play the surfer, anywhere
Surfers aren’t welcome. Never were. No small knotted up raft of surfers ever wants to see another in the water, heading their way.
This could be you or me. We roll out pre-dawn on a Saturday morning heading for a beach on the coast. Anyone’s beach. Then it’s a simple matter of getting out, paddling over and into the existing core group of clientele, and taking a wave when it comes.
What could be simpler. Nobody is paying for anything here, ergo nobody has a pre-paid right to anything coming at him. So there is no problem in getting out the furthest {this is going high}, and over to the inside {this is going deep} as soon as you arrive, then taking wave number one when it comes. Surfing is no rules, we don’t have men on the sideline waving flags. And who wants to make friends out there … we just take all we want and then go away. Their problem is that we might be back tomorrow for more.
Because waves are like the air are they not. You only own a wave when you’re on it, like you only own the air when you breathe it.
Once a man is at ease with the intellectual demands that this principle has asked of him he can play in any game.
Friday afternoon about 4.30. The Bowlo. A core group of drinkers are sat about their special table – the one with a plaque for Ernie {1901 – 1998} – This is their table.
Mick, Steve, Roy, Arthur, John, Sticks, Frank, The Driver and Soamsy. Nine schooners please.
Again and again and again. Their conversation is loud and uproariously garbled as they barge away their words at each other. Yobchat.
You’ve wandered in from the coast for a beer and a feed – later on a chance to watch the game South Sydney will lose to Canterbury. Then the little Scottish girl, Stephanie, comes from behind the bar and walks into the room with two large platters of hot food for the customers – no charge. Like the ^ air up there.
She places one of the platters on Ernie’s special table – which means that every other poor hungry bastard in the room gets one grab only at the second platter before it’s been cleaned out. Meanwhile Ernie’s mob are going big guns on seconds.
A man makes his move.
He walks over to Ernie’s table and leans through and over the nearest pair of hunched shoulders {this is going high}, then he reaches into the very centre of the platter {this is going deep}, which by the way is still loaded with Grade A drinking tucker, and he picks a plump morsel up from the offering. A choice prawn cutlet.
A big one.
The biggest.
Then with the other hand he leans in – and over – and through, again, to pick up a couple of sausage rolls – dips them in the sauce on the exit and walks away.
Ernie’s mob, now silent, all look at each other and they all think the same thing at the same time. That fucker will be back in a minute for more ..!
petebowes.com 
Pragtige stukke Branderplank Literatuur. Pragtig !!!
back atcha ryso
C’mmon Peter we want some more. What happens when the stranger drops in and does a cuttie which flings foam into the face of the collective table?
Ben I can imagine flaky pastry and crumbs showering down on heads and shoulders being like the cutty spray, although I can just imagine the brouhaha that would follow of the flakes and crumbs were followed by a nice big post surf nasal drip!
surfing has no rules? sounds cute. but. what a farking lark.
you win that one rolls – the first rule ever was no surfing in sluggos, clubbies did that, then it was no surfing in a straw hat – yanks did that.
pete, merely stroking out at any given break requires rules.
hells bells, even building a board requires rules.
keep up the good works, pete… you rule!