I just woke up. It’s 2018. How’d the fuck that happen? It seems like only weeks ago it was 2017. Time flies, money flies and blow flies, as the old man used to say, to my irritation. And now yours. Best get up then. The future is here.
I check the Instagram to make sure everyone is doing remarkable things. A racist guy I met in G-Land in 2009 is surfing perfect Cloudbreak. A best mate from third class is in Niseko shredding pow. An 18-year-old model I’ve never met has a new tattoo and two new breasts. John John has done a backflip in Canada. Hawaii has been missiled, but it’s okay and an ex-work colleague holiday hasn’t been affected and he loves his wife and kids more than life itself. Or even himself. Albee Layer says it’s crowded at Jaws. Kelly Slater is on drugs. Someone’s two-year-old kid did a poo in a pottie. An ex-girlfriend has chronic fatigue.
Best go for a surf then. I grab my new RipAQuikBong boardshorts, designed by Iggy Pop. Best 120 bucks I ever spent. How did I ever surf without water-repellent hydrophobic coating? I check the webcam that is located on a pole that is 400 metres from my house. It’s hard to say just how good, average or bad it is as the camera that only shows one-fifth of the beach. Alexa tells me it’s 5 feet at 9 seconds from 122 degrees, dropping to 4 at 9 by 121 in an hour. I could walk down and look at the surf of course, but this is the future.
This computer algorithm for predicted surf makes for a conundrum. Do I take the 5’2” 33 Litre epoxy quad bonzer, the 5’6”, 36.5 Litre designed 5’9” twin fin with dolphin stabilizer or the 8’10” singlefin with hardened downrails that I found at the tip. Then paid someone 600 to spray and another 500 to restore. Despite 1100 buck investment, I still haven’t found a way to turn it.
Need a coffee first though. Can’t surf or think straight without an almond milk double piccolo macchiato. Fair trade. My irritation for a caffeine hit. Best 15 bucks I spend each day. I place it on the table, wait for a set, frame the two lefthanders and nail the shot. One on the Leica, one on the 8S. Instagram the fuck out of it, watch the likes pile up as the caffeine buzz withdraws. For two seconds, my world is in perfect alignment. Maybe the future isn’t so bad after all? Then it isn’t.
It’s crowded. I mean less crowded than it was when I was growing up, but it’s a different crowded. People I don’t know. Full of kids whose parents who have recently moved to the area and have started surfing. Just like my parents did and when I started surfing. But it’s different. And crowded. Should have taken the 32 litre out too, the 36.5 is way too much. That’s the surf forecast fault. Idiots. Going to have to get a 34.5 litre. With bat tail. Bat tail would be perfect out here.
Lunch is paleo, except for the chip bun and custard tart. Old school. Check the email (ignore), FTSE1000 (up), Round 3 heats in Israel (but what about the Palestinians), Trump’s latest (shitholes), that model with the new breasts (still big), Filipe Toledo’s Hawaii clip (shithouse), Kelly Slater’s Waimea swallow tail (fat), tonight’s recipe (poke and quinoa) and the Nazare latest (big, fat,) Save Martha petition (didn’t sign).
Yoga, then cross fit. Hit the late, as forecast said a slight bump 45 minutes before dark. It was supposed to be back to 5.5 at 10, but more east at 94. Ended up exactly the same, just fatter with the higher tide. Catch the Sunset. Margaret River Shiraz in foreground. Nailed the shot. Whatsapp from Smithy re Bali or the Mentawais. Family or not. Boat vs land. Let’s book it! In August 2020. For sure this time. Game of Thrones (Illegal download), mint tea, 80 per cent chocolate. Insta hit. A kid’s birthday, a big wave in Hawaii, a flash of thigh. Check the forecast for tomorrow. 4 feet at 9 seconds at 75. Might take the 32.5 bonzer. Welcome to 2018. Welcome to the future.
