Speaking in Tongues

Far from the Maddening SUPers?

2012-02-14T03:11:00.001-08:00

As predicted, the SUP (Stand Up Paddleboard) was going to become popular, über popular. Spend a Sunday morning at the backline of Muizenberg Corner and you'll witness the sort of marine mayhem best left to a Sponge Bob Squarepants cartoon.

Besides a plethora of other watercraft in use or misuse, the SUP phenomenon is something of a focal point for a number of reasons. Besides the sheer scale of the craft, the whole act of SUPing draws unnecessary attention to itself because it's fundamentally ungraceful when compared to other “surfing” activities. Perhaps it’s due to the proliferation of neophyte SUPers at spots like the Berg; experts do look somewhat less cumbersome. For me, there's the endless ungainly shovelling married to that jittery muscled pose best suited to tightrope artists, and let's not venture near the murky territory of SUPing apparel! SUPers are undoubtedly made of ”The Right Stuff” - they have little need for neoprene the world over. Whether they are waddling between North Sea ice flows or lolling about at some Balinese dreamscape, SUPers only require baggies and a rashie. These hardy fashionistas are redefining surf fashion; I couldn’t help notice a particularly fashion conscious gondolier donning what appeared to be a pair of undersized Calvin Klein briefs with an Hawaiian floral print. There’s no refuting these guys (and gals) are sculpted of the same stuff as their carbon fibre oars (sorry, "paddles") which bear an uncanny resemblance to Maori traditional weapons, but I digress!

SUPs look and act like nuclear aircraft carriers; I wouldn't be surprised to see an F-18 on short finals having mistaken one for the USS Nimitz. My issue is that they demand respect without earning respect, particularly at a surfing nursery such as Muizenberg. Congregants tend huddle beyond the break, which is great, and compose an almost picturesque tableau against the rising sun over False Bay, but it's when the sets arrive that all goes awry.

SUPers tend to ignore the direction of a breaking wave; perhaps it's once again the sheer scale and easy paddle-in of their Arthurian steeds that preclude them from committing to ride only left or right across the face of the wave. I spent some time watching them weave a tapestry of mayhem through all the other watercraft with little or no concern for anyone but themselves and their preppy SUPing spouses. They scoop left, then shovel right, feint, grunt and then fade into something that looks like a 50s drop-knee cutback married to a bout of constipation, followed by another directional switch with no regard for the host of other water users, most of which are now fossilised by the fear of being mowed down.

Most SUPP rides end with an almost palpable air of supreme accomplishment followed by a flurry of digging to make it back to the take off zone somewhere near the Kalk Bay harbour! It's not so much the sport of SUPing itself, each to their own, but rather their insistence on governing an already excessively congested line-up with no concern for those further down the take-off chain! It's pointless competing with a SUP in full oar swinging commitment down the line, unless of course you have some form of nuclear deterrent or an afterburner!

What constantly puzzles me, besides the bewildering pre-SUP yoga routines in the inter-tidal zone, is that they seem to be sub-consciously drawn to the busiest areas of the line-up, and then waddle on the outside, monopolising the break as if they are of Royal Hawaiian descent. It's all a tad confusing to an average aging surfer like me, but surely a demarcated zone at certain beaches for these behemoths would go a long way to alleviate unnecessary tension, that inevitable lawsuit or serious injury. Perhaps, in the case of Muizenberg their reluctance to scoop further down the beach is dictated by real practicalities.

Yes, lugging a SUPP 300 metres down Muizenberg beach would be punishment enough for their sins, but the upside but would allow SUP jockeys to show off the benefits of their impressively toned core muscles. The other obvious issue is of course sharks, but given the iniquitous price of their gondolas and the tangle of obligatory peripheral devices, a Sharkshield would be de rigueur, and preclude the need for any Sharpspotters in a SUPers only zone. Perhaps a daisy chain of Sharkshield donning SUPPer's could offer similar protection as shark nets, by offering a compromise of sorts, and forming a protective shield for all other water users. This symbiotic solution would mean that SUPers could remain in the normal surfing area providing they don a Sharkshield and practice a modicum of surfing etiquette.

Paddles in sky stuff no doubt! Unless of course someone is smeared into the pelagic zone and seriously injured, the Boswell Wilke SUP circus will grow in popularity. Yes, SUPing is here to stay, it’s the new-Golf, now with oars and a lifetime subscription to Men's Health or GQ.

Come on guys, let’s set up some protocols so everyone, can enjoy the ocean because I’d like to think that FUN and not core muscle conditioning is the real reason for getting your sinuses flushed every weekend!

“What the hell is going on False Bay?”

2011-10-10T00:19:00.000-07:00

“What the hell is going on False Bay?”

First it was whale watching; with clutches of binoculared cetacean lovers backing up the traffic on Boyes Drive, waxing lyrical over blubber and spyhopping. Now it’s Shark spotting, complete with Smartphones, HD YouTube video feeds and webcams mere metres from the shoreline. I’m watching this feeding frenzy of a digital kind in a state of utter confusion. You might ask why; well I’m perplexed that in a mere 10 years the number of shark encounters in False Bay has increased with such alarming regularity.

Despite the impeccable scientific method of local Shark fundi Alison Kock, I am not convinced that the recent behaviour of our cartilaginous friends is quite normal, and no cause for concern. We’ve all heard those Shark attack stats that cite lightning strikes, mangled car wrecks and malevolent toasters, and those territorial tales of becoming a link in the marine food chain every time we paddle out. As surfers, these cautionary notes have been long since filed and entered into the psyche of the sport.

I’ve spent the past 30 years in the surf zone of False Bay, surfing , paddling, or bobbing about at the backline like a human crouton. I’ve experienced a countless variety of conditions from howling North West gales, pea soup South East mush burgers to those sublime kelp glass days that are few and far between. From my 80s heydays of mid-winter Cemetery and the Berg, to classic cover-ups at Dangers and mutated wedges at Clovelly. Add to that the rare days when Fish Hoek or spots like Glencairn Reef would come to life, yet I have never seen a shark, nor have the many friends I have surfed, paddled, skurfed or fished with.

I’m utterly mystified by this and everyone from Sharkspotters to experts seem to be regurgitating the same processed response; that the increased activity is part of the natural predatory behavior of Carcharodon carcharias. My reply has become increasingly skeptical when I hear, “Hey guys, it’s normal for this time of the year” or “Great Whites have been doing just this for millennia”. Well, if that’s the case where have all the sharks been on the countless clear days that I have surfed these very spots, or sat contemplating my existence while watching the ocean from Boyes Drive? I consider myself a fairly observant and situationally aware individual, so surely I would have encountered, or at least observed a Great White from afar by now? Was I just blissfully unaware of my precarious predicament, or was it mere benevolence on the part of my maker?

I’m bewildered and perplexed by the benign response of everyone. All this scientific evidence just doesn’t add up. What has transpired in the past decade to change the status quo of the 70s, 80s and 90s? Are we paying for the sins of our fathers? Is this a precursor to a complete collapse of the marine ecosystem, a harbinger of things to come, where huge schools of Snoek “go Pirhana” on grannies taking a dip in ankle deep water?

Something or someone has pulled the trigger, but no seems to be “stepping up to the plate” to deal with this issue head on. The Sharkspotting programme has been a massive success and is to be lauded and supported. They should be receiving huge amounts from that fiendishly subtle taxation system on the poor called the National Lottery. There’s no doubt that the Sharkspotting programme has saved countless lives, but in essence they are merely monitoring the symptoms of a bigger issue, and let’s be honest, the merest puff of a Southerly or South Easter puts a huge dent in their efficacy.

So here’s a list of possible causes or triggers:
- The proliferation of Shark Cage Diving outfits and Shark related eco-tourism.
- The protection of Great White Sharks by Law
- The depletion of fish stocks in False Bay
- The increase of recreational water users
- An increase or decrease of the Cape Fur Seal population in False Bay
- An increase in the number of Great White Sharks
- Changes in the predatory territories

To follow, here’s a spine-chilling list of attacks complied by Dave Elsworth of Kommetjie in a recent letter to the Cape Times. Take note of the dates!

2002 – Paul Major, surfski, Sunnycove
2004 – JP Andrew, surfing, Muizenberg Corner
2004 – Tyna Webb, swimming, Fish Hoek (Sunnycove side of the beach)
2005 – Trevor Wright, surfski, Sunnycove
2006 – Lyle Maasdorp, surfski, Sunnycove
2006 – Achmat Hassiem, swimming, Muizenberg (rivermouth area)
2006 – Richard Whitaker, surfing, Danger Beach
2010 – Lloyd Skinner, swimming, Fish Hoek (Sunnycove side of the beach)
2011 – Michael Cohen, swimming, Clovelly

I’m no Marine Biologist, Animal Behaviourist or Shark expert but in my opinion it’s time to tackle this issue in another manner. And no, I’m not talking shotguns, gaffs, and nets either. The waters of False Bay is the lifeblood of surf schools, surf shops, paddlers, surfers, kiters, divers, swimmers, Lifesaving competitions and many other recreational activities. What are viable alternatives in the interest of co-existence? Stay out of the water, hell no! What about Sharkshields? Yes, Sharkshields are very effective but prohibitively expensive for most although I do believe a possible solution could well stem from a similar form of technology. We all need to put our heads together, and a find workable solution – SA style!

For now the question remains; “What the hell is going on False Bay?”, and at the very least there’s a movie lurking beneath the surface of all this mayhem.

At the Back

2011-04-28T03:06:00.000-07:00

At the back every salty bead culminates in
the hollow slap of board against water,
and the lesser tap of polyurethane against fibreglass.

My leash is suspended,
in the last gun metal hours of daylight,
tethering leg and thoughts to one final wave,
before the scratch of each stroke grows to an ache
and joints seize like a wasted engine.

Every molecule is laced by the offshore,
even my thoughts of you at the evening stove,
are soaked by the darkest of blues at the back.

Beta Beach, Bakoven

2011-04-28T03:05:00.002-07:00

Placed between the last fragments of day and shadow
are minutes marked by the exhaling
of a final breath of light,
weighted at the edges
by atoms of gold and copper
that infuse the horizon
to a shiver of orange and blue.

Detail melts to animated silhouettes of black card,
cormorants, dogs and flirting couples
joined to sand and rock
in a ballet of unfathomable colour.

West Coast Surf

2011-04-28T03:05:00.001-07:00

Slug slow tendrils
of mist cancel out the peaks,
footprints crumble from
the tent with it’s rummage
of sleeping bags and surfing mags.

The car is spread in deltas of dew,
stranded at that point
where bush becomes beach.
The incongruous slam of a door
followed by the clearing of a throat -
it scares the gulls.

Beyond the muslin,
the sea breaths in metronomic crashes,
exhaling into the immensity,
reminding us why we are here,
toes curled in sand cold as crushed glass,
anticipating those first needles of water,
seeking out the gaps between skin and neoprene.

A pair of Oyster Catchers dash for cover,
as the shorebreak detonates in a blast of sand and shell,
larger patches of water now float in the fog,
and the sun has become a yellow button in the east,
burning the bite away.

We shake the night out of our wetsuits,
and unsheath the boards,
then the frenzied flap and one-footed tug of rubber
on a damp towel in the sand.

Laughter, happy curses and running headlong into
a wall of West Coast mist.

Tube

2011-04-28T03:02:00.000-07:00

So elusive
you’ve become Heroin for some,
These days it’s become easy to avoid
my average bones and strung muscles,
me bobbing, taking water
like a holed bath toy,
above this vast pitch of dusted green.

Swells graze acned reefs of red-bait,
or mow head-on into sandbanks,
infused with littoral energy,
born in a pile-up of isobars
in the Roaring Forties.

Soaring through mercury,
fused to fibreglass by wax
crouched as fingertips taste speed,
All is quiet as a lake for Icarus at sea,
and then the ocean folds into a blur of spray,
and she holds you like a lover,
inside a mosaic of ecstasy,
breathless,
as the world dims to an almond.

Come June
and cold fronts that look like coils of razor wire,
Conrad would have paddled out too,
forsaking Lord Jim and Nostromo
for these few fractions in the tube.

Grey Suits & Shields.

2010-09-20T23:59:00.000-07:00

In the abyss, fathoms deep with buck-eyed teeth and cartilaginous stealth they lurk. Loitering around the dog-eared corners of our nightmares are perfect instruments of submarine terrorism. Forget Nile crocs the size of Land Cruisers, or grumpy Puff Adders infused with large doses of cytotoxic inertia. We surfers are hardwired to relegate all other fatal mishaps to that of a mozzie bite when encountering a very large fish of the order Selachii.

Sharks have been around for a long time, most likely somewhere in the region of 450 million years. Evolution gave up fine-tuning their hydrodynamic efficiency some 100 million years ago, and in turn instilled in ocean going humans a primal fear that swamps all rational thought with the merest flicker of movement beneath the late afternoon glass. Even the Great White’s latin name, “Carcharodon carcharias” cuts through modern English like a rusty razorblade.

We suppress our fears, taking comfort in the reams of musty stats that declare the chances of perishing in an aviation disaster far more likely than becoming a human sushi roll at some perfecto point or suburban surfing nursery. Tabloid headlines and fear mongering are best ignored. Somehow fear always becomes that missing jigsaw piece, even when paddling out at a postcard beachie in the middle of summer on a pushing tide? Glassy A-Frames perfumed by sunscreen and wax in the mid-morning offshore are simply too idyllic for a fishy bogeyman. Cousin Johnny and the underwater Mafioso don’t exist unless you add them as sinister variables to your sublime equation. Then factor in treknet fisherman, shark cage operators or river mouths spewing muddy human detritus and your summery dream will end in one merciless blur of spray and thrashing, turning the sea to Pinotage and death.

Marine biologists, shark aficionados, crackpot journos and surfers all have their infallible opinions, stoking the fear in some cases with great glee. Shark attacks sell newspapers; humans feast on fear, gorging themselves like a crazed cabal of Blue Pointers. 100 million sharks are “harvested” annually in comparison to approximately 10 human fatalities. Even when faced with these incongruous numbers, deep within mankind’s genetic encoding there’s an instinctual fear that’s not going to capitulate to rational thought anytime soon.

Nonetheless it’s somewhat satisfying knowing there’s an equaliser patrolling our watery playground, an animal of almost mythic proportions that can shove us humans a good few links down the corroded food chain. No amount of surfista bravado or inked-up testosterone can square up to “Carcharodon carcharias”. I’d love to see a local bully “take it to the beach” with a hungry Raggie or tetchy Zambezi. It’s a shame a shark’s “Ampullae of Lorenzini” (sensory receptors) cannot differentiate between decent folk and 1st grade dipsticks.

So how can we as surfers protect ourselves from ending up as a briny crouton? “Nuke-em-good” knee-jerk reactions including shark nets, shotguns, spear guns and diving knives are a medieval waste of time. However, some time back the Natal Sharks board developed a device that’s best described as battery operated “Kryptonite” for sharks. It would eventually evolve into a commercially viable Australian product known as the Shark Shield™. The electrical impulse emitted by the device is effective up to 6m, and acts on the Ampullae of Lorenzini located on the snout of a predator shark. When a shark nears the electric field of a Shark Shield it experiences extreme discomfort and involuntary muscle spasms, immediately dissuading the fish from any further investigation.

New surfing vistas are now opening up for those surfers broad-minded enough to don a Shark Shield and paddle out with peace of mind. However, surfers are at times a narrow-minded tribe, perhaps blinkered to common sense by excessive doses of sunlight dancing on a dappled ocean. Ironically, these very surfers are convinced that they are beacons of free-thought and open mindedness, yet when it comes to embracing a scientifically proven device that deters our grey-suited friends, almost 90% of surfers I’ve chatted to cave into bullish conservativism. They suddenly squint into the middle distance and with all the wisdom of an Oxford don revert to urban myths about Shark Shields attracting ravenous schools of man-eaters. The wheel barrow loads of bullshit that spews forth from these armchair experts, and in some cases “highly respected” surfers, is on par with telly evangelists, African dictators and The Spanish Inquisition.

Yarns of Great Whites gulping down Shark Shields like jelly tots, and becoming “immune” to the device’s three-dimensional electrical impulse are no more than self-deception and technophobia in the wake of a revolutionary solution. Another favourite predestination of surfers is, “if it’s my time to go, then so be it”. I wonder if one of these dream-catching “fatalists” would saunter unprotected through the Kruger National Park with as much reckless abandon? Surfers reacted in much the same way to the invention of “gookcord”, leg rope or leash, but it turned out to be an indispensable surfing accessory in the long term.

As for the Shark Shield there’s no denying it’s an expensive piece of kit, but so were Flat screen TVs when they first flickered onto the market. If you surf a “sharky” spot, a fully charged device will give you at the very least, 4 to 5 hours of peace of mind. I’ve paddled out at a number of spots wearing my Shark Shield only to be scoffed at, or simply given a side-ways glance dripping with disdain and betrayal. Do I care; unequivocally not? It takes a couple of sessions to get used to the device, but it won’t affect your overall freedom in the water. Most detractors often bemoan the device as bulky and cumbersome, but then again they also like to think their surfing is on par with Mick or Kelly.

Yes, a Shark Shield is a man-made device and prone to possible malfunction from excessive abuse. If you don’t turn the device on it will not work, and more importantly, it needs to be rinsed-off and re-charged after every session. Perhaps that’s a bit too much to ask for some, considering the mountains of neoprene involved in ongoing micro-biological experiments in the back of bakkies and boots across the land.

Shark Shields come in two distinct types. One version allows for the battery pack to be fitted, by means of a base-plate to the tail of your board. The other type is secured to your ankle much like a leash. In both cases the electrode can double as a leash.

Interestingly enough, competitive surfers were protected by three battery operated Shark Shield devices attached to buoys at the backline of Nahoon Reef during the Mr Price Open surfing championships in 2009. Lifeguards merely replaced the Shark Shield batteries every four hours offering protection for surfers during the event. Global Surf News even reported that Surfing South Africa (SSA) was considering using Shark Shields at other surfing competitions in the future. It’s a labour intensive and expensive undertaking, but these tentative steps offer a life-saving solution that can be streamlined in the future.

Shark Shields are used by the Australian Special Forces, South African Navy, US Coast Guard and is also approved by NATO. I’ve watched countless videos online, chatted to commercial divers who swear by it and read detailed reports on the efficacy of the device. For me, it’s about peace of mind, and it happens to comes in the form of a Shark Shield when I paddle out at a high risk spot. As for the drive in my ’94 Toyota Corolla to my sharky bay, well that’s another story…

A Soundtrack for the Ride - Surfing & Music

2010-06-09T00:35:00.001-07:00

“The hills are alive with the sound of music,
With songs they have sung for a thousand years.
The hills fill my heart with the sound of music.
My heart wants to sing every song it hears.”
The Sound of Music - 1965

You’ve reached the backline, your arms feel like linguini and your brain is looping a tune that refuses to budge. Again and again the chorus dances circles around that numb spot in your head. Bumps on the horizon hit the pause button, bringing a brief respite, but it’s not long before the bass line starts to throb, throwing jabs and uppercuts at 160 beats per minute against your cranium. Your ice-cream headache pounds in 2/4 time. You should have worn a hood, but that thought cross-fades into the ether as a perfect left wails your name to the strains of “that song” wedged between your Frontal and Parietal lobes.

Old Davy Jones has been rocking, jiving, rapping, swinging and getting jiggy to every style of music known to man and the odd alien visitor since humans first took to riding waves? The ocean is imbued with a natural sense of rhythm, and our tunes are a mere embellishment.

Half the fun of surfing is getting there, and what would our path to the beach be without a soundtrack? Music fuels our passion, anticipation and imagination, creating dreamscapes where we pull off impossible moves backed by a ditty of our choice. Our musical fingerprints are evident in the lines we draw or sometimes smudge across the waves we ride. Surfing and music are inextricable; from strumming ukuleles to spinning discs, it was love at first sight for surfers and music.

Our sport has attracted all sorts of musical charlatans and wannabe rockers, including some of the most cacophonous cowboys and tepid songsters imaginable. Perhaps the 90s and a 21st century groundswell of political correctness are to blame for the current dearth. Musical integrity spiralled out of control in the 90s into a yawing blur of white noise. Watch a 90s VHS surf movie and prepare for an aural epiphany of the worst kind. Embarrassing stuff, that’s best left to gather dust in a very dark corner next to that crystallised tub of neon zinc.

Surfing royalty, including style maestro Tom Curren and übermensch King Kelly have pottered about the hallowed halls rock stardom. His HRH Kelly teamed up with Pearl Jam frontman Eddie Vedder for a quid pro quo of skills. Curren’s “Light Becomes a Fire” and “Ocean Wide” are worth a listen; including eclectic hints of Country music and shades of John Mayer.

However, from here on a precipitous downhill awaits. Retro single fins, an unkempt Donovan Frankenreiter, Brushfire records and the saturated hues of 16mm analogue film presented surfers with the musical equivalent of the sedative benzodiazepine; Jack Johnson. It escapes me how Jackie boy, a respected North Shore surfer, conquered the genre and reduced the irreverent energy of surf music to a formulaic fireside warble.

Clearly Jack has applied the “safety through repetition” rule to his compositions providing his fan base with the essence of predictability. A post-pubescent music critic recently likened one of Captain Jack’s “variations of a theme” to a seminal moment in 20th century popular music, The Beach Boys “Pet Sounds” album. Sorry bru, but that’s like comparing a rubbery jelly baby to a sumptuous Chocolate Mousse.

If you’re a die-hard Jack fan give Israel Kamakawiwo a listen. Not unlike Jack, he strummed his way from the islands and is the unchallenged Eddie Van Halen of ukuleles. Sadly, Israel passed away in 1997 but his interpretation of “Somewhere of the Rainbow” is an unassuming classic.

Yes, post-surf fireside troubadours have their place, but those sensitive strummers, and there are legions of them out there, are galaxies apart from the raw vigour of a band like Midnight Oil. Peter Garrett and the Oils hailed from Sydney, and performed for the local surf community at Narrabeen and the Bondi Lifesaver Club. They were uncompromising, took no prisoners and spoke the same language as surfers. They gave us classics such as "Blue Sky Mine", “The Dead Heart” and “US Forces”. With the exception of the Prodigy, I’ve never experienced a more energetic live performance that captured surfing’s zeitgeist so aptly.

But therein lies the beauty of music and surfing; each to his own. Pinning a particular genre or style of music to surfing is absurd. Wave riding is far too mercurial an activity to be pigeonholed, and what would surfing be without the reverb of Dub, or the chainsaw scream of a classic Metal solo? Even Rap has its place; LL Cool J doesn’t surf but I can’t help imagine him tearing into the New Pier bowl, and perhaps a fisherman or two.

However, much like going SUPPING in a speedo, a few cautionary notes are in order. Avoid the pompous electro musings of Radiohead or bleating “bubblegum in your hair” sounds of the Jonas Brothers or Justin Bieber. Listening to “musicians” of their ilk will lead to inevitable stylistic disaster in the water.

Yet surfers will continue to caress long point waves to the sublime art of Mozart, and tear onshore bowls apart to the dissonant genius of the Aphix Twins. From duct-taped Kombis swaying to a stretched cassette recording of LKJ’s “Forces of Victory” to Landcruisers with Blu-Ray players popping the latest bubblegum, it’s all about those spaces in between the notes and how they affect you; just you.

Yes, the hills are alive with the Sound of Music, but I somehow doubt you’ll be encountering Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp brood at the backline anytime soon. Now go surf!

Photoshop Turns 20

2010-04-30T23:59:00.000-07:00

Photoshop was conceived by the brothers, Thomas (a student) and John Knoll (an Industrial Light and Magic employee) in 1987 as part of a PhD thesis at the University of Michigan examining the processing of digital images. The first workable version of their project was named ImagePro (1988), before assuming the now ubiquitous title of Photoshop in 1989. Its humble commercial origins can be traced back to Barneyscan, a scanner manufacturer, which bundled the first 200 copies of Photoshop with one of their slide scanners. Adobe’s interest and subsequent purchase of the Knoll brothers’ dainty image editor resulted in the first incarnation of the application being released on the 10th of February 1990, a whole two decades ago.

Photoshop has grown into a colossus in the image editing landscape, cutting a swath through the many pretenders to the throne. Its native file format, the .PSD has become immortal; and the word “Photoshop” has entered the lexicon of contemporary language. “Shopping” or “to shop” has taken on a new meaning for 21st century digeratti. Photoshop 1.0 was a rudimentary digital darkroom but everything changed at a fundamental level with the introduction of Layers in Photoshop 3.0 (1994). The ability to create complex non-destructive artworks has been a hallmark of the application. It has changed the way creatives think, interact and create. In fact, one might argue that Layers single-handedly transformed the creative process at a conceptual and functional level, allowing for a kaleidoscope of solutions with minimal effort.

Photoshop 5.0 presented us with colour management, editable type, the ‘History Palette” and the mostly useless ImageReady. Once ImageReady had withered, Adobe acknowledged the World Wide Web ‘from within’ with its “Save for Web” feature in version 5.5. ‘Shoppers’ were delighted, and the new millennium release of version 6.0 marked the apogee of Photoshop. One question remains; have the subsequent additions, application enhancements and integration with other family members really changed the way we work? Certainly, but only to within a pixel’s width of the average users needs. Photoshop’s CS incarnations are slick, highly sophisticated and enjoy productive conversations with siblings, but most of us would be satisfied with version 6.0’s suite of features.

However, Photoshop has such an all encompassing cultish presence within creative territories that we all feel inextricably seduced by the need to embrace future developments, despite having no real requirement for many of the shiny new tools that glitter by the light of our LCDs. Competitors have employed excellent reconnaissance and have had many years to draw on a wealth of tried and tested Photoshop innovations. Interestingly, Photoshop presently faces increased pressure on both flanks, including usurpers from within such as the budget priced Photoshop Elements, and more user specific solutions such as Adobe Photoshop Lightroom.

64-Bit support and seamless Creative Suite integration are Adobe’s more recent gifts to the faithful, but version centric Camera Raw support is unforgivable. CS5 has just been launched and it will be a huge success. Yes, it will undoubtedly converse effortlessly with other Adobe apps and include a number of noteworthy but ultimately unnecessary enhancements. Photoshop is here to stay; but it’s no longer the passionate revolutionary of yore, but a somewhat more mature and sedate individual. An awesome individual nonetheless!

Supersize my Waves!

2010-04-22T05:59:00.000-07:00

Ah, those men who ride mountains, those intrepid neoprened warriors on fibreglass steeds, slaying 50 foot dragons that breathe salty mist and foamy death.

Ah, those merry few, that 'Band of Brothers' who epitomise the essence of a waterman's courage (served with a large dollop of insanity).

Words tend to wither when attempting to fathom those brave souls who paddle or are slingshot into tempestuous behemoths of unimaginable beauty and terror. Is big wave surfing a war by other means? Is it post-modern gladiatorial combat? Is it a way for iPad man to 'count coup' like the Plains Indians of North America did by specific acts of laudable bravery in battle?

There's no doubt that 21st century big wave surfing has changed the psyche of wave-riding. It has raised the bar to an insurmountable height for the average surfer. Just consider the obscene amounts of epinephrine that are released when those hell-men make the drop, or are caught inside. It's a parallel universe that few experience, and perhaps that's why we all secretly covet the "Way of the Big Wave Warrior".

Nonetheless, what irks me about the whole adventure is the media's obsession with big wave surfing to the point of asphyxiation. Sadly, articles about Johnny 'Big Wave' Utah scoring 250 feet waves at some mysto slab 122 and a quarter nautical miles off the coast has become passé; almost yawn-inducing. Yes, I can see puffs of flak ahead and tracer arcing towards my argument, but bear with me. I thumbed through a recent surf magazine only to be rag-dolled into my own dark depths by a clean-up procession of big wave articles. In isolation, they would have made for an otherwise pleasing afternoon skim. I could have got my breathe back. But all of them? Gasp.

Perhaps I read too many surf magazines, but I've reached saturation point when it comes to yarns about big wave expeditions, 30 second hold-downs and 146 hour swell-chasing flights. Sometimes even the Herculean exploits of über-surfers can be reduced to 2 foot onshore slop by excessive exposure. Those jaw-dropping photos, lovingly sharpened and stylishly cross-processed don't even raise a jaded eyebrow from me any more. I've hit my big wave article critical mass.
Image
About to discover his own personal point of asphyxiation. Johnny 'Big Wave' Utah in a place the media loves. Wipeout. Photo: Pierre Marqua

Whatever happened to Joe Average, the weekend warrior whose arms turn to banana flavoured jelly when a solid six foot set blots out the horizon? No doubt he's been relegated to the tepid shallows of local news columns and reader photo contests. Godzilla Waves equal big sales, and who am I to argue the merits of more website hits or better magazine sales?

It's just that the glut of big wave chronicles has become boring. I'm not interested in inked up Bra Boys air-dropping down an almost vertical staircase of water over a dry reef. Damn YouTube too; one can only watch so many hapless stick people turned to chum on a 40 foot close-out.

Having said that, there's no denying the almost indescribable feats of those watermen who ride mountain ranges. Laird Hamilton, Twiggy Baker and the rest of the big wave mob are up there surfing the jet stream with the likes of Federer, Slater and Els (sorry Tiger).

Perhaps my age has forced me slip behind the dreams and aspirations of the ‘Nu Skool’, and lose track of surfing's zeitgeist. The 'supersize' generation simply wants to gorge themselves on bigger waves, bigger moves, and bigger airs. Methinks it's time to cancel my magazine subscriptions and spend a lazy Sunday afternoon ambling through a dusty stack of surfing mags from the 70s and 80s.

I never thought I'd ever long for the allure of mediocre waves; broken wind swells ruffled by a light onshore and ridden by average surfers. All hoping the wind will switch and the swell will 'jack' by 2 and not 10 feet. There's something very seductive about those painfully ordinary vistas, and it's the promise of the perfect day. It’s not about a 20 foot colossus, just a lined-up offshore day that Joe Average can relate to.

I suppose it's time for me to seek out more forgiving wavescapes, read less contemporary surfing literature and invest in a Zimmer frame. Now where are my glasses?

Surfing’s Wooden Lala-land!

2010-01-12T11:53:00.000-08:00

Just when you thought it was safe to get back in the water those fiendish marketing spin doctors have contrived yet another chunk of prohibitively expensive nostalgia; the Alaia. Much like its obese cousin, the SUP, the Alaia has been packaged as a one-stop portal to the sancta sanctorum of surfing’s roots. These finless, rockerless chunks of driftwood epitomise surfing’s recent retrograde obsession with finding the Holy Grail of surfing.

Surfing appears to be locked in a vicious circle of nostalgia. The word ‘Saudade’ has been described as a "vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist ... a turning towards the past or towards the future". In some respects surfing is in a state of ‘Saudade’, and the Alaia is a physical manifestation of surfing’s nostalgic dilemma.

The Alaia was almost single-handedly revived by the shaper Tom Wegener who was recently crowned as shaper of 2009 by Surfer magazine. According to Wegener,” Surfing in the ancient style on a finless wood board has been overlooked for many years now. In Hawaii the board was called Alaia. In Japan it was called Itaka. There is evidence of early surfers riding this style from all around the world but in the early 1900’s this style vanished.” Alaias are hewn from plantation grown trees, often organically grown so there’s a very marketable and politically correct hook for guilt-ridden consumers. According to Wegener, riding an Alaia positions your surfing on “a more universal scale”. I’m not sure how that translates in the water but he goes on to blather “on modern equipment you may catch more waves and “rip,” but are you surfing better?”.

There’s no doubt that Wegener has the makings of a salty philosopher but I’m not too keen on a board that paddles like a tomato carton and decimates your wave count. Wegener counters the lack of the Alaia’s wave catching and paddling ability by offering us mere mortals an esoteric challenge of sorts; “Riding the Alaia brings a new level of difficulty which turns most people off. But lots of the world’s best surfers find that this brings more excitement and joy to surfing.” Sorry Mr Wegener, but I’m not one of the world’s best surfers, and unlike the world’s best surfers I have 9 to 5 job so I’d like to keep my wave count at a premium!

I’m at a loss as to why anyone would want to ride something that requires so much graft. The Alaia paddles like a waterlogged Labrador with hip dysplasia and requires the skill set of a highly experienced waterman. Backlit images of Rob Machado and Rasta gouging open face carves on Alaias in California glass are mere marketing lip-gloss. Rob could get shacked on your granny’s tea tray, yet somehow we like to think that the Alaia is within our surfing ability. Just the other day we were sold the forgiving lines and extra foam of the Fish, the Egg and other retro classics; we’d catch waves earlier, easier and hurtle down the line like a deranged banshee on those boards of yore. That had real appeal for Joe Average, but now we’re been told to sing for our supper on chunks of oiled wood that are going to emancipate our surfing from the shackles of conformity. Forget it Bru, methinks that the Alaia is cut from the same cloth as the Emperor’s New Clothes.

Average surfers want a board that paddles efficiently, surfs decently, and actually has fins and a leash plug. I very much doubt there are any surfers out there who still decry the merits of the gookcord; besides a leashless board is a potential weapon of mass destruction in any congested surf zone.

Naturally, Alaias are completely eco-conscious and will offer a guiltless surfing experience, free from the evils of foam, fibreglass and polyurethane. You’re guaranteed long swims including the odd lawsuit as your trusty wooden steed will no doubt mow down all in its leftist path. Surfing’s troubadour of musical boredom, Jack Johnson will frame the fad with a planet-friendly ditty that will no doubt mesmerise the masses and become a soundtrack for the Alaia generation. Sorry, but I’m willing to take my chances on a politically incorrect chunk of fibreglass, securely tethered to my ankle.

Despite my aversion to the concept of the Alaia I foresee highly profitable niche brands materialising in the global surf market. Wetsuits will be discarded and Hawaiian style loincloths will become boardies for Alaia fashionistas, followed by an unparalleled meister-stroke of marketing genius, the revival of Peruvian Reed boats. Shapers will soon enough be ordering thatch by the truckload thanks to the Alaia fad.

It’s as clear as a crisp winter’s morn over False Bay, as an intrepid big wave hell-man strokes hard and makes an air-drop at an offshore slab on a handcrafted replica of an ancient Peruvian reed boat, with not a WaveRunner in sight!

No wetsuit, leash or common sense required …just a loincloth!

“I wear my Sunglasses at Night” while I’m surfing in my Pink wetsuit on a 5’9” Simon Anderson Thruster!

2009-10-21T01:15:00.000-07:00

I was in quandary, and knew that at some point I’d be forced to trudge this path and sift through the detritus of my surfing past for something of worth for “Simon Says”. Whilst flipping through those well-thumbed pages of surfing nostalgia the neons of the 80s managed to catch my eye, pterygiums and all. Soon enough my face was smeared with neon zinc oxide, The Police were “Watching Every Breath I Take”, and I was dreaming in checkerboard graphics. The big swell of ’82, Robin Auld at Kalk Bay, Martin Potter fins free at the Bay of Plenty on that black and yellow T&C board – you know the one- I was at home. While the circus maximus of the Spur Steakranch Surfabout was doing its thing at the Outer Kom I was bumbling about at Cemetery on my Bordello quad in a howling north wester with some school mates.

Before the net, cellphones and MP3s there were the 80s - the “Me Generation” wedged between Bee Gees disco flare and the smelly nirvana that was Kurt Cobain. The 80’s were my surfing summer, my heyday punctuated by suburban train surfaris, the edible scent of Mr Zog’s Raspberry flavoured Sex Wax, blanket jackets from Pep, and The Corner on crisp Autumn mornings. Sometimes a berg wind would carry us over Chappies to dreamy high tide A-Frames, that’s if we could coerce a Mom into making the drive. Even though we cursed our wetsuits, the endless summer days of the 80s stretched on forever, give or take the 6 to 8 weeks of the Christmas hols.

Being young and a surfer in the 80s was great, and at times life felt like an endless long weekend, despite crotch busting boardshorts and wetsuits with detachable arms (possibly the most dysfunctional surf accessory of the decade). Was life simpler back then for isolationist South African surfers? I’m not sure, but éVoid, Bright Blue and the Gereformeerde Blues Band played our soundtrack. ZigZag put words to our stoke, complete with the most rudimentary layouts and blown-out photos of mysto spots, made all the more ominous in high contrast black and white. Groms shivered in damp blanket jackets and Ballies grumbled over their Ricoffy. At times paddleskiers, windsurfers and even bodyboarders clawed their way into those kooky layouts.

Paddleskiers were a waterborne virus that reached almost epidemic proportions in the 80s, infecting almost every spot, and inspiring a loathing best compared to the current SUP infestation. Surfing and Surfer gave us Kodachrome snapshots of the “real world”; but what was it about surf videos that brought out the worst in Sony’s Betamax format? Stretched tapes turned surf slang into Klingon, and those ubiquitous blizzards of grain transformed Backdoor into K2, but hey that was half the fun of 80s surf videos.

The 80s also marked the advent of the surf label. Instinct drawstring trousers in Miami Vice pastels were de rigueur urban wear for any self-respecting surfer, often accompanied by Oakley Frogskins and oversized shoulder pads. These bizarre fashion ensembles were almost always topped off by dubious New Romantic fringes complete with sun kissed highlights. Duran Duran, The Cure and Ultravox didn’t know rail from rocker but fashion conscious surfers were never far from their trusty hair dryers in the hope of emulating those Wild Boys; or where they girls? Perhaps these coiffured surfing fashionistas were salty precursors to that emasculated phenomenon of the 21st Century; the Metrosexual? Who knows, but an equally irritating regional fashion trend flourished; the so-called “ethno-bongo” look. This egregious attempt at coming to terms with Africa was proof enough that the South African surf scene was a hub of Post Modern eclecticism. Ethnic prints, dutifully unwashed tangled locks and loping bare feet through upmarket shopping centres were quintessential “ethno-bongo” surfer statements. Sadly they still are, but in the guise of the “Trustafarian”, give or take a nasty parasitic skin infection or two.

Surfboard design progressed at a phenomenal rate, from MR Twinnies to that quantum leap in surfboard design; Simon Anderson’s Thruster. By the close of the decade, surfers were riding quads, thrusters, paper thin Persian slippers and even longboards. Pop Tom Morey’s marshmallow in the microwave(s), and soon enough summer stoke was in the reach of landlubbers who normally preferred 16 holes with their corporate mates on the weekend. Even country bumpkins from the hinterland were getting wet. Boogieboards and paddleskis would make the invention of the “gook cord” look like a three stroke paddle out. More folk took to wave-riding in the 80s than the soul kinders of the 70s could have ever imagined.

It was love at first sight, suddenly Surfing had a fiancé; and she was a leggy blond called Commercialism. The old adage “Chicks and sticks don’t mix” was also blown out to sea by local wunderkind Wendy Botha, but Roxy mania was still a decade in the making. Average 80s surfer girls preferred “klapping” their errant boyfriends than “hitting the lip” of their local spot, but that would all change.

Going vertical and even ‘beyond vert’ were ambitious 80s moves borrowed from the backyard pools and skate parks of the late 70s. Re-entries, snaps, white-water rebounds and fins free lip gouges screamed skateboarding. The rip, tear, lacerate surf skate synthesis would pave the way for another skate inspired move; “the aerial”. Yes, surfers were ‘getting air’ but it was no more than an exploratory test flight. Most surfers would eject on an aerial but only a select few would surf away from a wobbly landing. Surf photographers relished the creative possibilities of the aerial domain, and surf mags splashed photos of surfers “getting air” across their pages. Mindsets would change and paradigms shift; surfing was amputating the 70s with a rusty chainsaw.

80s wetsuits were one long leaky experiment. Wetsuits wailed in girly hues, acid greens and muted blues, but most surfers survived if a little chilly, only to be presented with an accessory worthy of a hamster’s intellect - the webbed paddling glove. Thankfully, most “Webs” were hacked to bits and used as butt patches. Rip Curl and O’Neill were coveted by most surfers, but Reef and Zero were local staples. Rash vests were unheard of but a trusty jar of Vaseline was always in reach, and used in copious amounts towards the end of a good swell. Vast quantities of petroleum jelly always managed to find its way onto the rails of your Faith twin fin, and the consequences normally had the makings of a slasher movie. Another crackbrained 80s fashion involved wearing a single bootie, usually on one’s back foot. Considering the cut and quality of the average bootie back then, surfers would have been better off wearing a gumboot duct-taped to their wetsuit.

Slithering silently in those long summer shadows was a darker side to the decade for white South African surfers. It was a place of foreboding and darn right fear, a two year wave drought some called a ‘right of passage’ and others, a ‘violation of rights’ - Conscription. Call-up was a reality for most, and stalling tactics included pulling a doctorate out of your boardbag, or for the affluent set, simply escaping to your parent’s London pad for a 2 year jol. A few brave souls refused to serve and the ECC (End Conscription Campaign) screamed blue murder in the face of a finger-waving colossus, but in most cases a lengthy prison term ensued. Some never bothered to get back in the water after “Nationale Diensplig”. The Border, Townships and even “Basics” had a way of sucking the marrow from many young men’s souls, but that’s another story.

By the close of the decade the “New Wave” was no more than a shoreline dribble. Surfing was becoming a highly profitable cash cow, and that “Best of the 80s” cassette had been fast forwarded one too many times. The excesses of Yuppiedom had reached its apogee, and would give way to the kids of Generation X, Seattle Grunge and the throb of Trance. The party was over, our Summer of Love was kaput. Long live the 80s!

Smile… Spring is here!

2009-09-29T10:17:00.000-07:00

Historically, September is a dark month. 65 years ago on the 1st of September Herr Hitler plunged Western Europe into the greatest conflict that humanity has ever suffered. By 1941, the world was aflame and would burn until the surrender of Imperial Japan on the 2nd of September 1945. More recently, 9/11 proved that terror could strike at the very cosmopolitan jugular of the world’s superpower, America. Sunny South Africa has by no means been exempt from the evil that men do. Crime, poverty and massive class disparities have been woven into the social fabric of our beautiful country. You might well ask what my sombre timbre has to do with surfing, and why I’m bumming out which would have otherwise been a pleasant Spring day? Well, here’s my gripe - we surfers are for the most part a sullen bunch of an unappreciative whiners, me included! Worse still, there are a growing number of surfers who are simply rude. Surfers love to throw a quilted blanket of tepid excuses over their limited civility.

Here are some responses I got from a variety of surfers (including some high profile individuals) when I discussed the simple act of greeting a fellow surfer;
“You have no idea how frustrating it is when it’s crowded and I’m trying to practice for a comp.”
“Hey Brah I’ve lived here all my life, don’t these okes don’t know who I am?”
“They’re just kooks jamming up my spot, why should I bother greeting them?”
“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this swell, I haven’t got time to chat to some @#$%”
“Why should I greet a doormat, egg-beater, goatboater, sponger, longboarder, or some $%^& riding a hired mal or SUP*?”

Years back, when I bothered to surf J Bay, I watched a surfer get rag-dolled over the rocks at Supers. His leash-less board bounced ahead of him towards where I was standing at the waters edge. Before Davy Jones could suck the board back out and tenderise it into a cubist sculpture I scrambled over the rocks to rescue it. When I handed the board back its owner, he snatched it from my grasp and turned his neoprened back to me without the slightest whiff of appreciation or acknowledgment. What a *&^$! I stood there dumbfounded, but fathoms deep my surfer instinct told me that the merest hint of a smile or civility would have been a personal affront to his skewed sense of surfer honour. What a *&^$! Arrogance and unfriendliness have become synonymous with our sport. I’m beginning to think all those 16mm home-styled neo-hippy surf movies accompanied by Jack Johnson and his palm fronds are no more than cunning marketing speak. Endless sunsets and blanketed fireside tales are best left to Walt Disney and his animated fairytale friends.

I digress, many surfers find it painfully hard to smile or even acknowledge the presence of interlopers due to the realities of limited liquid real estate. Their frustration is understandable, but their response is unforgivable. The over privileged microcosm that surfers, and more specifically South African surfers inhabit often preclude us to exhibit compassion or civility. Waves, bru, I want more waves…If that’s the case, drive till you find your selfish nirvana, but no doubt you’ll soon enough be eyeballing the inquisitive kelp gulls, penguins and other marine life that cross your path, until of course you hopefully paddle into the territory of an even more inquisitive apex predator.

Why can’t surfers greet each other and say thank you anymore? Perhaps it’s a painful reflection of the current state of 21st century society. Over population, gratuitous access to unprecedented technology and recessions have resulted in a “Me, Myself and I” generation, dripping in disdain for common decency and respect in and out of the water. Sadly, surfers form part of that demographic and the fallout is not altogether pleasant. It’s high time we reassessed and recalibrated our sense of importance. Perhaps it’s time we smiled a little more, helped a little more and realised how undeservingly lucky and privileged we really are.

To those self-loving individuals I say spend some of your time chatting to a veteran, refugee or one of those Big Issue vendors. They might well alter your perspective for a couple of minutes, so much so you might even be inspired to contort your face into a grimaced smile when you next encounter a fellow surfer in the line-up. Perhaps it’s time we proved the journalist Tom Brokaw’s phrase “The Greatest Generation” needn’t only apply to those who grew up during the privations of the Great Depression, and then went on to fight in World War Two. Charity begins in the water…and with a simple smile. Just ask the dolphins!

*Kindly note that no form of civility should ever be extended to the SUP menace (especially when encountered in a crowded line-up).

The Advent of “Ballie-dom”

2009-08-07T01:21:00.000-07:00

There’s a moment that every mortal surfer will experience, a shadowy epiphany that will mark the beginning of a new life stage; middle-age. This harbinger of agedness might manifest itself by physical means in form of a gammy shoulder or the need for copious amounts of extra sunscreen and a dorky looking sunhat. Perhaps “ballie-dom” will present itself as a sobering reflection of a pregnant looking profile in rear window of your car, as you ponder the mysterious qualities of ever-shrinking neoprene.

For me, it arrived in the water on a Sunday afternoon a couple of years ago. I’d just enjoyed, in my smallish universe, a great wave that I had punctuated with a fantail of spray and an effortless kick-out. As the adrenalin fuelled my paddle back to the peak, an elasticised 20 something year-old stroked past me and sniggered, “Hey Bru, not a bad wave for a ballie”. I should have committed my soul to Davy Jones’ Geriatric Unit right there, but deep down a youthful flame still flickered bravely in the face of the stiffening breeze.

Somehow, if you’re a surfer, “ballie-dom” or middle-age never arrives. There’s always another soul in the water, who appears a little more grizzled, grey or grumpy than you. For surfers, the goalposts of agedness are mercurial; they constantly shift up and down our beach of dreams. No doubt, you’ll be labelled as a “Toppie”, “Ballie”, “Bullet”, “Silver Surfer” or “Old-man”. Wear those labels as you would a Congressional Medal of Honour, Victoria Cross or Honoris Crux, and then go out there and prove all those little rubber people how much fun surfing really can be.

For some surfers, middle-age is fraught with crises and the need to prove that the “Zimmer-frame of surfing”, the longboard or mini-mal is still decades in the future. There’re probably about three surfers over 40 (world-wide) who don’t look a cockroach in its death throes while trying to pump their 6’2” Persian slipper through a flat section at their local beach. If you’re over 40, get your shaper to add some more foam, a couple of inches and less rocker to your next board – you have no idea how much fun you’re missing, and hey, if you’ve got this far, you deserve it.

With middle-age comes a treasure trove of possibilities without having to anguish over what “other surfers think”. Become a Joel Tudor without the neo-hippy baggage and try longboards, mini-mals, fishes, shortboards and eggs BUT never a SUP. Irrespective of the ravages of age, everyone, except perhaps Laird Hamilton looks like a wannbe gondolier on those fibre-glass buses of mayhem.

Middle-age undoubtedly presents one with a daunting array of domestic and financial responsibilities, but more often than not, although this translates to less time in the water, there’s a strong chance you’ll savour every session with the unbridled passion of a grom. Speaking of groms, if you have kids it’s highly likely the little pirates will be joining you in the water at some point. Experiencing a sunset session or dawn patrol with your kids will re-affirm your faith in humanity, and create a bond between parent and sibling that few sports can compare with.

Perhaps the best part of growing older is the advantage of life-experience. I prefer a less Life-coach orientated term - Wisdom. Wise surfers are less selfish, fonts of salty knowledge and the pillars of our lifestyle. They lead by example and influence the future of our sport in and out of the line-up with grace, humility and a smile; NOT a sullen stare, simian grunt or gormless profanity. They might not be the best surfer in the water, but in the long term they have the ability to change the perceptions of the next generation, and that in my aged opinion is more important than a boatload of Alley Oop method airs at 10 foot Teahupoo.

Secret Spots - Don’t tell anyone I told you Bru!

2009-06-19T07:47:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks back I heard some whispers flicker around a wintery braai about a secret spot. I thought here we go again, an unmapped gem that’s always head high, requires no rubber and is dusted by genteel land breezes. Yet another salty Elysium I will never surf. I gave up on ‘The Search’ when I realised toddlers are somewhat allergic to Sex Wax, damp car seats and copious amounts of Weskus grit.

Nonetheless, my curiosity got the better of me so I edged cautiously towards the hushed conversation, but they got wind of my ploy. They promptly closed ranks with a few well placed shuffles, and added a full-stop to my intentions with a ‘look’ that required no further explanation. I replied with an inane smile, back-peddled a couple of paces and waited for the Black Labels to kick in.

Here’s my take on ‘Secret Spots’. Let’s rather refer to them as not-so-secret spots. Someone will undoubtedly spill the beans, scribble a map on an ATM deposit slip, or bumble forth a set of inebriated directions. Better still, there are some tech-savvy surfers out there and secret pacts dissolve rapidly in the face of techno-braggadocio. These infernal pixel pirates will gladly SMS you a hi-res photo and a set of lucid directions from their iPhone, complete with a YouTube link for stoke value.

Before you can whisper “Don’t tell anyone else bru!” half of Cape Town has descended on your “Treasure Island” with jet skis, SUPs, kite boards and busloads of other annoying peripherals in tow. Thanks to Google Earth, Facebook and GPS systems, a whole generation of bitmapped Columbus’ and Magellans are discovering New Worlds with every mouse click. These surfing digeratti rarely bother with maps or good old dead reckoning. Nowadays it’s just a matter of plugging in the TomTom, fuelling up the Hummer and heading into the sunset with your posse, as Lil’ Wayne provides the soundtrack to your odyssey.

Perhaps it’s not all bad, but the romanticised notion of a secret spot has long gone been relegated to the scrapheap of surfing history, together with detachable wetsuit arms and webbed paddling gloves. A surfing population explosion of nuclear proportions and access to sophisticated technology has shortened the shelf life of the average secret spot dramatically.

So what, there are probably countless secret spots that are beyond the reach of trust funds, Land Cruisers and Twitter. The liquid nirvana that epitomises a secret spot is not the wave itself, but more often a confluence of the right conditions, the adventure of ‘getting there’, and the joy of a shared experience (I might add with friends, and NOT a herd of SUPs). The allure of discovering a secret spot will always beckon future generations of surfers, despite the inevitable 40 knot South Easters and dribbles of swell that underpin most missions. The very mention of the word ‘secret spot’ is enough to conjure up seductive visions of a little corner of surfing Shangri-la that you can call your own for a few hours.

Now back to that wintery braai – yes, the black Labels had weaved their alcoholic magic, the conversation was somewhat more animated and I was welcomed with open arms into the ‘circle of trust’. I promised I wouldn’t breathe a word, but hey, I’m only human and what’s the big deal with telling the one or two people who read this column.

Head south, towards False Bay when a deep growler of a south or even south west swell bloats the bay with corduroy to the horizon bru. A 10 to 15 knot North Wester will caress those long frequency swells into unpainted liquid canvases, but take heed, there are potential hazards. Icy offshores and long paddle outs are de rigueur, and I was told the resident Great Whites have discerning tastes; they prefer in excess of 3 millimetres of neoprene. You’ll also need length to surf this spot bru, 7’6” or longer is advisable. Your 6’4” toothpick will not suffice. Simply put, you don’t take a knife to this sort of bun fight.

As for directions, they are so passé in this digital age so here’s a link to the webcam - http://tinyurl.com/qn8td5, but don’t tell anyone I told you.

No Ordinary Surfer, No Ordinary Hero

2009-05-15T07:20:00.001-07:00

I’ve prepared for the worst and come to terms with the inevitability of my fate - lightning will strike me down soon enough. I’m about to commit a sacrilege that will no doubt reduce me to a pathetic smoking mound of ash. Here goes; I don’t think Kelly Slater is the best surfer in the world, or the Irons brothers for that matter. It’s probably nothing more than unadulterated jealousy on my part, but there I’ve said it! He’s so perfect I’ve always thought he looks somewhat awkward on a wave. Perhaps in the view of the popular press and millions of chopstick surfing acolytes he is ‘The Greatest’.

However I’m almost convinced that somewhere, someone is drawing lines that would turn Kelly’s bronzed tones to an effluent green. Perhaps Kelly would be cool with that though, and dismiss my opinion as nothing more than the jealous rant of a middle-aged kook. Methinks his Kellyship prays fervently for the day someone would just surf him into liquid oblivion so he could prepare for middle age in peace.

I’m not here to slate Kelly, but there’s no doubting that there are countless surfers out there that are never fixed in ink, pixels or fantasy. They will never know the feeling of being ‘pritted’ or ‘prestiked’ on the cover of a dog-eared homework diary or flaky bedroom wall. There are legions of unsung watermen out there, but a select few are truly exceptional athletes. I’m loath to tread sacrilegious territory again but I’d like to believe some of them are no less talented than the Kellys and Lairds of our salty cosmos.

Take Jamie Mitchell for instance – an antipodean non-entity to the average surfer unless you’re a paddleboarder. He’s no aspiring SUPping gondolier either, I’m talking real paddleboarding – open ocean pain of indescribable proportions, ‘bent double’ on your knees or prone, on needle-sharp 17 footers that are designed to cross ominous expanses of water. Forget throttles, kill switches, carbon Kevlar paddles and yuppie tow-ins; this is the real deal. Jamie Mitchell is an ex-lifeguard, a highly accomplished surfer and undoubtedly the best paddler in the world, yet few surfers have heard of him.

According to renowned Australian surf writer Tim Baker, Mitchell ‘is one of a handful of elite watermen to join the informal 20/20 club for surfers who can paddle 20 miles through open ocean, and ride a 20 foot wave by the traditional paddle-in method’. He can ride virtually every form of surf craft, from a big wave gun to an ironing board. Add to that six consecutive wins for the 32-mile Quiksilver Edition Molokai to Oahu Paddleboard Race. You probably even know one of these unassuming multi-talented types, a consummate waterman or waterwomen who shuns the limelight and just surfs, dives, paddles, swims and fishes for the pure fun of it.

Let’s go back to about 10.30 on the morning of 17th March 1978. Hawaii's ocean voyaging canoe, the Hokule’a had capsized in mountainous swells and surfing legend Eddie Aikau was scrambling to make a leash out of nylon rope for his rescue paddleboard. He had decided to seek help for his stranded crewmates. Before he paddled off, he said; "Don't worry, I can do it.”. He was never seen again. His memory lives on in the Quiksilver Big Wave Invitational in Memory of Eddie Aikau at Waimea Bay.

Eddie Aikau epitomizes the type of surfer I could only dream of being.

We more often than not place surfing in a constrictive vacuum. Nothing could possibly exist beyond the Kelly’s, Bruces, perfecto boat trips, and uber brands that scream at us from the HD screens of our surfing universe. Yet most of us do, and we almost always thrive.

Here’s to the John Whitmores, David Mockes, Frankie Solomons, Andrew Marrs and Eddie Aikaus of our watery cosmos. Even Kelly would be humbled.

Surfers are Selfish

2009-04-26T05:06:00.001-07:00

“Surfers are a selfish bunch, they only think of one thing – surfing!” There are times I would tend to agree, but I’d include “unreliable”, “work-shy” and perhaps even “self-entitled”. Surfers are inherently self-serving; the very nature of the pursuit of riding waves tends to strip away any altruistic intentions, and demands pitiless commitment to being available at the first whiff of a swell. Riding a wave has very little to with other people – simply put it’s not a team sport. Yes, what would surfing be without your brahs, brus, bruddahs, connections and soul-mates? I’ll tell you what it would be like – peaceful and sublimely uncrowded!

From the instant you stroke furiously for that shifty A-frame to the last fantail of spray before you kick out - YOU are surfing the wave, unless of course of one your connections happens to hop along for the ride on your 6’2 quad.

Missed dates, appointments, interviews and even weddings litter the collective experiences of surfers across the globe, but that’s merely fallout. The real selfishness rears its ubiquitous head in the surf zone, amongst other members of the tribe.

Irrespective of whether you’re a surf brand Barbie, neo-retro kinder in a beavertail or a dreadlocked feral type, surfing is essentially about getting waves. Have no fear, I’m not going to pontificate about localism, intimidation or our home grown favourite - xenophobia , I’m talking about a deep seated desire to always snag the best wave of the set, and be perfectly positioned irrespective of our fellow wave-riders.

Virtually imperceptible hustling techniques, silky smooth snaking, beguiling chit chat and a warm smile are more often than not employed to get the best waves. We’ve all encountered that Donovan Frankenreiter look-a-like who spreads brotherly love like smooth peanut butter in the carpark with a magnanimous smile and the warmest of ’Howzit Brus’, but somehow undergoes a metamorphosis once he’s immersed in saltwater. It’s simple, much like you or me, Dono craves the best wave.

We’re almost beyond help – seduced by a drug more potent than Crack, a passion that sparks and then ignites primal human responses like selfishness. We surfers simply cannot help ourselves. Responsibilities tend to wither in the water, and on occasion even commitments to friends and family are diluted by the most alluring of mistresses - waves. Perhaps that’s why we all collapse in hysterics when a surfer is sucked over falls and promptly pureed into fish-paste, or smile inwardly when a couple of mates are caught on the inside by a clean-up set. I’m not sure, but to varying degrees we’ve all explored the twilight zone of selfish surfing.

There are of course exceptions to the rule, like surfing’s Madiba, Duke Kananumoku, whose immortal response to wave-hogging was “Just take your time - wave comes. Let the other guys go, catch another one.”

Nonetheless, something tells me that Ghandi, or dare I add Madiba, would find it difficult to get a wave at New Pier on a good day.

Memories

2009-03-30T23:53:00.000-07:00

One of my most profound surfing memories has nothing to with the actual act of riding a wave. It was formed on a summer’s day in the late 70s, the type that seem to stretch on forever when you’re a kid, flickering in and out of focus like one of those grainy super eight movies. It was a bone-numbingly cold two to three foot Long Beach afternoon and my Reef 3mm shorty (the one with a front zipper) wasn’t feeling as snug as it did during my post-purchase lukewarm bath test. Besides which, my leashless polystyrene surfboard (those ones with the red plastic fin) had been wrenched from under me and was being tenderised over the pebbles by the shore break.

I was literally out of my depth as I tried body surfing the waves that were so unlike the friendly combers of Corner. As I floundered about in the chin-deep water squinting towards the outside, I remember a dark shape slip ominously across my field of vision. It was a surfer, a real surfer, paddling effortlessly towards me through the inside foam.

He wore a full piece Zero wetsuit, and rode a Bordello twin fin. My foreshortened view of the board accentuated the lines of the rails, the sublime curvature of the rocker and the deep V of the swallow tail. I could even see part of the airbrush mask lines beneath the nose. Hey, I know what you’re thinking, but for a 12 year old polystyrene riding kook, this was like seeing a P51 Mustang up close. I could even smell raspberries, as he dragged me off into the shallows, crapping all over me about getting a leash and a real board. I think he also mentioned something about Muizenberg too.

I didn’t care, because the embarrassment of retrieving my polystyrene impostor in full view of the parking lot paled in comparison to my desire to own a real fibreglass P51. One summer later, I had saved up R60 for a somewhat tired looking Ward Walkup Bordello twinnie, but I was still another summer away from eking out a bottom turn, if you’d dare call it that, on a high-tide reform at the Berg.

I’m certain we all have similar memories, which serve as a catalyst for the glassing process of what it is to become a surfer. However trivial they might seem, they define our path. Much like music, our formative surfing memories eventually become the soundtrack to our journey, from that first wobble, to the last day we feel the wet sand under gnarled feet.

Many will fall, choosing other roads, and perhaps more selfless pursuits, but now and then those indelible moments will allow us to revisit the smells, sights and taste of what it is to be a surfer.

“Let’s go SUPPING now!” (should be hummed to the tune of the Beach Boys “Surfin' Safari!” while drinking a triple latte)

2009-03-23T07:12:00.001-07:00

Let’s get this straight right from the outset, I’m not against SUPS per se, it’s the attitude of the inexperienced SUPPER that irks me. Another point - this rant isn’t aimed at the likes of Laird Hamilton, Rob Machado, or experienced watermen who have an intimate knowledge of the ocean and its unwritten highway code. Oh no, my crosshairs are hovering over those lifestyle magazine poseurs who think a carbon fibre paddle and a rather large chunk of fibreglass adorned with a retro Hawaiian print underfoot is a passport to the sanctum sanctorum of the backline. Countless images of SUPPERs silhouetted against a gilded sunset, shovelling away at a glassy sea as seagulls hover overhead adorn the glossy spreads of lifestyle magazines, and beckon like a bevy of Homeric sirens.

There’s a problem though, lurking amongst those leather armchair athletes are those who think the ocean is one large Virgin Active Gym, with a free lifetime membership - something like a rather large watery playpen where they can flex their show muscles with paddle in hand and chin pointed squarely at the horizon, all to the dulcet strumming of a ukulele. In most cases these wannabe gondoliers have tried their hand at kayaking or surf skiing, but that’s old hat or too much graft for them. Those faded Men’s Health stickers that adorn their garaged surfskis don’t look quite like the chick magnets they were a couple of summers back. It’s time for a new lifestyle pursuit, and hey, there’s space in the activity den (garage), and the Prado’s looking somewhat sparse with nothing strapped to the racks.

Sadly, huge wads of disposable income don’t often come with much common sense or humility, and that’s what fuels my fantasies of chainsaws and SUPs locked in mortal combat. Despite the sheer mass of a SUP, buffed neophyte SUPPERs always seem intent on heading for the most congested line-ups. Surfing nurseries such as Muizenberg are NOT the place for SUPs simply because an unpiloted SUP in the soup is about a thousand times more lethal than a cruise missile, or say Sally “Roxy” Billabong’s Malibu cartwheeling towards you on a paddle out. For crying in a SUP, head down the beach, go dig about at Sunrise Beach, where you can commune with tetchy Great Whites and rotting seals. Better still, head for a dam, lagoon, the canals of Venice or perhaps even Tafelberg Reef at 60 feet. It’s a whole lot safer for all concerned and doesn’t mean that you’ll have to cut back on your monthly wine club expenses, or cancel your lifetime GQ subscription because of that pending lawsuit.

Can these latte-drinking paddlers and Surfers enjoy the same surf zone? I seriously doubt it – given the fact that one SUP in the water means that more will inevitably plough their way into the line-up, get waves earlier and frustrate the pecking order. Alpha males and paddles will soon be connecting in creative ways, and there’s no telling how cheeky body boarders and those bathing capped False Bay pensioners will take to having a SUP at their local spot. The bottom line is that ignorance and the ocean do not mix. Add to the mix a plethora of other surf related craft and you have a recipe for marine mayhem. Once again, education should be your paddle! Hey, I’d feel nothing selling a container load of SUPs to some Bedouin nomads in this economic climate, but deep down I do think it’s vital that first time ocean SUPPERs should be educated. I’m pretty certain surf dealers do that anyway, but I guess you’ll always encounter egos that are beyond those cautionary tales about ‘turning your back to the ocean’, or ‘swimming straight after a Sunday lunch’. Perhaps pro-active local municipalities could demarcate areas where overnight SUPPERs could shovel away at the ocean until the next fad blows in on the back of a 40 knot South Easter.

Once again, experienced wave-riding SUPPERs can ignore this article and then take to my inbox with a flamethrower, but you might want to take note of this tidbit. An extremely reliable source has told me tow-in SUPPING is the next big thing! He whispered something about motorboats, cables and SUPs – it should be uber cool and prohibitively expensive!

“Local is not so lekker or Hey kook, don’t tell me to pull up the handbrake at my ‘local’ spot”

2009-03-23T07:00:00.000-07:00

I watched a distasteful scene of ‘local’ intimidation unfold at an infamous surf spot recently. An above average surfer, let’s call him Jack, was subjected to a torrent of verbal abuse by a so-called ‘local’. Jack had committed no infringement, other than drawing some effortless lines across the wave’s face and marking the end of his ride with an impressive fantail of spray. A bewildered Jack was subjected to all the expected profanities and infantile bullyboy tactics. Quite clearly, the enraged ‘local’ had embarked on this journey before, but it was painfully clear that his issues stretched far beyond the lineup. Jack ignored the pitiful display and simply paddled away; I was impressed, and hoped the Neanderthal didn’t have back-up in the form of a club or other tribe members. Unfortunately, this outburst soured what was a beautiful autumn Sunday morning, not only for Jack, but for a fair number of other surfers in audible range of the tirade. It left a bad taste in my mouth that lingered long after I had left the water.

Yes, you’ve heard this tiresome tale before; congested lineups have evolved into stress inducing saltwater equivalents of our urban environments. Sadly, one of nature’s most awesome spectacles of energy will always be the ideal breeding ground for a particular sub-species of surfer; the ‘disrespectful unlocal’ and ‘xenophobic local’. Surfers should see these aberrations as a natural human response to a crowded lineup, and treat them as such. We’ve all seen or experienced the fallout from this particular surfer personality type. He replies to the greetings of fellow watermen with a practiced sullen glare, unless of course they are part of his equally narrow-minded cabal. In some instances he will resort to vitriolic outbursts, malicious damage to property and even physical assault in an attempt to stamp his authority on a stretch of fluid real estate. One would swear he had scales, gills and fins, and only ventured to dry land to ‘settle an issue’ over a drop-in on a 2 foot closeout. In most cases the ‘guilty’ party is physically smaller, younger, less experienced or surfing solo, so ‘justice’ can be carried out swiftly and without too much challenge. These individuals inevitably meet their nemesis, just ask Nat Young, and the resultant violence adds yet another bad note to what was a pretty catchy melody, in an environment where all the cares of the world should be left at the water’s edge for an hour or two.

Considering the growing levels of intolerance in and out of the water, and global popularity of the sport; the concept of a universal surfing brotherhood will soon be relegated to the pages of our sport’s history, or idealized scenes from 16mm neo-hippy surf movies. Surfers need to realise their art form is now mainstream – global surf brands are enticing hordes of surfing converts at the turn of every page of fashion, sports and lifestyle magazines. I’m not here to debate the merits or demerits of the surf industry, but I believe a paradigm shift is required on the part of surfers. Perhaps the retro revolution is a last gasp on the part of the sport to return to the idyllic lineups of yesteryear, where surfers enjoyed a relatively isolated lifestyle, far from the raging currents of commercialism. Ironically, in some instances, localism was as much a sixties and seventies phenomenon as it is today.

Congested beaches lead to congested mindsets; consider the Oscar winning performances of ‘locals’ at beaches such as Llandudno, Glen Beach, Long Beach, the Reserve, Elands Bay, J Bay and New Pier. How many a session has been soured by a minority of mental ingrates whose sense of self importance and entitlement is determined by their geographic proximity to the beach. The policing of a lineup by a select crew of impartial ‘locals’ is a paradox, and is open to abuse, and possible legal consequence. Despite the initial good intentions of such a venture, it’s flawed due to lack of legal recourse or legitimate (by means of law) enforcement. Chastising (verbally, or perhaps by means of a slap, shove or knobkerrie) a wave-hog may have dire consequences for the self-appointed Wave Police in or outside a courtroom. How many judges understand the terms; ‘local’, ‘unlocal’ or the unwritten rules of surfing, and that the policing of ‘bands of energy’ by means of force is justified. The good intentions of an organized group of ‘locals’, evolve speedily, and are often adjusted to serve the selfish needs of select few. Consider the White Shorts, Black Shorts and Bra Boys; all tainted by xenophobic thugs whose sense of entitlement is inexcusable.

The hierarchical nature of an intense lineup, based on experience, age and locale has established a pecking order of sorts that in most cases, is observed. Unfortunately the sheer intensity of 21st Century surfing requires a shift in thinking.

Perhaps it’s time the surf media, surf industry and surfers themselves acted responsibly and made an attempt, however insignificant, to educate all wave-users.
Anyone with a modicum of surf savvy could think of some possible solutions;
- Educate by means of articles and media segments.
- If ‘locals’ are so concerned by mass invasions of ‘their’ spots they could erect signage (in consultation with their local Municipality) reminding visitors and ‘locals’ alike not to litter, and behave like the privileged humans beings that they are by exercising common decency and respect in and out of the water. Involve the ‘local’ municipality, and educate those who will give real clout to your venture.
- A change of scenery often reveals hidden gems. Leave your comfort zone, hit the road and explore our awesome coastline.
- Don’t surf breaks beyond your ability, or paddle out at a heavy spot due to peer pressure. You’re putting yourself and others at danger in an attempt to fuel your ego.
- You too were a grom, kook or beginner at some point, and remember that twenty something paddling machines also grow old, get arthritis and pile on a couple of extra kilos. Smile and acknowledge the presence of other people in the water. A simple greeting or apology (if you’ve dropped in unawares), more often than not, can diffuse a potentially volatile situation. If an enraged Johnny Boy Gomes clone demands satisfaction on the beach, it’s best to paddle away and avoid a violent confrontation. If you are assaulted or any of your property (car, surfboard etc.) is vandalized or maliciously damaged - press charges. Believe it or not, most of these cretins have jobs, in some cases a family, and a public profile that extends beyond the tidal zone. A court case, restraining order or criminal record will do wonders for his popularity, CV and enthusiasm to act like an overgrown playground bully the instant he dons a wetsuit.
- Remember, you don’t influence behaviour by telling people what to do.
You do it by exposing them to enough cases of people behaving well, and that’s what creates a new norm.

As for that bad taste in my mouth, with age comes wisdom, and I’m sure there’s an empty A-frame, within a 40 minute drive of the clogged peaks of inner city surf spots. If you listen carefully you can almost hear the squeals of delight that yet another ‘unlocal’ has moved on. Little do they know that I just saw 3 carloads and one surf tour outfit of heading for their little hamlet.

As for the those baleful terms ‘local’ and ‘unlocal’, well perhaps it’s high time we realized the reason we pursue surfing with such passion is because it’s fun, and mutual respect in and out of the water determines whether we are deserving of a far more meaningful term - human being.

‘Your Perfect Day’

2009-03-23T06:56:00.000-07:00

“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.

2009 Absa Cape Epic Rant

2009-03-23T06:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday the Absa Cape Epic pedalled into Cape Town, to be precise - my neighbourhood amidst much pomp, carbon, titanium, aluminium and circumstance. One of the most gruelling mountain bike races known to man was about to start on the slopes of a sooty funeral pyre that was once called Table Mountain. I decided to watch the hundreds of courageous men and women granny gear their way past my house, whilst my kids waved with the enthusiasm of Tour de France groupies.

Two years previously I photographed the vicious prologue in Knysna, and this year I was treated to an equally impressive visual feast albeit from a different perspective. After an hour or so of watching these lycra skinned athletes parade past my house I came to a possibly generalised conclusion of sorts – a certain undeniable character-type proliferates at the Absa Cape Epic. I must have seen over 300 cyclists huff by my front gate and not one of these self-entitled over-privileged corporatists acknowledged the waves and support we gave them. Take note, they were not racing, so I’ve been running over the figures in my head and remain somewhat perplexed by the entire episode. How much energy is expended in lifting one’s hand from a handlebar to wave, or moving one’s facial muscles to smile in acknowledgement to the support offered by two kids and one adult? Then it dawned on me, an epiphany of biblical proportions – the sheer intensity and monumental challenge of the Absa Cape Epic precludes any need for these puffed-up off-road pigeons to show civility to us mere mortals, to us simple proles on the periphery of a dusty odyssey that is way beyond our physical and mental comprehension. These clipless übermenschen might share the same physical space as us, but they exist in a superior parallel dimension. It’s an elitist existential plane where everyone who doesn’t own an 85k plus titanium hardtail and a corporate sponsor, is relegated to that distant galaxy where mass-market bikes and ill-fitting helmets are de rigueur.

Well experience has taught me that certainly not all Absa Epic riders pedal blissfully unaware into the above generalisation, but based on yesterday’s carnival of egos, there’s no way I’m bothering with following this year’s race. I’ll leave it those who own the obligatory SUV and Lifestyle magazine subscriptions. However, something was still bothering me, and then I swatted it like a mossie in the wee hours. I wondered what the many gardeners manicuring the lofty hedges, domestics dragging out the bagged detritus of suburbia and pram-pushing nannies thought of the fanfare on a crisp Autumn morning under the smouldering slopes of Table Mountain.

And I’m still wondering what they thought of the Absa Cape Epic…