surfers are a primitive race
Surfing in the 50's and 60's was a fraught business
a bloke has to grow up sometime
This is the name of a show on TV tonight. Channel something or other, prime time. Two men in the bar of the Ballina Slipway watching, Jack and Les. Trawlermen. Hard nuts. Rum drinkers. 200kg of prawns inside the local co-op freezer all paid up in full. Crew happy. Back out there in the morning, 4am. Engine spewing carbon monoxide, cables full of rust, boat leaking black oil like an old man with prostrate, everyone thieving on the grounds, prawns full of Richmond River mud, wives doing their housekeeping cold at the RSL, bank muscling in on the home mortgage, sons on the hydro, more demerits than Einstein’s IQ, twenty-five letters from the tax man unopened, credit card burnt, synoptic full of low-pressure onions, the bar breaking at fifteen feet and an ocean that doesn’t love you anymore.
‘Ten? Says Les, ‘fuckers never saw the iceberg, so what are the other nine?’