Southeasterly secrets



Today I surfed with Jake, Esquiy, and Vaughn. I knew they’d be out there, because like me they go out in any old dross, and I see them more regularly than I see my best friend. Or, as Jake put it: We’ve all got this small thing called a surfing addiction that sort of runs your whole life. The sky felt like it was lower than usual. The southeasterly wasn’t too evil and only dredged up a minimum amount of creepy shit – murky water, a lot of seaweed, something beneath the surface chasing a school of small fish around so that they kept skittering across the water like handfuls of thrown gravel, an air strike of sea birds bombing the sea around us. Most of it was washing machine slush, maybe only one in six waves actually had a wall, but even though it was bad it was still so good. I feel clean from the inside out. Lungs, heart, head.

And that, my friends, is why I become so incredibly evasive whenever anyone asks me if I want to catch up over lunch.