Steve Shearer March 31, 2009

Whats gunna happen?

The forecast for Bells is officially cactus. Diabolical. The phone is ringing and people want to know: whats the wind forecast for Johanna? Ben is running through the scenarios with Dooma but the net is tightening and the vibe is tense: it looks like Johanna. Not tomorrow but late in the waiting period. A war of attrition. Maybe a day or two at Bells in the meantime. Maybe Easter is too early say the pundits.

I don't know.

The conny was off so I went to 13th Beach. The carpark was empty except for one car. A shiny blue holden; one of those ones all the pro surfers seem to like. Three guys hanging. The Messiah and his entourage, standing around looking very unjazzed. The surf was sideshore and shitty, the sun bright but flat and cool. Down the beach pro surfers were going whack, slice, bang and whoomp. It looked cold and uninviting, even though the sun was out. I don't get Victoria. It's a sheltered coastline that always seems onshore, with a cold nagging wind from the sea that rattles your nostril bones.

Soon enough a carload of magazine guys rocks up, full of vinegary enthusiasm for a story. They mill around the Messiah and his entourage. A photog who looks like Sean Penn storms back to the car, snarling "Fuck, we've spooked Dane. He's not going surfing".

Imagine that: spooked from going surfing by a guy with a camera. By now more people are milling around, Jordy, Dusty Payne. The air is thick with the anticipation of magazine guys: clips! stories! coverage! A scoop maybe!

The Messiah is just hanging on the car bonnet and presently, as the sun rises higher in the sky, the crew all drift down to the beach and start their work. The filmers set their tripods up, the magazine guys paddle out. The Modern Pros start flying into the air.

An old bloke in a flanno with a white beard and cut-off denims stands beside me. "These the big boys?" he asks. I nod. He nudges me, "I usually fish there". He points to the water where Jordy is boosting a massive air. "Probably won't today though, don't wanna catch one of them fellas." "No" I said, "you'd have to let them go again."

Me, Barry the Fisho and the Messiah loitered around for a long while longer in the pale Victorian sun. We were all of us united in having nothing better to do. The Great Moral Challenge of our Time was going unchallenged while the day ticked over. Barry was definitely the most down home hobo, with his flanno and cut-offs. I had a large felt hat and blue padded flanno with cheap jeans and worn thongs. Looking at all the high performance surfing was making me feel sort of weak, like Ratso Rizzo in Midnight Cowboy. There was no way I was going surfing.

Didn't seem like the Messiah was either but all of a sudden, after such a long period of watching and waiting, Dane produced a red board from the back of the Holden. I went over to investigate. It was a single fin surfboard. Old, flat, heavy, unwaxed, with a large ding in the bottom. I stood it up and stood next to it. It was shorter than me by a foot. Four foot something, with a massive raked fin up in the box. "You gunna ride it?" I enquired. "Don't know......just debatin"

Well he debated it pretty good and walked down the steps with it. Paddled out into an orgy of high performance surfing and trimmed a couple of inside waves. He couldn't really turn but it might've been some exercise. Who knows?

There was no contest on but I went to work in the media room anyway. Everyone left and the sun went down. It got cold and that nagging cold onshore wind kept blowing. The flags were flapping, throwing ghastly shapes in the flood-lit night. Generators were humming loudly. I felt like the last human alive on Earth, like an Eraserhead escaped from a David Lynch film.

I took a can of coke from the fridge and started walking......the vendors were gone and the carpark was empty. I wanted to switch off the lights as I left but the generators kept humming behind me. Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Photos - Day Two