Cold.  Gray.  Alone.  Water freezes to skin.   The smell of neoprene and salt.  Seaweed and foggy air.  The air temp is -17 F and I have haven’t caught this many waves in 3 months living in California.  The Dirigo state provides.  

Parking Lot Dreams

Burnouts.  Derelicts.  Waste-oids.  There are a dozen or so colorful words an upwardly mobile wasp might use to describe these colossal fuck-ups. Degenerate maturations of beguiled youth.  In Southern California the sun fades more than the paint on the hood of your Tacoma.  It wrinkles visages, clots blood and broils every last braincell of these fully aged american misfit slackers.  Wrung out and left to dry after the turmoil and inevitable capitalistic trouncing of their long lost summer of love ideals.  This is where the hippy movement was laid to rest.  The free parking lot at C street, sandwiched between the 101 and the pacific ocean.  No where left to go but swim.  A 70’s GMC van.  Nebraska license plate.  Rusty.  American flag.  Faded.  The torso of a mannequin, spray painted with glitter sits on a wicker chair.  Behind it, melanoma flesh moves in jerks.  Harsh movements of unpredictability.  This man can fix your board, fix your life, make you “SUPERSONIC!” his sign reads.  A neck tattoo and calf high socks sprout from osiris sneakers. Strange inebriate smiles behind 90’s black fly’s.  Crooked spines with crooked teeth.  

One day, an irascible man one courtesy flush from social security became suddenly rabid when someone stole his wave.  Later, while the wave thief loaded his elderly wheelchair bound father into his minivan, Courtesy Flush rifled through his trunk and produced 3 wooden surfboard stencils 4 feet in length, and threw them directly at the man’s mouth.  They split his lip and bruised his face.  There was a skirmish.  Bloody Lips stole Courtesy Flush’s cell phone.  Courtesy Flush rummaged through his trunk again, this time producing a metal easel.  Apparently he was an artist known for his serene underwater seascapes.  He chased down bloody lips and assaulted him again, striking his back and arm with the metal easel.  “You started this!!” he yelled.  Bloody Lip’s two children watched in horror.  He survived the ordeal and used Courtesy Flush’s phone to call the cops.

In Southern California the wacko’s coexist with the yuppies.  Range Rovers and Econovans.  Botox and epidural leather.  Santa Barbara pinot and MD 20/20. May there be an epithet, “Here lies the California Dream.  Many came.  Many burned.”  Now the whole thing is on fire.  What hasn’t been scorched drifts through the hills on a warm Santa Ana.  Fragments are rumored to be found in an IN-N-Out drive thru, the HOV lane, the local taqueria.  It’s a strange patchwork of mental illness, self obsession and delinquency, in a landscape of palm trees, azure waves and mountains.

Yet amidst all of this grownup aberration, unsullied groms with shiny Ripcurl stickers slapped on crisp white boards jog down the beach under the noses of the parking lot derelict.  The burgeoning surf industry’s young hopefuls.  Who will be the next Tom Curren?  The next Dane Reynolds?  Their fathers set up tripods on the sand, gathering footage for their next web edit.  It requires this kind of commitment to a dream to surf in this area.  The lineups are packed. Surfers sit shoulder to shoulder at various peaks.  The jockeying for waves is relentless.  It’s not uncommon to wait half an hour for a wave.  This isn’t a deli counter.  No numbers are taken.  No fucks are given.  It’s your fitness and apparent ability that gets you waves.  Surfer’s Code is adhered to lightly.  

One of surfing’s greatest fallacies, usually perpetuated by non-surfers, is that it is some sort of laid back spiritual existence.  Just long haired dudes throwing “shakas" telling you to, “hang loose.”  A welcoming sport anyone can jump into and enjoy just because they snowboarded that one time.  While harmonious, almost ephemeral moments can exist in some of the more remote regions on the fringe of surf culture, no one is having communion with nature on this stretch of freeway.  The common reality is closer to that of road rage.  Middle aged men who don superhero like wetsuits but who’s super power seems to be a regression of 30 years of maturity.  “Just being out on the water is so peaceful!” says the surfer within their first 6 months of surfing.  Beyond that, the novelty of bobbing on a board fades sharply.  If you want to ride waves, the competition is fierce.  Waves are a limited commodity.  This realization represents a fork in the road for many surfers; either to accept that their interest in surfing is merely based on a lifestyle choice, that progression really isn’t an option as the prerequisite time to get better can’t be spared.  Others fall head first down the rabbit hole.  Buy a full quiver.  Buy three wetsuits.  Watch all the web edits.  Don’t smile, just paddle.  Shame beginners with words like “kook,” and pretend your ability is better than it is.  Assume the mystique of one of your favorite pros whose freakish ability is as likely due to a mild form of Asbergers as it is time in the water.  Joel Tudor once said, “Ponce de Leon traveled all around the world looking for the fountain of youth.  All he had to do was jump off the side of the boat.”  What he forgot to mention is the fountain is only big enough for a few.  

Back in the parking lot, a glance up the point revealed a small figure position himself for a set wave no one else seemed to see coming.  He popped to his feet effortlessly, and brought his small frame low to his tiny, bright-white, stickered board.  Extending and then bending his legs he performed a surprisingly powerful double pump bottom turn and projected himself into the oncoming section.  He launched into the air keeping the board glued to his feet, a blast of white water trailing his fins.  He landed fins first and rotated smoothly towards the beach, maintained his momentum and eyed up the next section. He compressed low, extended and belted the next steep section with a quick vertical snap.  A fan of white spray erupted from the lip, water beads dancing in the afternoon light.  His weight stayed centered over his board and he took off racing down the high line of the wave to meet the next section.  A quick lip line floater to set up the next big wall.  A shallow bottom turn and he approached the section with speed, dropped his back hand, bent deep into his back foot and laid into the projecting lip.  It was a perfect meeting of power and release. The wave seemed eager, excited, masochistic in tearing itself apart under his fins.  He regained control with his front foot and pulled the board back underneath him, riding out the wave into the flats.  In the lineup heads turned. On the beach necks craned.  One proud father looked up from his long lens camera, a smirk forming at the corners of his mouth.  In the parking lot, Mr. Supersonic jerked unpredictably in the sun’s setting rays while the grom paddled back out for another, shining just a bit brighter than the others.

Deeper Still (NZ)

My barrel riding may best be described as timid, but I’ll go a step further and call it abismal.  And I may occasionally ride what are considered by some to be large waves, but I am not, by any means, a big wave surfer.  Yet there I was, at 5:00 AM driving south through New Zealand’s remote Catlins region to do exactly that; ride large, barreling waves.  

I was journeying with my friend Isaac, an accomplished surfer who has traveled Indonesia extensively, spending the equivalent of 3 full years exploring remote surf spots across the Indonesian archipelago.  He is comfortable surfing large, heavy waves, even though he lacks 95 percent of the vision in his left eye.  He is a Dunedin local.  He knows all the players and the surrounding waters well and has been my gateway to the Dunedin surf scene.  Going on this mission to the Catlins was in some ways an initiation, as much as it was an opportunity to score waves.  Though not explicitly said; if I could hold my own in large, heavy surf, it would open the door to further exploration and new waves.  

Ahead of us was a 6 meter swell, arriving uninterrupted from the body of water so consistently tempestuous, it’s referred to as the Roaring 40’s.  A raw South Westerly wind, blowing straight from Antarctica at 70 km/h, would hopefully groom 19 feet of moving water into emerald green, spitting cylinders, while seriously affecting the circulation of our extremities.  

The night before, Isaac asked if I wanted to borrow a step-up, a board slightly larger than a shortboard built for large waves.  Even though I wanted to, the chances of me snapping it and leaving me out $1000 was unreasonably high.  So I politely declined, instead prepping my 6’1” rounded pin, a board that’s still larger than my usual, but one that I rarely surf.  I put on a new coat of wax, attached a thicker gauge leash my brother gave me and tied the rail saver extra close so it wouldn’t knife through the foam in a wipe out.  I analyzed the wide points and imagined where I’d position my feet for optimum speed and turning ability.  I studied the concaves and rails, and imagined water flowing through and off them.  Without much experience on this board I had to mentally prepare myself for the challenges of the coming day.  At around 10 PM, I went to sleep.  

I woke up at 4:30 AM, made a full plunger of coffee and headed out the door to pick up Isaac.  The driving was challenging.  Dark, narrow lanes with rain and bad wipers meant I had no way of gauging how fast I was going or where I was on the road.   I relied on Isaac’s stories, my coffee, and the slow trickle of adrenaline starting to form in my system to keep me awake at the wheel.  At some point, Isaac turned to me and said,

“How much interaction have you had with sea life?”

‘Sea life’ was a fairly vague term in this context I thought.  ‘Sea life’ could be anything from a barnacle to a blue whale.  

“Because we’re likely to have a few encounters.”

I knew what he was referring to.  Sea lions.  They are abundant in the south, huge in size and quick to show you who’s “alpha” in their waters.  Sea lions will bark at you, nudge you and in extreme cases bump you off your board.  All of that may sound benign but when you consider the animal weighs half a ton, is twice the size of you and has teeth, they become a little intimidating.  I told Isaac about the seals we have back in Maine.  I described playful encounters in the sea with curious, beady-eyed mammals.  Isaac laughed.  In the back of my mind I was relieved he didn’t mention an even greater apex predator with a much deadlier history.  Great White’s are also numerous in the South.  Dunedin has a well known history of shark attacks.  In fact before moving here I was warned by a surfer in Christchurch who joked that I was, “Entering the food chain.”  As you head south from Dunedin towards Bluff, their numbers increase.  Only two weeks prior a French tourist had her holiday cut short when she was attacked close to our destination.  Her assailer was a Seven Gill, which was lucky; as far as I know she still has her leg.  I asked Isaac what to do when approached by a Sea Lion.  “Just stay calm.  Don’t look them in the eye.”

After nearly two hours of driving, the pavement turned to dirt and meandered through a gulley towards the coast.  We reached a grassy overlook where we caught our first glimpse of the ocean. It was a moody, turbulent scene and a sliver of white light shone where grey sky met grey sea.  Huge plumes of white spray erupted from shadows that stood and stretched like ghoulish yawns before violently collapsing.  Waves, backwash, ripples, undertow and channels etched various patterns in the surface.  A common surfer phrase would summarize simply; “There was a lot of water moving out there.”  

There was one other car there.  A teen from Dunedin, intent on “going pro”, who drove down the night before and slept in his car.  Isaac exchanged greetings.  The language kiwi surfers speak with each other is laden with turns of phrase so well worn they verge on cliche.  One hears the same “banter” in car parks all around New Zealand.  Same words, same rhythm, slight variation in accent.  It’s assimilation.  It’s identity.  It’s almost coded.  Best not to break the flow with an american accent.  

We watched a large black figure crawl out of the water and slowly shimmy up the sand.  “I’m glad he’s getting out now,” Isaac said of the sea lion.

Another car showed up and it was time to act.  We battled the early morning cold and changed into our wetsuits; 5 millimeters thick with hoods and boots.  The wind was strong as expected and the board felt a little foreign under my arm, but I was glad to have the extra paddle power of a bigger board.  

We entered easily from a well defined channel, but once outside the break I realized the intensity of the wave.  Walls of water marched in from the horizon, and as they moved over the sandbar stood tall, their faces elongating.  The lip would feather, but where most waves would then break, this lip would stretch upwards even further, drawing water up from the troth to create a perfectly vertical 10 foot face.  The lip would then project outwards, easily clearing the troth by another 10 feet creating a wide open tube.  Perfectly cylindrical.  Perfectly emerald.  Very intense.  There would be no turns that day, barrels were the currency of the session.

A set came through and a surfer 20 meters away took one.  He waited for the wave to come to him, then, as he was drawn up the face he took two or three deep strokes into the belly of the wave and started to plane.  He stayed mid face, never allowing himself to be pulled up into the lip.  As soon as the face became vertical, he threw his board hard beneath him, caught it with his feet and used his rails to gain traction while the lip towered above him.  In the next instant, the lip pitched over his head, fully enclosing him in a hollow tunnel of water.  I’ve seen this technique times before in serious waves by expert level surfers.  How they appear so relaxed and effortless on the deepest, steepest, most powerful part of a wave of consequence eludes me.

I turned back towards the horizon to find an appropriate warm up wave.  A mid size wave appeared and I started paddling long before it reached me.  The wave passed beneath me and marched onwards undisturbed until it finally broke some 30 meters in.  I paddled back.  Another mid size wave appeared.  It looked promising so I dug hard into the water, stroking for shore.  Once again the wave passed beneath me.  I paddled back to Isaac who was laughing.  

“Are you trying NOT to catch a wave?” He teased.  

I was a little embarrassed but had to laugh.  I didn’t realize how apparent my nerves were but he called me on it; choosing weaker, smaller waves.  I realized his comment was meant to help.  A gentle nudge to be smarter, patient, more selective.

Before long another set appeared and it was my turn to go.  An overhead left swung towards me and morphed into a teepee with a tall center and gradual sloping shoulders.  

“GO BEN! GO!!” Isaac yelled.  

I turned and scratched hard.  My eyes bugged and cheeks ballooned from quick, intense breaths.  I tried to stay mid face and as soon as I felt my tail lift and the board plane I sprung, but truly stumbled, to my feet.  I felt unsure for a moment as I became weightless over my board and dropped down the face, but as my weight compressed into the rails and fins at the troth I knew I had it.  I looked over my shoulder to see the lip heaving down the line in front me.  I dug into my heals and tried to hook under the canopy but my board felt stuck.  A combination of poor foot placement and a board longer and wider than usual.  In desperation I performed something akin to a back flop to avoid demolition from the lip.  It was ugly, and I hoped no one saw it, but it was functional and I emerged safely behind the wave.  

The waves were getting bigger.  The swell was forecast to build throughout the day and each new set brought a glimpse of what was to come.  Surfers would scramble when one appeared and paddle hard to position themselves amongst the shifting towers of water.  I found myself paddling mostly to avoid waves.  A sure sign I was out of my comfort zone.  

The biggest set I had seen yet appeared on the horizon and my heart started beating.  I had been sitting the longest so it was my turn to go.  But just then, I noticed a large dark figure slipping through the water behind two guys to our left.  I indicated with my head so that everyone would see.  

“Oh boy, here he comes,” Isaac said.   The surfers to our left shared a quick word of warning then brought their legs out of the water and lay flat on their boards.  Between them swam a giant sea lion.  The surfers were five feet apart and the sea lion brushed both their boards as he swam between them.  It lifted its giant head out of the water and spat out air, testing them.    

“Holy shit,”  I stammered.  

“Just try not to look at it,” advised Isaac.  

I pulled my feet up on my deck but looked forward to see the set on the horizon was now bearing down on us.  In front of us loomed wall after wall of towering grey water, the ones in back easily reaching two and a half times overhead.  Everyone started scratching for the horizon.  My blood pressure was high.  I had a thousand pound agitated sea lion swimming beneath me and a set of three 15 foot waves standing very, very tall, feathering twenty meters in front of me.  

I scraped vertically over the first one, kept sprinting and dove mid face on the second one as it pitched over me.  I surfaced and saw the mother of the set, upwards of 18 feet and already starting to pitch.  As heroic as we all want to be when staring down an 18 foot wave, everyone has a threshold at which point board ditching seems far more sensible than a duck dive.  However, Isaac was somewhere behind me, and somewhere below me lurked the sea lion, so there was no choice, I had to duck dive.  I steered towards a section of the shoulder that would break after the peak.  If I got there soon enough I could get under it.  I got as much speed as possible, drove the nose into the water, kicked my tail down with it, and right as the wave bore down on me brought my body under water towards the deck.  Silence.  It was eerily calm.  Seconds passed and I could feel the current of the wave pulling me upwards inside it but I stayed deep, letting the wave move over me.  It is entirely possible that in that moment, the sea lion curiously surveyed the four wetsuit clad humans under water, our eyes closed and vulnerable.  I felt a shudder.  The water physically shook as the lip made impact with the sea.  I slowly rose upwards and surfaced, unscathed.  I looked behind me. There was Isaac, a slight smirk on his face acknowledging the weight of the situation, grateful I held on to my board.  

The session resumed and I wish I could recall a perfect ride.  One that resembled those of pros’ in the movies.  One in which I chose the largest wave of the set, paddled deeper than anyone else and back-doored a hair raising vertical peak.  That the lip projected over my head with guillotine sharpness yet I stood tall, even dared to tilt my neck back and blow a kiss to the roof of the barrel.  But in reality, I struggled.  I struggled with nerves, I struggled with fear and I struggled with equipment.  But I stayed out.  I watched others get deep tubes, took notes on their positioning and kept promising I’d do the same with every set.  And while the waves I caught weren’t stand outs, each one pushed my comfort level.  Edging me closer and closer to getting that big deep barrel, that elusive, canonizing experience every surfer seeks.  

At the end of my session I felt relieved, not satisfied.  Relieved I didn’t suffer a brutal wipeout, nearly drown or get nibbled by “Sea life.”  Unsatisfied knowing my actual skill level far outweighed my performance.  But such is surfing; in a sport of ever changing variables and conditions, consistency is nearly impossible to achieve.  One day you are convinced you are one wave away from landing that blow-tail reverse, and the next, you earnestly struggle getting to your feet.   It’s a frustrating truth of our sport, and its’ fickle nature keeps us coming back.  To uncover the next secret that will unlock a greater understanding of wave riding and flow.  Something that will transform wiggles and gesticulations into one ever flowing powerful expression.  It is a dance, an art form and a mystery that only the best truly feel and very few can describe.  Yet we persist, to uncover those mysteries, challenge our comfort zones and climb from each plateau, despite frustrations and the potential futility of our pursuit.  There is joy in the simplest form of wave riding, drawing lines on the face of a wave, and there will no doubt be joy deep within the belly of a giant, emerald green barrel.  

Mike from the Northland

Mike is a nice guy.  Close to 50 years old, stocky, with thinning black hair and a missing front tooth, he’s fallen on hard times.  He approached us in the dark carrying Zambuca and Irish Cream shooters and told us his story.  Upon hearing it, I realized he had never really had an easy time.

Mike was run over by a fork lift when he was 17.  He slipped off a log he was supposed to be stacking and knocked the lift into gear on the way down.  The lift worked itself slowly over his body.  It moved its way up his shins first, then his thighs, then his hips (crack), then his chest and shoulder, and finally his head which he has very little memory of.  He still experiences the effects of the incident today.  Brain damage effects his recollection of names, dates and numbers and his body is in constant pain so he does what he can to mitigate it by smoking potent weed and stretching on public beaches.  

Mike used to have a beautiful home.  It sat so high on a mountaintop that it could see both the Tasman Sea and the South Pacific Ocean.  But after his father died he needed help with rent and upkeep while he was away so he asked a family friend if she’d like to move in.  She was friends with gang members who cooked so much methamphetamine in the house it contaminated the walls and condemned the property.  They also murdered a young man and disposed of his car on Mike’s property.  Mike had to sell his property for nearly half of its’ worth.  He now lives in an RV, alone.  

Mike loves talking about his boys.  He showed us photos on his flip phone.  They were tattooed and muscular. They wore a lot of tank tops.  They had struggles of their own; child custody, legal battles, psychiatric issues, but he was hopeful and proud of all of them.  Their photos were pinned around his RV.  As he talked he would glance at them and the conversation would find a way back to them.

Mike is also a little creepy.  He doesn’t realize it and I don’t think he means any harm, but he lacks personal space and doesn’t pick up on social cues.  He had this way of stringing together sentences and stories without pause that wouldn't allow you to politely disengage.  He talked us into joining him in his RV for a drink.  According to Mike, he’s not a drinker, but he opened up his fridge and revealed three well stocked shelves of Zambuca, Mudslides, Mud Shakes, and other strange, sweet concoctions that could trick any 12 year old into getting hammered.  He asked us to sit down on his giant, white leather, swiveling cockpit chairs and he lit up a joint.  He told us about a group of 6 girls he met a couple days before, who, just like us, didn’t know Mike, they didn’t even know each other, but they accepted his offer of free drink and ended up twerking for Mike while he yelled, “YEAH GIRLS!”  

Mike got me so high I fainted.  He was mid way through explaining why he carried a hatchet for protection from thieves.  Ash kept checking on our van across the parking lot.  Mike had the hatchet in my face for inspection when the blood drained from my face, “Mike, I’m sorry man but I’ve gotta drink some water!”  I stood up suddenly, I was seeing stars and my hearing retreated somewhere deep within my head.  Mike gave me apple juice and I stumbled back to our van.  My vision, hearing and circulation came back shortly, and so did Mike.  Three more times actually.  Each time from behind us in the dark, each time talking until I found a pause just large enough to break away.  

Mike finally went back to his RV.  We cleaned up and went to bed.  Long after we turned off our lights Mike sat on the steps of his RV listening to his radio.  A light overhead cast long, strange shadows on his face.  Shadows that he may face better alone.  

Night at Noah’s

Disclaimer: This story features (immature) adult content.  If you are sensitive to sexual references and language, and will in any way judge me, the author, I highly suggest you refrain from reading.  

“Mate, it was fuckin’ rude is what it was - my head gettin' slammed against the wall like that - bed rockin’ back and forth beneath me.”  Yann made a cartoonish sound as he mimed grabbing at the corners of his bed, rolled his eyes backwards and swayed his head violently side to side, “Oooouu!”

Despite the compassion I felt for him I couldn’t help but laugh as he said this.  He had this particularly british sensitivity to indecency.  Easily offended, he always seemed to be talking about how someone or something was “rude.”  I thought it was amusing the first time I met him, but now he was telling me a story that was so inappropriate, so indecent and had him so extremely offended that nothing could stop me from belly laughing as he described the scene in his hostel room.

“Boom, boom, boom against the wall like this mate,” He clapped his hands together.  “I couldn’t believe it.”

Apparently my bunkmate, a typical festival chick in her mid 30’s who warned me she “made a lot of noise when she slept,” had been making a lot of noise with the dreadlocked guy sleeping directly beneath Yann for the last two nights.  I told him she was actually supposed to be sleeping above me and he shared a laugh.

We were sitting on the sidewalk in front of Noah’s Backpackers, the filthiest hostel I have ever stayed in.  A gathering of roughly 15 people sat outside, all travelers, mostly british, mostly drunk.  Glass bottles clanked dangerously on the pavement as people returned wine from their lips.  

A round, sweaty and disheveled blonde mentioned to a group of inattentive boys that she can queef on command.  

A wave of laughter erupted and the boys, now interested, pushed her on.  

“Did ya hear that?” said Yann, his sensitivity flaring up,  “She said she can queef on command.  That’s disgusting.”  

I remained silent on the topic, unfazed.

“Does she squirt too?” a brit asked, fishing for laughs.  

“No guys that’s lit-rally me-”  The sweaty girl placed her hand over her mouth, as if she had accidentally let that slip.  A breathless silence and the group erupted again, louder than before.  She loved the attention.  I left the laughter for the boys.  

Across the road was a dimly lit park, the site of a very strange sexual act I witnessed the night before, in plain view.  Something between birth, gynecological exam and pleasure.  It was both hard and hard not to watch.  As I recollected the images from that night I realized the players were most certainly Yann’s and my respective bunkmates.

I considered going to bed, but I remembered my other roommates; the chatty drunk dutch girls, an emotional brit sipping her third bottle of wine, the cockroaches, and a middle aged woman who defied categorization or understanding.  She slept at odd hours of the day, kept clothes and bags stuffed behind lockers or underneath her blankets and went to bed every night carrying a boiling pot.  I speculate that she had fallen on tough times and needed a place to live.  I have no explanation for the boiling pot.  She was perfectly friendly and even offered touching, candid, life advice one night as we tried to sleep, all the other roommates still out, the stars shining through the windows.  But her place there felt understandably awkward.  No one knew why she was there and no one dared to ask, even though she shared our room.  

So I remained on the sidewalk.  Slightly removed from the group.  I listened to their stories.  I laughed at Yann.  I watched the strangers walk by.  I felt a kind of freedom, unbound by group dynamics and entirely apathetic to their validation I could be who I am and say nothing if I wanted.  I had keys in my pocket and could go anywhere but for some reason I stayed, content to watch the scene there at Noah’s.

Ulladulla  

This is Buzz and Nikki who took me in and made me feel at home.  It was the highlight of my trip here in Oz.  Two days later I sprained my knee which took me out of the water for 4 long frustrating weeks.  It’s a special thing when strangers take each other in in the spirit of travel and with the belief that there’s good in the world!  Thank you Buzz and Nikki!

The Volvo doesn’t have a radio.  Well it does, but ever since Riccardo changed the battery, the screen says “OFF” when I try turning it ON.  So on my trip from Wilson’s Prom to Wollongong, I played music from an iPhone at full volume, perched on the passenger seat beside me.  I could make out the melodies and vocals of most songs, but the bass and low end were completely absent.  In their place was the low rumble of the 20 year old engine, groaning away on the winding, dangerously fast country roads of Gippsland and Southern New South Wales.  Pocked by scars, repairs and the odd crater sized hole, the roads were rough, but I soon learned they weren’t the greatest danger.  

Dusk was setting in on a country road in Gippsland when I rounded a corner accelerating up to 80k.  Directly ahead of me I saw the dark silhouette of a Kangaroo.  The head down low, the high arch of it’s back and the thick curled tail.  I approached him as I would a deer, expecting him to dart away at the sight of me.  But instead he stood his ground, sizing up the car.   He stood straight up.  At full height he was well above 6 feet and absolutely jacked.  I realized he wasn’t scared of the car and that in this game I needed to avoid him.  I came within 10 yards of him and slowed to a halt.  Finally he bent low and bound into the forest.  The encounter justified the bull bars adorning nearly every automobile here, face masks for road kill.  

I was venturing into the unknown.  Unlike the famous beaches near Sydney and farther north around Byron Bay and the Gold Coast, this stretch of coastline is rarely mentioned in popular surf culture.  The path less traveled, the waves have an element of mystery and a reputation for being desolate and sharky.

I had a pocket sized wave-finder book my brother gave me and an assortment of free road maps I found at various gas stations.  I picked headlands and beaches that looked promising from the wave-finder and strung together a loose, spontaneous route north with the maps.  

I spent a lot of time driving.  The first spot checked in any day was rarely surfed, it mainly served as a way of knowing what the ocean was doing.  Then I would drive, hike or trespass to find shelter from the wind, greater exposure to swell or a better bottom contour.  The biggest issue I faced was being alone.  When you hike through a forest to a remote beach, and the thin band of turquoise blue water very quickly becomes deep blue with not another soul in sight along 3 miles of sand… fear creeps in.  Fear of the deep, fear of what’s beneath you.

With so much time in the car, it became a sort of refuge.  I found freedom behind the wheel and an instant satisfaction that came from covering ground, seeing places I would never have seen without the car.  But these days on the road were emotionally varied.  Moments of strength, independence and crescendos of bird-like freedom were interspersed by periods of loneliness, where the mind turned inward, away from passing coastlines and country side and took aim at the self.  Exploring, dissecting, analyzing parts of the whole until I was so far from present, interactions with others required an arduous return to self.  

When night fell I camped.  I poached a camp site in Cape Conran and was woken by a 6 foot long lizard slithering by my tent.  A “Goana” I was later told, but at the time it didn’t seem beyond reason to think I was watching a survivor of the Jurassic period clawing its way by me.  From then on I slept with a pocket knife by my side.  

But my experiences weren’t all by my lonesome, I made a few great friends.  Late one night in a deserted rest stop I was alone, spooked and ready to leave when a pair of Brits pulled up in their camper van.  Equally spooked but in need of rest, we became great friends for the night, drinking beers, having smokes and sharing stories of surf, sharks and spiders along the coast.  In Ulladulla I was surfing a left hand reef break at dusk when I met a friendly Aussie named Buzz who brought me in for the night.  He and his girlfriend Nicki fed me, gave me a bed and even brought me to a house party.  It was there in Ulladulla, surfing with Buzz the next day at a firing right hand river mouth that his friend paddled up to him and asked me where I was from.

“Maine.”

He grinned, “So, Buzz picked up a Stray Yank, hey?”

Wilson’s Prom and the Journey South

Riccardo Maagi picked me up in the middle of the CBD.  He pushed the ‘96 Volvo through two yellow lights, narrowly beating red, then pulled over under an overpass to give me a tour of the Volvo 850 sedan.  

Riccardo, “Riccy,” is a young italian guy, probably 26, with trustworthy eyes, a distinct accent and a large bushy beard, impressive for his age.  He walked me through the modifications he made to the engine, (“en-JINE”), which involved the removal of two hoses which he explained helped cool the “en-JINE.”  He lit up a cigarette and I kicked the tires, examined the tread, made sure the seats would go down for my surfboards, checked for oil leaks.  I had no idea what I was doing.  He was excited for my trip north.  He assured me the car would make it.  Told me he would give me the car the next day after he went to the range.  “The what?” I asked, at which point he placed his cigarette between his lips and produced from the trunk a camouflage 70 lb. compound bow with two arrows.  

“I like to shoot bow and arrow,” he said.  

The next day I handed him $1200 AUD and he handed me the key to the ‘96 Volvo.  He left me an air freshener, empty bottle of pepsi, a hand ball and a bottle of windex.  He lit up a cigarette.  “Maybe you come out tonight, we go to the clubs, I add you on FaceBook.” We smiled, shook hands and parted ways. 

It took me two days to work up the courage to drive the damn thing, but finally I fired up the car and started off, shifting gears awkwardly with my left hand, repeating “Left side, left side,” out loud as I drove timidly down narrow busy lanes.  

Once the car hit the freeway I started to ease up, at least all I had to do now was focus on the speed limit and keep the car going straight. But now there were new sounds coming from the car I had yet to hear at lower speeds. Clunking, cranking, vibrating, rumbling.  My nerves spiked.  Would the car make it? Did I buy a lemon? I had a nervous sweat going, my palms were sweaty and with no AC and the windows down I listened to every clank and worried it would be the last.  

After 3 hours, a couple wrong turns and a few close calls I made it to Wilson’s Prom, one of the most picturesque, raw and unspoiled natural parks I have ever been.  The car and I made it just fine.  The sun was just setting as I crested a large hill to catch my first glimpse of the Tasman Sea and a beautiful 4 foot swell lapping into one of the many bays below.  

I dug around behind my seat for a clean shirt and my water bottle.  Underneath my bag and beneath a sun reflector was a previously unnoticed green nylon sack with something large in it.  I opened it up.  Riccy left me his bow and arrows.  

Torquay 

The smell of a surf shop.  The same in every store, in every corner of the world. Surf wax, neoprene, cotton T’s, resin drying.  Works on the memory.  Fond childhood scenes.  Surf shop browsing with my brother.  

Torquay is like Disneyland if you love surf shops.  Every major brand has a flagship store and an outlet.  Not to mention the local guys have their shops sprinkled in there.  I’ve never seen or held so many boards.  In every store, there I was sliding my hands down every rail, feeling it’s weight under my arm, analyzing the concaves.  There is an astounding amount of foam and fiberglass in Torquay.  I’m lucky I only bought a hat.  

St Kilda Carnival Ride

Story Below

Melbourne, Day 4

St. Kilda Fest, Goon and Hostel Life

Saturday night I go to the Melbourne Laneway Fest where as far as I could tell I was the only American/Canadian in a sea of Aussies and Kiwis getting high on designer drugs and listening to niche electro indie pop which was just fuckin fine by me.  I find something called White Fist and have a euphoric night body rocking to Flume with permanent stank face.  

The next morning, still buzzing from getting double fisted (which is a lot more pleasant than it sounds), I meet up with Canadian friends Lauren, Tess and Coco for St. Kilda Fest.  Unlike Laneway fest, St Kilda fest is part Australian Fashion Show, part Backpacker Shit-show.  Finding a backpacker who isn’t a shit show is an anomaly, but whereas they might usually be confined to their hostels, on this particular sunny Sunday the doors to the many backpacker hostels in St. Kilda opened up and out spilled loose packs of foreigners, twisted on Goon, shouting, stumbling and very proud.  

This was supposed to be a dry event.  

Out in the street, Australian girls are wearing dresses... Well hard to call them dresses, they’re wearing clothes... Well hard to call them clothes either, they’re wearing textiles that look like someone took Ace Bandage Wrap and wrapped up just their most intimate bits.  Like a tattered ultra sexy mummy costume on high heels.  I have no issues with what this affords the eye to see, ass cheeks hanging so far outside their pants, they could fart and it would join the passing wind without notice.  But I think of my own lady Ashley, would I be comfortable with her in this ensemble? All these other men ogling her body?  You know what, yea, and if she felt sexy in it, fuck yea! 

Guys have their own style too, it’s not far from what you might see in the neighborhoods of Venice Beach, CA (not the boardwalk).  Loose colorful button up T-shirts or singlets, disheveled long hair (often covered by a Neil Young style folk rock boho hat), skinny jeans or cutoff shorts, bare feet.

The group of gaggling foreigners I’m with get split up, someone forgot to herd us around the same sign post.  Lauren, Coco, Otto and I come to a gigantic carnival ride designed to induce vomiting.  It’s at least seven stories tall, hurdles you ass over tea kettle through the air in giant arcs and is operated by two overly tanned bogans who monitor the ride with the same attentiveness as a preteen babysitter.  There are photos of porn stars winking at us on the sides of the rides.  We hit the goon hard and get in line.  

It’s our turn.  We get strapped in.  Otto can’t figure out where to put his flip-flops, glasses, watch, wallet, phone... he’s a mess.  Overly tanned bogan number 1 looks at me in disbelief, shakes his head, “He’s faaacked,” he says through crooked teeth.  

Otto gets strapped in.  “What, there’s no seat belt?” in his Swedish accent.  The ride starts up.  For two minutes we are hurdled through the air, the combination of relative danger and pure adrenalin has us yell-laughing the entire time.  It’s all worth it.  The shit show, the goon, the style, the porn stars.  It’s a festival of quirkiness and strange juxtapositions, it’s a festival best just accepted for what it is.

Melbourne, Day 2 

Jet lag, bad breath and this feeling everyone knows you’re not from there.  God, people are tan here... Am I the whitest man in Australia? I order a flat white and tell the girl behind the counter, “We don’t have these in the States.”  Cool... Yea... That went well.  The first time you realize your accent is jarring.  Embrace that foreign alien identity.  Ignore the exhaustion, accept the situation, throw that camera over your shoulder and go be a tourist.