Stuart Nettle May 8, 2009

"I wish Slater would piss off".

Ben and I had paddled out to a quiet bank at Thirteenth Beach during a layday of the Rip Curl Pro at Bells. The surf was 3'-4', good winds but the tide was still a bit high for the Beacon to be firing.

Nevertheless, we paddled out, and now we were paddling into, some nice, uncrowded waves. The word in the carpark was that Kelly Slater was gonna make a show and, twenty minutes into the session, looking down the beach, I saw a board flashing unnaturally fast, a huge plume of spray, and a well-tanned nude nut.

The three cameras on the beach trained in that direction confirmed what I already knew.

I mentioned it to Ben and he looked that way too. We carried on surfing.

 But then Kelly changed banks and paddled our way, then stopped and sat up on his board almost between us. Now, I'm not the type to fawn so took the opposite tact, acting indifferent and aloof. Not that he was in the mood to chat mind you. From the glances I did steal he was the one putting up the barriers to us.

In fact, his blindness to us was rather alarming. Often if a stranger paddles nearby pleasantries are exchanged. A nod at the least. Yet despite the proximity, he appeared completely oblivious to our presence.

And then a peculiar thing happened.

Within minutes of Kelly paddling up to our quiet bank the amount of surfers in the water went from two to twenty two.

No-one was clearly stalking him, but everyone - all twenty of them - followed him up here from the other bank. It was incredible to watch. The way people positioned themselves so that they would be near him. Looking toward land and paddling, as if they were lining up their take-off points, yet always happening to be mere feet away. Just wanting to be near him. To be acknowledged by him. Affirmed by him.

All of a sudden the bank was very cramped.

Celebrity worship is an odd thing. I laugh smugly at the scandal rags reporting the latest gossip and at the sad sacks who read them. I jeer at the desperate folk filling the reality TV shows, and I seriously wonder about the state of the world when I see fans losing it outside red-carpet events like the Oscars or the Logies.

Yet if I'm truthful to myself I'm a victim of it also. When I first spotted him I admit I felt a jolt of excitement. And when he paddled near, I also admit that I was curious about him. Of course, the excitement and curiousity were hidden by a veneer of cool disinterest. However, that's a feigned reaction and just a clever facade.

I was, however you wanted to slice it, affected by his presence.

So here I was being tested and I clearly failed - I was affected by a famous person. All that seperated me from the people I despised was a subscription to TV Week and a few microwave dinners. And you could lay out an argument that I was less honest with my feelings than the TV Week freaks.

I wanted him to go. Not just to take the twenty hangers-on with him, but also to take the awkward thoughts his presence aroused.

Slater pissed off. Up to the next bank, taking the twenty people in tow, and leaving Ben and I to surf the uncrowded waves by our own anonymous selves.