He who has a why to live can bear almost any how. Nietzsche.

When I first began to write about professional surfing (it seems like so many moons ago!) I knew I would be set upon by all kinds of sharp-witted internet hawks waiting to tear my prose limb from bloody limb as they caterwauled with piercing shrieks, 'hypocrite', 'hater' etc etc. That is expected, the trade demands it. Truth be told, it has caused some intensive soul searching and plenty of mental anguish.

When you devote your working life to something that fascinates and repels in equal measure there are no easy answers to the question. Why? The only recourse is to the cop-out first explained by dead Euro, Blaise Pascal, who baldly stated: Man is an incomprehensible monster. Too true, Pascky, too true.

The case against The Outsider as put forth by many email correspondences since Snapper Rocks can be summed up by this sunny missive from a C. Smith of Los Angeles, California. He writes: "Dude, like what's your fucking problem? Are you some communist, hippy ingrate fed on lentils soaked in lesbian armpit juices? The surf industry is totes rad. It provides employment and hi-tech boardshorts for modern progressives. Why not take your criticism and like, go blow a donkey. Or something!"

Nice reading over a morning coffee. Still and all, this is both an exhilarating and melancholy time to be covering the Pro Tour. Melancholy because the the Dream Tour is dead in the water. Instead of warm water, tube-filled junkets at G-land and Cloudbreak...it's cold grey slop in NYC and Rio De Janeiro. Instead of nestling into the bosom of warm hearted, dusky-skinned peoples of the Indo-Pacific...it's mingling with nerdy anaemic hipsters blogging on Iphones. Exhilarating because the 80's revival is in full swing. All we need now is a few thousand drunken valley rednecks in Oakley Blades to riot over some poodle-haired high-waisted bikini models for the Back To The Future moment to be note perfect. The greatest ever surfer is running stand-up comedy routines at press conferences and Dane is getting weirder and more disinterested by the hour; running humanitarian programs in his pyjamas from his Ventucky stronghold. Will he come back? No-one seems to know. The veil of secrecy would make a Mafia Don blush with pride.

At the giddy heights of the upper echelons of the sport a warm gooey love has been spreading between Numbers 1 and 2 in the WT race. Taj and Kelly have been inseparable in the break, sharing waves and international adventures as they date sisters. This summer of love atmosphere suits Kelly to a T at this point in his career...I predict a tie-dyed collaboration between Burrows and Slater before the years end (maybe mens underwear) which will light up the fashion houses of Europe and NYC. Remember, you read it here first folks.

Sorry, what's that? That guffawing? Yeah, I can hear it too. It's Kelly laughing his arse off as he saunters to World Title No 11 over a bunch of whipped puppy dogs. If Kelly doesn't exit early at Bells this year will descend into low farce; a rivalry is needed somewhere on the tour, somewhere in the ranks. For the life of me I can't see it happening. A giant dose of what Aussie hard man Chopper Reid calls harden the fuck up is urgently required.

Still, C. Smith's words continued to taunt me. Did I hate the surf industry? Was I a retrograde ingrate who needed to get with the program? No, your honour. A thousand times, no!

I have seen many fine young men and women from this very district find their fame and fortune in the surf industry. Creative geniuses like Rama McCabe, Tim Cochrane and Tommy Milledge. Karlee Mackie, who's brilliant murals on the streets of the Ox, could not have happened without the generous assistance of yada, yada, yada...

The beef is not ideological but merely one of job description. For too long hack journalists have become de facto marketing organs for the big corpos and the tepid, infantile coverage drove me back into the fold. This has just been a historical period of confusion which I am now helping to clear up. In plain English: Journalists don't write PR material for the contests/corporations. They report without fear or favour.

Personally, I've had a long-standing life goal to embrace the Diamond Dobby revolution and banish this horrific ball rash to the dustbin of history. I came desperately close to achieving this dream in the break. A long lost relative who died in Argentina (via Germany I believe) left a tidy inheritance which I was able to use as seed funding. Despite contacting a raft of venture capitalists in both London and Wall St I could not raise the necessary funding to purchase the boardshorts. Ces't la vie.

Luckily, in glorious faux-boho Byron Bay, at 69 Shirley St (yes, you read that right) another wonderful symbiotic friendship and cultural phenomena is flourishing in the full-bodied Autumn sunshine. I speak, of course, of 1991 ASP Rookie of the Year Jeremy Byles' surf shop and the employment opportunity he has extended to his old friend Shane Herring. At any time of the day Bylesy is selling boardshorts and surfboards and Shane is in the back rooms fixing dings. A strict beer curfew is observed and there are no brown paper bags with bottles allowed before 10am.

Everyday, Shane and Jeremy offer salutary lessons in the kind of pitfalls of the Old Skool Surfing Life, scaring soccer moms, backpackers and IT geeks witless (usually after midday when the beer curfew has expired) and preventing more people from taking up surfing. For that, and for providing boardshorts which don't take a second mortgage to pay for, I salute you gentlemen.

Yes, it's sad sometimes. But there is love and compassion there and a kind of delicate freedom which comes with failure and the absence of striving. It shows that the tyranny of the rat-race is not yet final. 69 Shirley St is sacred ground and Holy Land for me, like Cannery Row was for Steinbeck.

I think Dane would understand. Kelly, not so much.

The rest of the break passed peaceably enough. A king-hell fin gash on the foot prevented me accepting an all-expenses paid junket to the Ments: a fork in the road of fate which prevented the kind of easy sell-out I always wondered whether I'd have the moral strength to resist. Evidently not. Every man has his price.

Enough navel gazing. The forecast is solid as a series of large storms sweep upwards from the south Indian Ocean. Fanning looked the sharpest tool in the Margaret River shed. He has the most to gain from a win. Slater will continue to challenge the judges concept as he brings micro equipment to slopey, wind textured faces. Against a large-sized human like Parko or Jordy riding conventional equipment at classic Bells, Slater's surfing may appear under-cooked and juvenile. An opportunity that may not be repeated this year unless J-Bay turns on. A surgical strike must be made early by one of the top seeds to cut off the supply lines of Slater's confidence.

The Outsider notes Julian's fully realised act as a potential podium finisher. Owen and Bede must reverse their early season form. Martinez must move now or face career extinction.

Any of that make sense? Clear as mud? Great. We understand each other perfectly. The quiver is packed and the Greyhound bus is on time. Let's get this fucking party started. Good night and good luck.