Timing.
By Dan Dobbin.
Alarm alarming.
Swimming back to consciousness from the depths of dozing.
Sleep was sparodic and shallow. Anticipation for the coming day and the rising swell kept the brainwaves slowly humming away all night, making proper restful sleep unattainable.
The morning result; feeling like shit.
Still, up and into it, there’s waves to be had.
Quick socials scroll to get the brain active and try to fight off that groggy feeling, and let the melatonin drain from the synapses.
Righto, up.
Splash of the face, morning ablutions.
Into the garage.Grab some boardies. What’s the water temp like again? Better get a vest.
What board to ride? Something straight and stiff, or an old faithful with just the right amount of flex worked in. Stand and consider. Pros and cons. Time ticking. Better move if your going to get the tide. Take both.
Head for the door. Better get a springy too, just in case. The northerly has been blowing and that upwelling gets stupidly cold.
Is there a towel in the car? Get another out of the cupboard. Nothing worse than coming up short in the drying and changing implement stakes.
Kinda hungry. Need a banana to eat on the way. And some water.
Right. Into the car, boards in. Gear in.
Cue up a podcast to listen to on the drive down. Which one? Scroll, scroll, scroll. Okay, good to go.
It’s foggy and there’s Roo’s round, so keep it cautious. Couple of K’s under the speed limit.
Weave, turn, loop, indicate, drive, swerve, drive, indicate, turn.
Almost there.
Cyclists. Come on. Move you deadshits.
Home straight. Park, out, grab old faithful, load up gear, walk the track.
Onto the headland.
Shit, swell looks slow. Stand and stare. Contemplate. Minutes tick past. Fuck it, didn’t get up early for nothing.
Down to the rocks, towel on, shorts off, boardies on. Quick lather of sunscreen. Grab the fins and head for the jump rock as a bomb approaches.
Heaving onto the reef, it twists, spews and spits.
Get fucked.
A minute earlier and you’re in position to have made it yours.
Dickhead.
