owning warriewood and what it entailed.
About fifteen cars trailed down the hill, all of them laden with boards and competitors –
– judges tables clip-boards loudspeakers files music deck-chairs coffee wetsuits electrical leads boards towels, one computer and one megaphone. A bloke named Cook running the surprise event, just transferred from North Narra. Blown out there by a surprise (?) early southerly. Cook was the one with the megaphone, his initials were engraved on it. Pity he couldn’t read a weather map.
Today Warriewood had waves. No slop, no shit and no cliff-bounce. Plus low-tide, plus good banks, plus some size.
This was a Saturday morning, a couple of known lads were out there taking a deep view of things, threading through the numbskulls. One lad in particular, name rhymes with Doof. Ace numbskull reader doof, out there catching hundreds of waves. It took a few calls from Cook before our lad heard the morning’s new message clearly.
‘ All surfers OUT OF THE WATER.’
That’s what he heard, and then he heard it a couple of more times. Cook was roaring like a bowman on a racing yacht, standing up there under the club verandah out of the rain with his coffee handy, watching the steamtrain rights straight up out of the sea, watching rhymes with doof slicing them all ways. Him and Dave L, little dave who nearly owed me a car – plus Barnes and Staniford or am I dreaming.
We’re up there drying off when megaphone mouth and the crew of competitors moved in and out of the rain, seems he had a son who was an almostPro. Cook Jnr. That made Cook Snr. Head Man today. Pity it had to be at Warriewood, Narrabeen has better facilities for roadshows.
We’ve got two things here.
(1) When Warriewood gets big you have to get back out around the corner. That means you have to run in front of the club on the way and that puts you within range of the Cook Megaphone. He plays the thing like a didgeridoo and we’d like to give him a pain in the arse with it.
(2) – and I suppose we’re all ok about having this type of surprise event happen today. Because on ^ that day our lad had to run the beach, through the Cookracket and into the big hands of a Beach Inspector who was doing his doorman job with vigour, all down to the organisation who paid him for a couple of hours muscle to get the locals out of the water. Sometimes it took that long.
Pity about the poor guy down there taking a Cooks Tour of Cooks Terrace on the rip express.
Doof got grabbed by the beachie on one of his trips back around. Stopped. Held. Turned away from his path and pointed up the beach. Shoved. So Doof took the matter right up to the beachie’s face, and the crowd under the verandah were all voting with Nero except for two hairy older men who were both taking a seriously dim view. Time to have a chat with Cook.
When you walk up to a bloke, just for a word mind, the first thing you do is introduce yourself. This is how we do it in this country.
‘ G’day, I’m Pete.’
– and than you stick your hand out.
When the other bloke keeps his hand down and gives you that – look how many of us are here – you know that the Pro Surfing Dickheads are seriously overbred and it’s time to buy petrol and head for the north coast. The blood is clearer up here.
header pic from tsujasi blog
Boof died the other day (march 2013)