the surfing literature panel. byron bay.
The invite was to come along and contribute comments from the audience. The Byron Community Centre, the Southern Cross Room – that’s the room with all the locked windows and plenty of steamy heat lingering on after the previous mob had finished their surf exercises. Nathan with the bandana the man there. Before him was a Surf Writing Workshop with Mr T. Baker. Some fellow named Tim Edwards with a Surf History monologue had a slot as well. Somewhere.
busy busy .. busy.
Before that a book launch, and all of this flesh in the room with windows unopened for 19 hours.
and here there was an elephant in the room, waiting on the literary panel.
The surfing literature panel: T Baker. P Jarratt. N. Henson. R Olive. 3 pm to 4 pm.
Henson admitted to being an artist so that’s a pass for her. Olive was the MC and she had a lapful of homework ready to go. Some people were taking photos. An attractive girl with very brown and very smooth skin, a slight musk to her perfume and not a crack from her knees knelt behind me; and her camera. Long brown hair. Her voice would have been a husky whisper.
– and somebody up the front was talking.
Two seats away an elderly gentleman slept. He hardly nodded at all, just sat there and dozed in and out, and on and off. His only point of relevance to the get-together may have been the Hawaiian shirt he was wearing. Nobody took his photo.
– and up front somebody was talking.
Some fellow came up to the panel of four with three bottles of beer in his hands. Guffaws from the guffawers back by the wall. He gives Baker the first bottle, Jarratt gets the second and for a moment nobody got the third. Nobody..?! – or, and in other words – oh shit!! there’s women up here too. So Ms Henson gets the one he’s already taken a liberty with. His own.
This leaves Ms Olive as the shag on the rock, so she smiles, like a fucking shark. He retreats to the backwall with the some other goobers guffawers and never comes back.
– somebody talking up there.
Byron Bay has the world’s best collection of Goobers. They roam all over the place doing shit that would reward them a kick in the arse in a few towns not too far west of the water. This particular floral male goober let his fat pet rabbit lurch into the room, then he grabbed an empty seat and put the rabbit onto it, up there next to Ms Olive – the lady with the homework. A man had to look away.
– somebody was talking.
Baker doesn’t worry about the elephants, neither does relic Jarrett, yet he was the one who uttered the two most infamous words in surf literature. Blasphemy Rottmouth. Some of the women shuddered.
And Shearer just whickered away at his dagger blade up the back by the door. Stone on steel. He’d arrived late with his two cousins.
– and the talking continued right up to 4.55 pm so no questions today, which was a shame because I only had one, and it was for Baker.
all done here then, and nice to meet you Shearer.
It is based on the idea that an elephant in a room would be impossible to overlook; thus, people in the room who pretend the elephant is not there have chosen to avoid dealing with the looming big issue. {wikipedia}
petebowes.com 
Rottie? Couldn’t have been Rottie, he’s on the no fly list. Pretty high up on the no fly list actually.
two most infamous words in surf literature????
Well, edgier than Baker obviously, but infamous?
Entire careers eclipsed by a cavaleir blog and twitter account.
and young Nicky Carroll wasn’t even invited despite Olive finding a chair on the stage.
Wow.
Pete exited to a pig flying without a single beer.
Allow me to guess your question Peter Bowes…
“Tim, if Rip Curl commissions you to profile Mick Fanning, are you an author or are you just typing sales copy?”
Enquiring minds would like to know.
no banana –
a lapfull of Rebecca….
did I just read that?
Oh bowesy paints a mental image doesn’t he?
excuse me one moment, something urgent has risen.
Let me have a shot PB…
“Tim, if the source of your article gives you all the information you need to type and no research is required, can you still call yourself a surf journalist?”
no apple ..
Baker leading a writers retreat must be like Billabong hosting a symposium on retailing.
It was grotesque. Blood gaped from an open facial wound, surrounded by purple and umber toned flesh. Puss escaped the wound in short arterial bursts and crept across its face. Its flesh mimicked the colors and odors of a rotted cabbage husk. Exposed veins wove a sinister web across its face and distorted body. Shreds of muscle clung loosely to appendages that sporadically revealed the bones beneath; bones that dripped mustard colored marrow onto the foor. Urine and fecal matter stained the ground with each burdened stride it took. But it had a purpose.
For it had come to feed.
And feed it would. As the aspiring writers of surfing lore materialized before its partially torn eye, mucous began to pool upon its tongue. The thing they called Blasphemy Rottmouth crouched in the background, salaciously flicking its venomous fangs, while Tim Baker’s voice unknowingly gave the signal for its feast to begin.
And the feast was imminent as the beast lunged the stage as Shep sprung from the rafters and drove his dagger blade through the beasts extended vertabrae piercing the black heart of truth.
Relieved, Tim dusted himself off and offered Shearer Jarrett’s chair.
.
that’s bullshit hip, the rabbit could take him out easy ..
Yeah, but did Baker give Shep Jarrett’s beer?
beauty is in the details.
Such a waste of even thrice-breathed oxygen….
aaaah, but sales still trump truth in the surf industry peebee. metaphor continuity my man.
You should come down from the hills more often Pete.
These love-ins are a dime a dozen.
Hard to know who’s who around here lately – and somethings could do with a rip-in rather than a love-in Steve.
” Goobers” an underutilized word nowdays, Pete.
Pretty sure they have sub-branch meetings in Bellingen occasionally!!