This is the weather map that planted the seed...

And this is the surf report that watered the seed...

And with these images in my head I sat in my dingy office and brooded. For three weeks the Pacific Ocean had been far too pacifying yet tomorrow the swell in Vicco was gonna be coming out of the sky. Another day of living vicariously through internet surf reports was too much to bear - plans needed to be made and swift action taken. So I simply wiped everything off my 'To Do' list until I'd done all I had to do, and set about filling the passenger seat. Wolfey had just moved up to the Goldy, and although he's always mustard for a mission, 2000 k's in 12 hours is even beyond that fair frother. And Evan the Libertarian was out of the question as he'd recently procreated. I'd lost a surf partner but the world was richer, fairer, and more just, now that Evan had spawned another of his righteous kind. As for old mate Smell, well I don't know what he had on, but no doubt there were lots of engagements and they were all important. A last minute dash to Vicco would surely leave his social diary in tatters. And that left Sir Clifton Evers the III. Sir Clif is a doctor but not the sort you visit when you have a runny nose. But if you did he'd just as likely prescribe a course of Heidegger and tell you to take the afternoon off surfing. And although he ain't a medical doctor I think Clif self-medicates a lot. After all he has a very big bookcase and surfs more than anyone I know. That also makes him a bastard; a smart bastard no doubt, but a bastard no less. I explained the mission to Clif. He promptly wrote himself a doctors slip for self-medication and bolted for home. Half an hour later we were tossing boards and wettys in the back of my trusty Conformodore. A half hour after that we were passing Cambelltown, with Sydney 50 k's behind us, Melbourne 1000 k's ahead of us, and a big bag of Gummi Bears between us. For an east-coaster a road trip to Bells is a bit of a mission; 12 hours in the bucketseats along 1200 k's of blacktop. Enough drive-time to work up a breathtaking odour and grow some impressive facial hair. You look and feel like a different person when you arrive. And 12 hours of being seated next to someone is time enough to start up a heated discussion. Coincidentally, that's the only kind of discussion you have with Sir Clif. You see, although he doesn't believe in astrology Clif is a born Contrarian (the star-sign those clever Greek fellas missed). Around midnight - following 6 solid hours of debate - I awarded myself victor and suggested we should split into two hour sessions of driving and sleeping. Clif agreed with me...the first time he had all trip. So I wound back the passenger seat and tried to make myself comfortable between the nose and tail of two 6'8”'s. I closed my eyes and trusted Clif's driving as we hurtled into the blackness at 110 an hour. My comfort not at all aided by his admission that the lights from the oncoming semi-trailers were blinding him and causing him to lose sight of the road. Not the sort of pillow talk that sends one off to a peaceful sleep. But fitful sleep was had until we got to Shepparton - 300 kms shy of our destination - too knackered to go on. Boards and wetty's got ejected as we climbed into the back to sleep. A rotten, disrupted sleep that never even approached REM.. We woke at 4am and pressed on down the highway in the dark. The coming sun just a smudge on the eastern skyline, and the only traffic an occasional semi-trailer. Aaah...it's mornings like this they make me long to be an interstate trucker; following the sun across this great land, listening to Chisel on the AM dial, not washing for days, and having a different woman at each roadhouse. Yeah, that'd be the life... But service-station coffee always ruins the dream for me. Nasty, acrid shit that tastes like something that helps a motor engine run. Gets the job done but. Fuelled up on cheap bean-juice we side-stepped Melbourne and headed for Geelong, passing the early morning commuters as they headed to Metropolis. And us, heading in the other direction, off to surf some big waves, smug with our mugs and blasting Minor Threat on the stereo, Until we got to Torquay, where we tempered the tunes in reverence to the promised land. Torquay - the  overgrown industrial complex that stands as testament to the popularity of our sport. From cottage industry to corporate headquarters. Where big-brand superstores peddle their wares, but you never have to pay retail if you know where to look. I've driven the road from Torquay to Bells plenty of times, so the view is familiar. I'm also familiar with the story of Bells '81; the year the Rip Curl Pro scored clean 15' surf for the comp. Big Simon Anderson won it that year on an odd looking board sporting three fins. I remember reading an interview with Simon about that comp. In it he said you could see the spray being blown off the backs of the waves as he drove out to Bells. This was long before internet surf forecasts and no-one had any idea it was gonna be that big. They were all blown away by the size. Well the internet guided us here, but we were no less stunned watching the airborne spray as we approached the Winki carpark. Fuck it was big! 12' big with long and deep lines winding through Southside, Bells, Winki and then powering down the coast toward Torquay. We quickly met Scat and his apprentice Jimmy. Scat's an old mate of Sir Clif's who now lives at Kilcunda on the other side of Melbourne. He'd taken some of Clif's medical advice and, being a good sport, had even doled some out to his apprentice. Here's to workplace relations! Clif and Scat obviously had a lot to catch up on cause they were talking twenty to the dozen. Coffee? Nerves? Nah! Suited up, I passed over my 9'0”, shunned my 7'10” and grabbed my 6'8”. To ride 12' Bells. It was a tough ask. If the paddle wasn't hard enough (scraped out just before getting scraped across the Button) then catching the waves certainly was. In the time since I'd last ridden Bells I'd forgotten that, unlike the Cronulla reefs, where waves break in the same place whether they be 2' or 12', Bells has no ledge. It's got a hell of a lotta trough though, so you need the length to get in and get on. And here's me, a keen historian of our sport, who knows that the shortboard revolution ended right here at Bells. Back in 1970 when the Aussies were trying to ride their 5'8”s at mid-size Bells and a clever septic wiped them all on a longer – and therefore more suitable – board. I didn't experience quite the abject failure as the 1970 Aussies, but nor did I catch many waves either. Meanwhile old fellas on serious looking 10 footers were having a ball stroking into 'em from miles out. And what made it worse was that I wasn't riding the board out of necessity, or any notion of experimentation, but just rank stupidity; I had two perfectly suitable boards in the car. Blame it on a lack of sleep. Or blame it on cheap coffee. I blamed it on Sir Clif. // STUART NETTLE