the wind backs off a bit, we could be looking at a decent weekend’s surfing. From this morning till now, there has already been a large increase in swell. For full swell and tidal info, call John Scheepers’ surf report: 082 234 66 22.

MonfriThursday

2008-09-25T12:16:00.000+02:00

Monwednesfri-Thursday

It’s a bit strange when there’s a public holiday wedged in the middle of a working week. Tuesday night felt like Friday. Last night felt like Sunday. Today feels a bit like Monday, but tomorrow is Friday again. The real Friday this time. Not Tuesday night’s brilliant impression of one. Actually, I don’t know what to think.

Sitting in the back garden of my folks’ house in St. Francis with a bunch of friends, it seems like it could just as well be a normal day in December. Meri Ké and Garret are busting out some bloody fantastic tunes on the guitar; Marc and Didi are backing vocals and playing garden chairs and table top drums. My mom is upstairs painting. Maximus Truscott (my Border Collie/ jack Russel/ Stallion brother) is begging me to throw a filthy tennis ball for him. It’s a bit of a cheek, considering we took him for a walk on the beach earlier.

Wave wise, it’s looking pretty good. There is a bit of swell around. Sowetoes was about 3 feet and completely empty the last time I checked. That’s probably because everyone is at work today, trying to figure out why it feels just like Monday. The wind is clean offshore and not nearly as wild as yesterday. With more cold fronts expected this weekend, the swell is expected to pick up. My previous estimate of yesterday’s swell being in Greenland by now seems a bit out then.

Heritage Day Hangover Entry

2008-09-24T13:07:00.001+02:00

This wind is absolutely mental today. It’s got to be blowing somewhere around 9 million knots an hour. It’s the sort of wind that blew Dorothy and Toto to the Land of Oz The strange thing about weather in the Eastern Cape is that it’s all bark and no bite (with the exception of an occasional freak storm that brings in enough swell to rupture a freeway or two). The ocean is flat today— the white horses on the water’s surface are even bigger than the actual sets breaking at the Fence.

I estimate the winds well that was in the bay yesterday is in Greenland by now. Poor folks at the Shell festival in J-Bay today… Managing a trestle table piled up with curios would be a bit like trying to ply a thorn out a rabies-crazed wolverine’s foot. I can just see koeksister and T-shirt stands going ass over elbow in breeze. Event organizers must be hissing fire at this weather.

Enough about the wind. I’m heading out to St Francis for some down town. My plans for an afternoon braai might be in limbo, but that’s not the end of the world.

For anyone nursing a Heritage Day hangover and looking for something easy to do, check out the facebook group, ‘Is this the Most Perfect Wave Ever Captured on Film?” Richard Turner, an ex-PE surfer, has some pretty hilarious quotes and views on the question, as well as a few photos that will make you screech like a pig. There’s also the Quiksilver Pro on again, with Round 4 being surfed today.

Tuesday Tuesday

2008-09-23T12:04:00.000+02:00

Today

I felt a certain kind of frustration this morning- a state of mind I call ‘Ape in A Cage Rage’. It’s aptly named after the noise a caged ape makes, when it’s ripping at the cell bars and screaming like its limbs are on fire. It’s caused by deep, personal frustration and is normally followed by a good laugh at your own expense.

After having seen how good the weather and waves were at 8:30 AM, I set off for the bank, the electricians and Greenacres (3 chores I’ve been avoiding since last week), hoping to be back home within an hour. This was my first mistake; doing anything in a hurry only makes it take longer. I forgot two important receipts, got lost (IN PE!!!) on the way to the electricians and then left my phone at the bank. To make matters worse, on the freeway en route to Central, the car radio at my ‘Big Lebowski’ soundtrack tape. This left me nothing but the radio to listen to. So, between Maroon 5, Celine Dion and that awful woman who keeps bleeding Love, I wanted to tear the radio out of the dashboard with my teeth. What on god’s earth is wrong with radio in South Africa? Who are they targeting with such kak music? I got home more than two hours later, a complete wreck, hurling insult at anyone driving less than 70. I normally only smoke my first cigarette after 2pm, but by 11AM I was on lucky strike number 4… sheez, bloody waste of time.

This is plight of a spoiled South African… this mornings Ape in a cage Rage was my fault— for being completely unorganized and ridiculous.

The offshore wind has just picked up (it’s expected to get pretty fresh by this afternoon, but at the moment its still not pulling any roofs down), it’s hot and sunny outside and there is a bit of swell running. It looks bloody magical outside. Go surfing if you can. I took a drive past Humewood and the pier this morning and saw decent waves at both spots. I’m off to enjoy my mid morning surf and cleanse myself from the shame of throwing such a futile wobblyJ

World Championship Tour

For anyone bored at work today, you can watch Round 3 of the Quiksilver Pro in France. Just log on to http://www.aspworldtour.com/ and follow the link. Jordon Smith (from Durban) are competing today, so try and keep your hooting down when the boss is nearby. Travis Logie (also from Durban) was knocked out a bit earlier on this morning, during a heat that had me swearing at the computer like a Blue Bulls supporter during the Super 14 semis.

New Website
Also, here’s an excerpt from the press release following the launch of a new website, called http://www.havealooksurf.com/.

“DURBAN (22 September 2008) - Havealooksurf.com have launched an innovative new website featuring South Africa's first Video Surf Report service and Surf Video Webzine.

The Video Surf Report service, which initially covers seven major surf breaks along Durban's 'Golden Mile', is updated twice a day with a 20 – 30 second video clip, current photo and text summary of the surf conditions for each break. Surfers and other users are able to view exactly what the surf is doing from the comfort of their personal computers.”

For those of you interested in torturing yourselves by looking at how much better the waves are in Durban every day, check it out. Jokes aside, it’s a very decent website that is user friendly and rather all-encompassing; it almost has a surfing- news24.com vibe about it.

They are covering everything from the World Championship and Qualifying Series news, to industry updates, interviews with local pros, blogs and music. One of the site’s co founders, Kaleb Loevendie, commented on the site’s aims and goals, “Our goal is to create an informative and entertaining website that is refreshed on a daily basis and keeps surfers up-to-date with what is going on… Hopefully it will bring a bit of surf stoke help to save some petrol money in the process."

Update:)

2008-09-22T15:51:00.000+02:00

Change

2008-09-22T11:55:00.000+02:00

Hmmm, shortly after posting the last piece I looked out my window and noticed the wind going slightly North/ North West. So it looks like conditions WILL change by this afternoon. Hopefully it won't howl its socks off, like it normally does across the Eastern Cape as soon as the wind changes offshore. Judging by the waves at Kings Beach (which I can see from my balcony), it looks as if the easterly has brought in a touch of winds swell, too.

Monday

2008-09-22T11:16:00.000+02:00

Monday

Well, it’s Monday again. If you’re staring out an office or classroom window, take comfort in the waves being utterly kak this morning. From Port Alfred to Cape St. Francis, you can rest assure that this stiff North Easterly wind is making choppy pea soup of all the regular surf spots. There is the nature reserve and the wild side, which might be worth taking a look at in this wind, but I’ve heard no one banging cymbals about the sand banks out there at the moment.

The barometer has dropped a bit, so the wind could change by later this afternoon. If that happens there might be some waves at the low tide spots across the board.

Speaking of change, anyone feel a bit weird about not having a president today?

Little Ninjas

It’s been a while since I’ve watched a live surfing contest (with the exception of secretly watching WCT contest feeds on my office computer in London). But this weekend I managed to catch the final event of the Billabong Junior Series, held in Jefferies Bay.
At a glace, what struck me initially was the new support behind the series. A lot has changed since 1997, when it was sponsored by Billabong and Polar Ice, and the official contest office was a buggered EP Surfing caravan.

There were FNB, Von Zipper, Palmers, Kustom and Billabong banners up on the grassy hill at the Point parking lot, as well as a big contest marquee for officials and competitors AND judging tower. It looked like a fully fledged professional event. Live scores were announced as the heat progressed, which adds to the spectators experience, as well as the surfers in the water.

And then there was the surfing itself. My dad and I almost simultaneously chocked on our hake burgers during the Pro Junior Boys semi final. “Holy Mustard!” I yelled over my blaring ipod ear phones, as Dale Staples caned the roof of a mushy set wave. “Jussos! That was awesome!” My dad replied. We both felt like vaalies wearing pink rash vests and Speedos.

On Saturday, when the conditions were a lot more J-Bay-esque, everyone, from the Under 12 division up, including the Girls division (which was also on a new level), was throwing down powerful turns and carving the place up like little ninjas. The waves got a lot worse on Sunday afternoon for the final rounds. The wind started blowing onshore and the swell dropped, but it was really impressive to see everyone adjust their surfing accordingly. When the waves changed, everyone started bring a more progressive approach to the smaller, more play conditions.

Some impressive performances came from Dylan Lightfoot and Steven Sawyer (both well supported J-Bay Locals) in the under 14 boys final. To point out the blatantly obvious, they both looked confident and well practiced at the break. I don’t mean this to take anything away from their surfing, which was absolutely unbelievable. Lightfoot’s forehand reverse (on his last wave) was a particularly stylish way to end the heat.
Here are the official results, as well as photo (up top) of Dale Staples braining the socks of a small Point wave. For more details, photos and news on the series check out www.billabong.com/za or http://www.zigzag.co.za/.

Pro Junior Boys
1. Dale Staples (St Francis Bay)
2. Rudy Palmboom (Bluff)
3. Shaun Joubert (Mossel Bay)
3. Chris Leppan (Umhlanga)
5. Klee Strachan (Winkelspruit)
5. Dane Staples (St Francis Bay)
5. Brendon Gibbens (Kommetjie)
5. Nick Godfrey (Cape St Francis)

Pro Junior Girls (Specialty event)
1. Sarah Baum (Athlone Park)
2. Bianca Buitendag (George)
3. Nikita Robb (East London)
3. Tarryn Chudleigh (Kommetjie)

U16 Boys
1. Jacob Mellish (Somerset West)
2. Davey Brand (Kommetjie)
3. Beyrick de Vries (Umhlanga)
4. David van Zyl (Glenashley)

U14 Boys
1. Dylan Lightfoot (Jeffreys Bay)
2. Steven Sawyer (Jeffreys Bay)
3. Sarah Baum (Athlone Park)
4. Daniel Buitendag (George)

U12 Boys
1. Max Armstrong (Kommetjie)
2. Jason JJ Harris (Scottburgh)
3. Benji Brand (Kommetjie)
4. Jordy Maree (Kalk Bay)

Von Zipper Air Show
Casey Grant (Scottburgh)

2008 Billabong Junior Series
Final Series ratings
(Best 4 out of 5 results)

Pro Junior boys
1. Klee Strachan (Winkelspruit) 3893 pts R4 000
2. Dale Staples (St Francis Bay) 3290 pts R2 000
3. Nicholas Godfrey (Cape St Francis) 3215 pts R1 000
4. Chad du Toit (Berea)
5. Brendon Gibbens (Kommetjie)

U16 Boys
1. Beyrick de Vries (Umhlanga) 3730 pts R4 000
2. Davey Brand (Kommetjie) 3310 pts R2 000
3. Jacob Mellish (Somerset West) 2970 pts R1 000

U/14 Boys
1. Slade Prestwich (Park Rynie 3590 pts R4 000
2. Steven Sawyer (Jeffreys Bay) 3330 pts R2 000
3. Dylan Lightfoot (Jeffreys Bay) 3260 pts R1 000

U/12 Boys
1. Benji Brand (Kommetjie) 3730 pts R4 000
2. Max Armstrong (Kommetjie) 3720 pts R2 000
3. Jordy Maree (Kalk Bay) 2800 pts R1 000

Good News/ Not So Good News

2008-09-21T18:00:00.000+02:00

Good News

Despite the affects of the enormous swell we had a few weeks ago (which battered coastlines across the Eastern and Western Cape, as I’m sure you’ve all seen for yourselves, or via different sources. See images here and here), the banks at Fence have returned to form. From Sunday to Wednesday last week there were clean, fun and consistent peaks there. It wasn’t all time Fence, but it was good enough for local heavy weights Dylan Stone and Etienne Potgieter to punt some impressive airs and squeeze into the odd cheeky barrel.

Not So Good News

On Monday afternoon the car guard at Kings Beach earned her stripes, valiantly fending off three hoodlums trying to break into a surfer’s bakkie. She’s the kind faced young lady, normally sitting with her friends at the boat ramp’s boom gate, always greeting people with a smile and promising to keep your car safe. She isn’t lying. Sadly, she took a solid braining for her bravery, including a heavy blow to the head and a light knife slash in the chest. A few people noticed her howling after the incident, and she was later rewarded with money, pain killers, praise and a scary looking baton to use next time. Nice one. Watching people’s cars is not an easy job, especially in a country where poverty and crime are present in equal measure. So the next time you zip to the beach after school or work, remember to bring a few silver coins for the good people looking after your ponies while you surf.
So I suppose this isn’t all bad news, but it seemed apt to put it there.