the avalon nuggets
peace on earth
Posts tagged ‘Avalon’
May 18
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larry’s surf report – 7 feb 2003
a backwater of bluebottles, stagnant piss and unwashed backpackers
the north avalon conspiracy
Like most surfers Larry takes an empty carpark score anytime he gets handed one
this is how some sessions begin in the carpark
Fragile boards are destroyed in an instant. Some surfers shred all the skin off their hands as they grab at anything that might steady their uncontrolled tumbling amongst the sharp edged stones.
This is The Fear.
the manoeuvre that has no name.
With The Manoeuvre it's either the best of times or the worst of times.
how to dominate in the surf, just naturally
men who have been world champions walk the streets; they can be trailed through woolworths, their trolleys eyed.
longboarders, how to deal with them one at a time. with prejudice.
Once longboarders were like us; savage and uncompromising, greedy and slit-eyed, cold-blooded and cunning. Handsome, virile and able to leap tall buildings with a single stride.
there is no peace
He comes and goes through the unkempt gardens and weeds, slipping through the back door like a thief - sometimes his mother calls for him.
the sydney fishmarkets and tantric sex
What may be construed as sex in public places may be something else entirely.
pan-fried crumbed snapper with anchovies.
- and there .. ! The distant white trail of a surfer gliding down the black face of the fourth wave. The biggest of the set.
cracker’s christmas – trapped in a surf shop
‘ You wanta EXPLAIN,’ exasperates Thommo, ‘ how a man with forty years of surfing this city from Cronulla to the Box has to deal with a hundred racks of dresses and bikinis and every fucken thing under the sun but fucken BOARDSHORTS?‘
reuben and daphne
The wetsuit zipper strap didn’t survive Reuben’s sharp tug and it came away like a piece of cotton –
a summer story
Right now Doug decides to pull back the dressing on his ulcer for a looksee, and the swollen wound swallows half his hand before some babe wearing a black lace hanky strolls past, all silky wobble and perve. We observe the moment with a tranquil and hormonal grief as Ken retires into the dank shadows for another piss. Five an hour is the usual but who’s counting.
cliques, the bondi variety
These lads are known to meet from time to time around one of the tables of the Great Northern in Byron Bay with their part Filipina grandchildren squabbling around underfoot, and they mutter and grumble over their drinks about typhoons and squalls, and Catholic wives.
petebowes.com 