the north avalon conspiracy
Surfers are a fine body of men. Solid and true. This can be said because this is what we know. A fine body. United.
Three surfers are sitting in a car. All the windows are down. Three boards are on the rack. This is the only vehicle in the carpark when you (Larry) arrive and it’s 5.30 am in summer – late enough. Out there is four-foot of of bliss breaking in some just lovely glassy water, and “Miracles of the Orient!!” .. it’s empty. North Avalon is empty.
So everything is out of the car and off the roof. Everything very speedo speedo and here’s Larry cracking his neck during the preparations to see yet another empty set finish its journey to the beach, untroubled by the great unwashed.
Larry is a persona non grata at Avalon north, an unwelcome person, this is because of his known association with a web-based surf reporting site, and because on this beach that is what has been written – and being a cautious outcast he takes his keys down to the beach, wrapped in a towel. Sticks them by the fence a good way over. Says g’day to one of the heads in the other car’s window as he passes by. The driver.
Nobody’s moving in there.
Like most surfers Larry takes an empty carpark score anytime he gets handed one – and who knows, eight loaded cars could roll up in two minutes. This is why we hurry and soon he is out on the break, still alone. Still only two cars in the carpark and they are all out of their car now, and they’re not hurrying at all.
Larry is on a lull, so he’s watching.
One lad stays with the cars while the other two take a pathway each down to the beach. They meet by Larry’s towel, shake it out, and then jog back to the carpark. Larry’s half-way in now trying to shout loud and paddle hard at the same time. They have all his car doors open and are inside. One each side. Rooting around. Doing who knows what shit.
This is a white Nissan 200SX and it’s a little under-insured. Little being like totally. That’s ten years by $3,000 per saved so even if they take it Larry is in front for a second-hand replacement. For this you need an accountant, though not right now, because Larry is finally on the beach, unleashed and running. Bellowing. Not counting.
They slide back into their own car and motor away. The empty white Nissan slowly rolls down towards the gutter and stops. The handbrake is off; the lights are all on, the key is in the igntion, the doors are all open and the motor is running.
They’re gone – and where the fuck is everyone?
Paranoid theory, at the time, held that Larry – being the local RealSurf Reporter – was the victim of a large-scale conspiracy involving every active surfer from Palm Beach to Dee Why. And their children and wives. Their friends. Plus the busloads of tourists and all the casual passers-bye. They, after all, were the folks most likely to be here on a morning such as this, but they were not.
They were behind large barricades erected by the 30 or so senior locals, all of whom had a serious issue with Larry and his reporting routines. Not to mention the pics he was taking every morning and posting on the web. Barricades erected somewhere out of sight. Where they patiently waited while Tom Dick and Harry – the lads in the car – played their part in the intricate game.
– and this is why Don Norris takes all his surfing pics from the roof of his house, and my regards to him, the old Yank.