journal

February 14, 2013

The waves at Dbah are starting to look delicious. Breaking faster, some hollow sections even. Oh, maybe I’ll score my first barrel on Valentine’s Day! That would be romantic as fuck.

Finding my way to the lineup is child’s play. Staying focused and confident while out there, well that’s hardball.

“She’s trying to pick-up a local boy now is she? And what? Does she think she’s a tomboy or something?” Is the first thing I hear as I establish position. Then laughter.

I won’t even waste ink on his first remark. The second one brings a wicked smile to my face. It’s because I’m wearing a black beater (or singlet as they say in Oz). It was 5 bucks at Big W, it’s a comfy rashguard, and it’s about time someone brought the beater back. Come on crew! Regardless, I’m still sporting bikini bottoms so feel free to take a long, hard look as I paddle by. Fuckers.

I’m steamed. Absolutely heated. It turns me on when surfer boys say mean things in the water.

I spot a wave and charge, knowing all too well that the first one tends to deliver the harshest blow. It’s a pro wave. I’m a rookie.

In a breath, she sucks me in and under. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. The word CALM echoes through my mind. I rise to the surface howling with laughter. What fun! Let’s play.

I make my way back to the lineup, eyes already hunting for the next. FASTER my insides cry out. BE FASTER.

Tra la la there’s a lull. Then I spot a nice, manageable one and charge. Pop, drop, I’m up and riding. She breaks left, I giver, trying to pick-up speed. Close-out. Crash. Game over. Points for not eating shit.

En route back to the lineup, I get wonderfully wrecktified by the falls. Water drilled up the nose, she offs my bikini bottoms, and I sense fins dangerously close to my face. Mommy! I want my mommy.

But I also want one more wave… So I slip through the pocket, dragging my sweet wrecktified ass back out.

There’s no crying in surfing.

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