‘Your Perfect Day’

“In this crowded world the surfer can still seek and find the perfect day, the perfect wave, and be alone with the surf and his thoughts.” John Severson, Editor of Surfer magazine 1960-65

You know the spot only too well, you’ve scratched for that horizon a thousand times in all sorts of inclement conditions. Much like the relationships we enjoy, surf spots have many moods and subtle tones, but over the years one spot will assume the status of a liquid comfort zone, a benchmark of sorts that we compare all other waves to. Some of us share it, others speak of it in cautious whispers, and some defend their tiny piece of liquid real estate with the skewed passion of a fascist thug. However, for most of us it’s a haven of sorts where you can be Jordy or Kelly for an hour or so, try that Terry Fitz speed stance on your retro single, or grab your Longboard, press repeat on the Beach Boys tune in your head and practice a drop knee turn in the two foot onshore dribble. Almost every surfer has his or her little nook, bay, cove, slab, reef, point or couple of metres of sand that fits like a well-worn pair of jeans. Regardless of what the hardcore crew, black shorts, pink shorts or cabals of sullen surfistas with uranium cell wetsuits and fibreglass toothpicks think, you keep paddling out, even when she’s looking a little bedraggled - sans make-up and with the false teeth in a bed-side glass - sometimes two foot onshore drivel is more than sufficient to satisfy your needs.

Perhaps your spot is not a great wave by bru crew standards, and real surfers last rode it on pine and balsa boards that were nailed together, but once in awhile it gets dusted by an offshore zephyr, the swell direction dials the right number, and as the tide pushes, peaks begin to caress those close-out banks like a long lost lover. Everything slips effortlessly into place – and why not throw in a glorious Turneresque sunset as the last piece of that 6000 piece puzzle you’ve been waiting all year to complete. The Fates don’t often allow a rendezvous between your spot and perfect conditions, but once or twice a year this brief but perfect union takes place. Even the “I ditched my homework, skipped work or missed the last root canal appointment” guilt-trip evaporates into the salty ether as you’re treated to a cover shot angle of an almond-shaped barrel unload on a sandbank that normally throws up a mutated double-up, or coughs up a ripple with no steam on the other 364 days of the year. But today everyone seems to be smiling, laughing, chatting, and even hooting – hey, it’s a sandy version of Will Smith’s ‘Summertime’. Even Bradley, the inked up psycho local, has declared a Christmas truce, and gives a wave or two to a gaggle of pimply bodyboarders.

Somewhere, someone is surfing their ‘Perfect Day’, marvelling at this synchrony of nature, friends and fibreglass, reveling in a few stolen hours from our regulated lives.
Most mortals wait 364 days of the year for an hour or three, when the conditions are just right for YOU. The point is, your ‘Perfect Day’ is like a fingerprint; it’s a unique mental composition that’s been doodled onto countless dog-eared schoolbooks, diaries and other papery scraps. For some, their perfect day might be a session of derailed 6-8 foot freight trains at an offshore slab, whilst my perfect day might be 3-4 foot A-Frames at a mellow beachie. That’s what I love about surfing, because however jaded it might sometimes appear through the lens of localism or commercialism, each one of us, regardless of our abilities can claim a couple of hours that came close to Investment Banker Dwayne’s umpteenth Mentawai boat trip.

We all have our ‘Perfect Day’ that remains indelibly imprinted on our memory, and yes, as the memories inevitably blur to fantasy, it’s still your ‘Perfect Day’, all at a fraction of the price of air-conditioned tropical perfection.