who watches waves?
Sydney – twenty miles up and twenty miles down – is usually an unhappy place to surf because surfers are the masters of imposed stress upon each other. From the carpark at dawn to the RSL on Friday nights and if the Dogs are playing at home, then the ground they play on.
Not that surfers impose this stress upon their blood brothers, it’s you and me who wear it. But we still sit inside them; it help lifts the gloom.
Imagine quality Rockpools in broad sunlight, in summer, and deserted. You have fled your car and are taking on that downward run to the beach as if the hounds of hell had been loosed to find you.
They growl in the distance, like builders’ utes. There’s the stress, and here you are running along the beach looking at empty point surf. And who runs when they have all afternoon to get out?
The stressed guy, he runs.
The other day, at some place only Steve Shearer and I know about, a man sat and watched six blokes out on waves that Sydney would bleed money for. Waves swinging around a point and into the smoother water, showing up as near and wide, fat bits and fast bits – long bits. And an outside set every twenty minutes.
Six out, two of them kooks. So only four out. A grassy hill in the sun overlooking miles of distant coast, looking at wave after wave come in and go away. Take away the stress and you can fall asleep watching that stuff.
pic lifted from freeride voice