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how to get out at lennox on a big day

How can that be so hard?

Even you, lately travelled up from Sydney or some other poor seaport further south that almost freezes in winter, up here in the carpark, and for the first time you see naked Lennox. The whore with barbed wire on her bed.

You look at it out there, under the heat of the May sun, and it’s ten foot. Oiled. It writhes with great power.

It’s ten foot for every one of the twenty sets that you watch roaring past, because you’re on the bench down on the edge of the grass now, watching closely. You’re no mug.

It shows.

You’re watching the locals get out, seeing where they go, what configuration of fast emerging and submerging sharp-edged boulders they lock into and slide through, over, and past – with just a few big power paddles. Seeing whether they time getting out early on a set, or midway, or at the end. And around them the dickheads jostle, founder, and finally carry ashore their red wounds and bashed boards. They trek back to their cars broken men, unworthy.

Not you today though, no dickhead diploma today – because you’ve been watching the locals all this time, where they go in. The crucial phase. Trouble here though is that have been watching you, and like Pat Curren in his early Waimea days – when five out meant someone had to go  – they’ve been leading you a little to the left, or way over to the right. To catastrophe.

Lennox is the Lubyanka of hope, it can systematically deprive you of everything you know and love, like a couple of toes, wedged, scraped and dragged over vicious rock edges. Feet soles peppercorned by the residue end-tips of the dozens of deep stabs of the bastard black urchins.

Pity the pathetically poor bastard who decides to sit and slide through the killing ground on his arse, his board held half-aloft, and his leg rope trailing. A man has to look away, the Lennox locals though cut some hard laughter from their cars. Some of them are up there with their sons, and they all chuckle with the good nature of slaughter-house hands patting Betty the milk cow as she is hot-prodded up the shute.

Another who will never come back.

There is no irony in being a competent kook, you just took the wrong turnoff today.

Byron is up the road.

This is relevant because next we do ‘ Getting out at The Pass without anybody seeing you.’ A shameful interlude.

{pic northern star}

8 Comments Post a comment
  1. Gold Pete… Gold.

    Been there at 6-8 and got towelled up more than once. It’s a merciless bunch of boulders.

    May 18, 2013
  2. Reblogged this on bybraithy and commented:
    The Ox. Big risks, bigger rewards.

    May 18, 2013
  3. all from the smoke of holy herbs braithy, and a little dr. john

    May 18, 2013
  4. Ballina emergency services perform excellent urchin removal services by doctors who surf.

    and it’s ‘free”!…

    as long as one avoids looking at their overly oppressive tax consequences.

    May 24, 2013
  5. here on the top side of things… the kook fest known as summer is about to kick the hell off.

    May 24, 2013
  6. take me back ..

    May 24, 2013
  7. After a long period in Nippon I ventured down to Lenny on a 4-5, occasional 6 foot day. Having grown up surfing boobs thru to centerside you would think I knew something about departing terra firma but not on this particular day.

    From where I parked the car at the end of the street where the concrete path now starts but wasn’t there then my blood started carbonating instantly. Long lines,aqua blue above and below the horizon line and compared to the goldy feck all oot thar.

    Pulled the unridden 6’6″(yep,twas those days – now ride a 5′ 8″ most of the time) Munga Barry shaped pinny out of its cocoon and found that I couldn’t do anything fast enough. Foam must have been coming out of my ears.

    Couldn’t wax the stick fast enough, couldn’t attach the leggy fast enough, couldn’t put me banana boat on fast enough, all while hypnotized by the scene on the point.

    Where the feck are those car keys? Found! Sweating like a bastard I sprint along the track.

    Unlike the story above, I didn’t watch anyone launch off the rocks. I just ran until I couldn’t stand it any more and had to get in the water. In retrospect, yep, there weren’t anybody lobbing in from where I chose to go in. What can you do when enveloped by the fug?

    So I clambered down over the rocks expecting a few cuts and bruises. Anything was ok as long as the new board was kept pristine.

    Timing, as they say is everything.

    So, there I was standing in knee deep water one minute, exposed slippery rocks the next and there was still what appeared to be meters of rocks to go. Yes, NOW started to think about the launch off the rocks! A tad fecking late! With the embarrassment of being stranded and the ever growing voice between my ears saying “you effing kook!”, I decided to take a punt.

    I know something about taking a punt having successfully traded commodities for years. But, on this occasion………………

    A huge swirl of froth and ocean approached. This was my escape from 8 -10 minutes of embarrassment being a shag on a rock. I made my leap and paddled like a bastard as the water drained away as quickly as it came. I felt the rear fin catch and thought bullshit! In the blink of an eye I found myself lying on my board angled beyond horizontal headed downwards to see a mountain of water doubling up just beyond the rocks a couple of meters in front of me. A big breath and a death grip on the rails of the soon to be mangled Munga board was all there was time for.

    From there I got pin-balled all along the point. I couple of times I surfaced to see people making their way over the rocks looking to get out. There isn’t much to remember except coming up one time to see a guy open his mouth in surprise and another time seeing my board on the rocks in front of me before the ocean decided to continue with massaging me along the rocks.

    Finally, I was in the corner and it was over.I had more cuts on me than you get for 50bucks at one of those cheap S&M joints. The board was like the surface of the moon in some places. But shame is a powerful motivator. I paddled out and managed to snag a few.

    Exit was via the beach!

    Amazing the number of people that thought I was a “he- man” ripper when they saw me bleeding like bastard with my smashed board on the walk back to the car. I was too embarrassed to open my gob. Have always paddled out from the beach since that day.

    February 16, 2017
  8. Shane Fisher #

    Great story man.

    February 18, 2017

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