a long weekend at crescent head – beginning at
There are some things a woman fails to ordinarily comprehend when she opens the door of a vehicle and looks in at the crawl corner where she is supposed to sit for a four hour trip up the north coast. And that’s just halfway. Nobody has explained that she will have to spend another two hours in the car when they arrive up there – somewhere – and here he has just thrown all his stuff into the back seat. Now we have your bag and your sleeping bag. Where? The boot has the esky, and the oily mat, the wetsuits. Not there.
It’s 11.30 pm Friday night – He wants to go surfing 300 miles away. Tomorrow.
He has no racks. No Racks. He has no racks and he rides an 7’6″ and this is a two-door. You know that much. So the board is in the car, all the way up between the seats to your face. Hullo over there.
It’s ok though, she likes you, and you’re a good bloke.
But, and you can forget about everything before the but – you are a surfer.
Nothing like an extreme black early* at Crescent in summer, a man can spend four hours out there without food or water – she’s probably sleeping in the cab anyway, snug, safe.
Maybe not, because here comes the neighbours.
Crescent Head carpark can be a little rowdy in the early morning. That hour before dawn. He’s long gone of course, walking around to the point in the blackness. What on earth could he see? How does he know that there are good waves out there?
Other cars pull in and spill out more surfers. Utes, vans, Kombies, tray-tops – and not a woman amongst them. This is 1975. Everyone knows eachother and they all sound like they are at the front door of a really good party. Standing up in front of the windscreen, some of them turning back and smiling. They can see something out there, someone.
– and it is black out there, where he is.
Welcome to the
zoo museum circus universe of surfing.
Why did that particular fellow tap at the window? and look in, with a big white smile.
* surfing in the dark before the dawn