Most of you will know him as Tim Bonython, filmmaker, creator of cult classics like Filthy Habits, the Gripping Stuff series, and more recently his self-proclaimed opus, Immersion.

However, those who are friends with Tim Bonython on Facebook know him as the king of the phantom forecast chart, passionate publisher of the 144 hour apparition. At the merest gathering of isobars Tim excitedly posts the swell models, his exhilaration betrayed by enthusiastic babble and WANTON USE OF CAPITAL LETTERS. When he's in full flight - that is, when a significant swell is registering somewhere near Australia – Tim's excitement makes Big Kev look like a dullard.

But he's not without his detractors. When Tim posts his phantom charts sober folk who know the reality of long range forecasts often pour cold water on his zeal. And usually they're right. Long range forecasts, especially those for the East Coast, can get wildly overcooked from even a few days out. So experience tells you to drop your expectations, and with them the wild excitement of seeing an incredible looking chart.

Such clear-headed measures might help avoid disappointment but I cant help thinking they also cause you to miss out on something special in surfing.

A short digression: A few years back some friends and I were on one of Indonesia's outer islands stalking a lonely stretch of coast. Coming up to a bluff we looked down to see a mesmerising sight; a set of six foot waves grinding perfectly down a reef for over 200 metres. How many waves were in the set – five, six? More...? And they all broke in synchronicity, each wave following the whitewater trail of the wave before it. There was no wind and no-one out.

The next ten minutes were madness. Sheer cuckoo lunacy. We scrambled down the cliff hooping and hollering, looking each other in the eyes like we'd found our own Santosha. It was surreal – super real. It was the very essence of surf travel and we weren't even wet.

I remember briefly detaching myself from the moment and thinking this isn't quite what it seems, but then giving myself over to the craziness again. Someone put their wetsuit on backwards in the rush, I cut my feet sprinting over the reef to get out first.

The reality in the water was altogether different. The waves were perfect, no doubt about it, but they were also powering down the reef in a way that offered no clean entry and breaking at a speed that allowed no escape. We stayed out for an hour but the furthest anyone rode one was twenty metres before they were swallowed by the foamball. It was a lost cause, we gave up and paddled back to shore disheartened and deflated.

But did the disappointment of the session make our earlier emotions any less authentic? Were those ten minutes of pure and utter joy, when we felt as dizzy as kings, tainted by the subsequent reality?

Nah. I can still recall that feeling I had on the bluff all those years ago. It's the same feeling I get when looking at crazy swell charts; a huge rush of blood followed by tunnel vision of what the coming days may bring. Work stops, family drops, and the anticipation builds and builds. Pure madness and joy.

Sometimes you've gotta give yourself over to it.