Steve Shearer April 09, 2009

What it does it mean to be in Victoria on the ninth day of a ten day waiting period, cast adrift from the loving embrace of family and friends, as reliant on the judgement of strangers for sustenance as a homeless man who begs for beer money?

It means to simply wander the clifftops, embracing that sublime urge for solitude, for cleanliness, after the excesses and rabble of performance and judgement. It is judgement which makes one weary. But perhaps one is more afraid of being understood, than misunderstood. Even if judged.

Beneath this heavy, overcast sky where the dark clouds scud forth over the clifftops there are small birds flitting in the ornate heath. If one stands perfectly still they will soon resume their performance: the flitting between and musical dancing, the to-ing and fro-ing and leaping symphony of feathers and colours. One can watch all this transfixed and soon forget why one is here: a surf contest. And one can soon forget that Kelly Slater has a busted foot and that somewhere, in a meeting, men are discussing in earnest tones how to finish this contest.

One can soon think: I am part of all this. And, what I write is no more than a protracted audacious forgery which allows me to enjoy the good conscience of my soul.

There are no Pro Surfers on these clifftops, the sun is hidden and the heinous windslop allows nothing more than beginners to stumble clumsily to their feet like newborn giraffes.

Whole groups of sensations and thoughts are awakened, begin to speak and issue commands within the soul: Pro Surfing exists as a kind of scaffolding upon which a select species can raise themselves to new and higher levels. The foundation upon which this scaffolding rests is essentially appropriation, injury, overcoming of the strange and weaker, suppression, severity, imposition of one's own forms and will and at the least and mildest, exploitation. In this supra-moral world almost every vicarious thrill we experience is based on the theatrical intensification of cruelty.

When that feeling is heightened, as in the tragic downfall of Parko last year, and the imbroglio surrounding Fanning, our interest becomes piqued. Please let no-one dispute this self-evident pleasure in witnessing the sight of the suffering of others.

But there is also the strange thrill of ones own suffering. The dangerous lure of the secret caves and diverticula of the spirit, even when the highest urges are to affirm, love and worship.

The seabirds are flying in the strong wind which howls from the Southern Ocean beside the cliffs of Bells Beach. Every so often one utters a piteous shriek that is torn by the wind and cast unheard into the advancing surf city of Torquay.

There is still uncertainty over the final stadium for this contest to reach it's denouement. If Johanna, it would favour Jordy and Parko. Small Winki: Slater and Taj and Mick. Slater will be better for a day of rest. And we will be there to see the Final Chapter written in the notebook of history.

The magpies are carolling in the half light of piccaninny dawn. We wait for the call, ready to move.