The sand presses under my feet as I hit the beach at the North end at my usual get-in, the Dunny Bowl rip. It marches out to sea and freight trains any willing surfer out the back. As the sun creeps slowly above the horizon and brightens the dark I can see the boys already bobbing up and down. Matty, Seano, Nick, Mick, Andy and Jim, they’re always out and I’m late. It’s become a contest, who can get in first and call himself king of the morning. I indulge then in the daily race as I do all I can to rise and get myself sorted and into the ocean as quickly as I can.
I take my time to pull my t-shirt on and feel the ocean lap at my ankles. I love this part as much as I love the waves that follow, the preparation, the excitement, the nerves. “Will it be good? Will the ocean bring forth the all time ride today?” It doesn’t matter if it’s 2 foot dribble or 12 foot howling winter lines running as far as the eye can see, the feeling is always the same. Maybe it’s true what they say? Only a surfer knows the fleeing.
A few cursory stretches and a final check of my board, fins and leggy, Blu-tak pushed into my left ear. It has been giving me hell all winter with the cold southerlies blowing to shore and straight into my unprotected ear and neck line above my wetty. The outside world and it’s noise close off to me as the sticky blue ball covers my ear and leaves me with only the sound of my breathing and my own thoughts. I love this part, the sound of nothing but my breath as I enter the water.
I can barely make out the hoots and hollers from Seano as I see him racing down the right hander re-forming on the shore break. His arms and legs akimbo as he chases the wall, perfectly matching the wide grin on his face.
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