Most people know buoyweather.com as the magical portal that allows them to gaze into the future and see what surf conditions will be like. No one can tell you exactly how it works. Some say the data is compiled by Mayan tribes that channel the spirits. Others say there is a monkey sitting at a typewriter, randomly pumping out figures. Both explanations could be true. The monkey would at least explain all those times you told the fellas at work that the next week was gonna pump; only to be dealt flatness and a soiled reputation.
For long periods at a time in my adolescents bouyweather.com fuelled everything. After being turned onto it through a friend at high school, every holiday or trip to the beach from then on would be religiously processed around its predictions. And of course it was a great way to pass the time in computer lab classes, to such an extent that the IT staff eventually caught on and banned the site from publicity.
As it still states on the site “Buoyweather is an incredibly powerful marine weather forecasting tool.” So powerful even, that with a single breath of life, it could become something much bigger, in a sense; larger than life itself.
This is a brief tale of the life and times of one particular buoyweather member/ friend of mine, and his login code. Some of you reading this may have already met this particular code. It was crudely named after a popular reference to fat girls at the time; ‘ur2fat2b18’ and the password was ‘Nugget’.
Being able to forecast swell and wind a week in advance (as opposed to the free, seven-day option) in this modern world is priceless. Well not exactly priceless, more like $US50 a year, which is still a lot of money. So after making up countless fake e-mail addresses to take advantage of the free trial offer, my friend did the only honourable thing. He forked out. And of course, confided in us (4 or 5 close mates) an oath of secrecy, thus forming what I like to refer to as ‘the circle of trust’. I’m not sure who was the first to crack, but it can’t have been long before the secret got out.
The good oil. Black gold. Texas tea. Before long it was being traded by surfers like black rhinoceros tusk in Internet cafes throughout the world. I think I first realized something was crooked when I went to log into a library computer in the middle of the desert in South Australia. And then again in a hostel in Puerto Escondido in Mexico and countless other times at home in NSW. It seemed that wherever there was a decent surf spot and an Internet café, ‘ur2ft2be18’ was there too. I also received reports of sightings around the globe from Hawaii, to Europe, Indonesia and South America. This guy was getting to do way more world-class surf destinations than me! I’m not sure how many people had the code but I wasn’t too concerned, as the tsunami of simultaneous log-ins didn’t seem to raise a brow of suspicion from anyone else.
There are no more than six degrees of separation between you and anyone else on the planet. This code was proving a link between myself and all sorts of random people from all corners of the earth. People I ran into that I had never met already had the code. It was even spotted canoodling with a bunch of celebrities.
However, earlier this year, the house of cards came tumbling down. A few credit card payment issues caused the authorities to put a sudden end to our little shenanigan. A dagger of division was driven into the heart of the surfing community. A world of clear decisions and weekly planning was thrown into anarchy. People were confused and angry. Not knowing which days to take off work. Not knowing where to turn. Some freaked out and forked out the $US50 for themselves. Most remained miserable and lost.
It was then that I realised just how far this baby had gone. My friends and I suddenly became the anonymous victims of countless phone calls and e-mails from disgruntled surfers. Each of them had their own sob story, ‘I’m stuck in Victoria and I need to know if the next swell is gonna hit, c’mon man I need this!’ People were losing it. They had been given the good ride and forced to go cold turkey. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end, and there was nothing we could do. Besides, by that stage we all had our own buoyweather.com addictions to take care of.
In the end, this inanimate little username and its password buddy had become a signature stamp of the traveling surfer in Internet cafes worldwide. More than that, our code had been given a life of his own. It’s pretty cool that in two years, he had accomplished more travel to more world-class surf spots than most could wish for in a lifetime. He’d forged friendships with countless surfers throughout the globe, what started as a tiny circle of trust, no more than five people had become a massive global community. For me, ‘ur2fat2b18’ became an underground symbol of unity and strength within surfing. So to all those who were guardians of the code, even those who passed the vibe on, thank you.
Now does anyone know someone with a new code? C’mon man, I need this.
