Every man has some reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone, but only to his friends. He has others which he would not reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But finally there are still others which a man is even afraid to tell himself, and every decent man has a considerable number of such things stored away. That is, one can even say that the more decent he is, the greater the number of such things in his mind. - Fyodor Dostoevsky, Notes from the Underground.

Victoria.

Shit.

Everytime I wake in Victoria I feel like Captain Willard in the hotel room in Saigon except instead of choppers and the warm chaos of Asia it's cold, grey cloud and a thin, wan sunlight. Twisted tea-tree and the low shrubs. Always, the feeling of bleakness. Places in the mind, as Kidman calls it...

Some of this actually happened, more or less.

The first trip to Bells, it was true, was a rock bottom affair. First glimpse revealed six foot Bells Bowl and Occy's pill-box physique squaring off the bottom, holding the line like never before, or since.

There was no accom so we slept on the wooden deck overlooking Winkipop, huddled in grimy sleeping bags bought for chump change at the local op shop. Local history states the naming of Winkipop comes from the memory of an amorous encounter between a local surfer and his gal. That was my experience also after a lucky opening gambit in the Torquay pub. There was warmth for a glorious hour with a full moon sending a milky cone of light down the Winkipop speedway. Later, and much before the dawn the allure of lit-up 6ft pointsurf was too much and I suited up. When I came in the girl was gone.

We trawled skips looking for food and milled in the carpark cold, hungry and mean. The well-fed burghers seemed offensive to our shrunken and hollowed eyes, which observed with the nuance and keen insight of a criminal. There was a retreat, like MP, into a private world of shame, away from the vagaries of a world that wouldn't listen.

Back then, Parko was a 15-year old kid, living with his father in a mango tree clad, pre-Superbank Coolangatta, dreaming of Pro Surfing. Kelly already had a swag of world titles.

But that was then and this is now and so much has changed. It is what it is, as they say. Memories fade.

Determined to change the prevailing mood, I started the campaign with a surf. From the observation deck, Parko's flawless style was unmistakeable. We exchanged fin chop stories in the carpark at 13th Beach. Luke Egan was riding a round-tailed quad. There was a faint smell of smoke in the air. Parko looked happy. We need happy/angry Parko. We need lady luck to give Parko some open canvasses to create his art on.

My timing for the go-out was poor. An unattended left was monstered by Jordy and Corey Lopez before I could paddle out. In the flesh, as a surfing compadre, Jordy cuts a hulking figure, despite the pink filigreed westuit. As I paddled out he pulled a fully tweaked backside 360 air right in front of me. My testicles shrivelled a bit more.

Walking up the stairs behind Jordy and that famous caboose, which wouldn't look out of place on the savannah, I yelled at him, "When are you going to take this old bald guy out?"

"Bru, I'm trying".

It could be another long year for Bru.

Up in the carpark Tom Curren had pulled up next to me. We had a little chat. He doesn't like four fins. Prefers three fins. But best of all, he loves a single fin. And here, he puts his fingers in the sky and traces an imaginary high line..."nothing feels as free as a single fin".

A single fin restores dignity. Thats not what he said, but it seemed to be what he meant. He walked away wearing that slightly haunted, confused expression which makes grown men shrink away feeling pity and piety in equal measure.

Spirits were soaring as I went to collect the media pass. The sun escaped the mantle of grey cloud and the dun coloured grass waved into the distance. Joy and jubilee were rising in my soul as I shook hands with security. I recognised the broad farmers physique and the hands like hocks of ham. "Hey Wal, hows it going?"

Wal's got a bit of a stutter but is one of Gods true gentlemen. Always make friends with security is one of the first laws of gonzo journalism. That hand around your neck if things go pear may just relax a touch if the voice is recognised.

I stopped back in the 13th carpark on the way home to my host. The line-up was empty. A dark car pulled up and out of it emerged two tan-skinned gentlemen. One of them was Flores. The other, his father?

"How's the knee?" I asked.

"Oh, eets much better," he said. He was friendly, bigger in real life.

I was dying to ask him about the Burleigh beatdown. But my courage deserted me. It was a gorgeous Victorian afternoon and the prospect of a buck eighty can's worth of Gallic whoop-ass being opened up on me suddenly seemed unappealing. "Good luck, eh" I said.

"Yeah, thanks a lot man".

Adam Robertson faces off with Jimmy Slade in Round 1. He's got better than a punchers chance of taking out the champ. Slater will offer him maximum respect. The wild card hoodoo cuts deep with the champ. This could be the heat of the comp.

Memory is unreliable. It tortures and delights in equal measure. There will be torrents of memory flowing down the internets this week, mostly of the sickly sweet kind. There are other memories as well. Harsher ones.

More will be made this week.

Count on it.