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Like way, way out, past our atmosphere and all the planets. Theme: It would be Barbarella themed. For example, the Amazon — you can see all the run off now. Deforestation has caused all the top soil to run out into the river. Probably not even playing songs — just jamming.

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The back was full of surfboards and a box of shaping tools. I looked up to the brightly colored boards hanging above my Nuve. A little extra work, at times, but as reliable as the continual victory of capitalistic democracy Nude rasta facism. For most of my twenties and thirties I gushed to great effect. I found Derek on a low wood railing under a pandanus tree, eyes fixed on The Pass. One late morning, dripping wet from a Nude rasta surf, ambling back up to the car, Derek asked what it was like hanging out with Westerly. March fifteenth. You necessarily show slightly lacking. He surrounded him nude College fashion models girls one deny it. He called me Slick.

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Like way, way out, past our atmosphere and all the planets. Theme: It would be Barbarella themed. For example, the Amazon — you can see all the run off now. Deforestation has caused all the top soil to run out into the river. Probably not even playing songs — just jamming.

From the surfing world, Tom Blake, Duke Kahanamoku. He was kinda the frontman for psychedelia at that time. That, and the huge glass windows everywhere so you could see all around. Set up way back in the 60s, with radioscopes and scanners and everything. I grew up among sexism and misogyny. In 8 th grade, Ronnie Merkel skated up to me on the basketball court. He grinned sardonically. Never tell a girl you love her, for that will be the end of you, Slick!

He called me Slick. In it he regards his wife, Gala, with tremendous love and admiration and respect. I appreciated this. I recognized a similar yearning in myself, though I lacked the courage or the trust or the right girlfriend to express it.

For most of my twenties and thirties I gushed to great effect. I was fearless with my heart. But I have since become more cynical, more terrified. Most nights I shiver myself to sleep. But occasionally it comes and washes over me, unfettered, conditionless Garden of Eden love.

I present my girl with a lap-sized, heart-shaped box. Chocolate, she thinks. She unties the bow, peels off the lid, and out fly a dozen Purple Sapphire butterflies, imported from West Bengal, India. We just had a re-stock of our Superlative Black Virgin Mary surf trunks. Four extra pairs. Two in a inch waist, two in the inch waist. BeachGrit places a great deal of emphasis on surf trunks. It is made from the soft cotton.

Button flies. Velcro catches, zips corrode and threaten your vitals. A little extra work, at times, but as reliable as the continual victory of capitalistic democracy over facism. It must be designed by the best in the biz, in this case, a Mr Rama McCabe, a Byron Bay-born surfer of impeccable style. How else can we be assured of the perfect silhouette and detail? Size-wise, they fit a little big. But click here to buy! Surf rumors are very good and I have one that might change your next board purchase.

Kelly Slater is said to be sniffing around Firewire and not just to ride but to buy. Like, the whole company or at least part of it. Our hero has always been very prog when it comes to his hardware. He was an early adopter of removable fin systems, rode his boards very undersized in very oversized surf and once carved a chunnel in the bottom of his Merrick to make it a hydroplane racing boat.

Firewire has been around for a while now and recently introduced a new, greener surfboard technology called TimberTek which includes…. But that was long ago and now Taj rides for Matt Biolos. The book Becoming Westerly is released in Australia today. The chapter extracted, below, is the second-last in the book in which we find the author a former pro surfer under the spell of the former pro surfer and writer so many similarities! Derek Hynd in the Australian coastal town of Byron Bay.

I learn from him. Derek Hynd rides boards with no fins, which means that instead of a firm, reliable connection with the wave, he slides all over the place, sometimes riding backwards for a spell, often twirling into s. Derek personifies both extremes. In the water he is playful, fishlike, a slave to the slide.

His boards are sculptures, albeit functional sculptures. Grooves and gutters and channels feed out the tail, beads of resin stripe the rails.

If Fred Flintstone had surfed his boards might have looked something like these. The drive from Labrador to Byron Bay takes a little over an hour. For me, the trip was a sort of revisiting of my teens. I turned on the radio and got sucked into a debate about education.

A male voice—urgent, fabulous enunciation—spoke about a national vision and a national curriculum. I remember seeing them play the Whiskey-a-Go-Go in He sang about U. Forces, world history, the great survival mechanism that is having a short memory. Prancing across the stage on tip-toes as if sneaking up on a sleeping animal, he sang about the outside world.

The message: You can shape your life into whatever you want. What does that same inspiration look like at age 50? I wondered. Gold Coast point breaks peel from right to left. At Burleigh Heads I watched a set of chest-high waves cascade across the shallow sandbank. At Currumbin at least surfers dotted the point, but nary a breaker in sight. Kirra more resembled a long rock pool than the spot that dazzled my imagination in the film In Search of Tubular Swells. Bathers leapt off the groyne and swam languorously down the point.

Dads walked their water-winged children into the big turquoise. Superbank—the sandbank that ties together Snapper Rocks, Greenmount, and Rainbow Bay—looked ridiculously fun. The head-high waves zippered machine-like under the blindingly bright sun.

It elicited thirst. It was like something you gulp down in a hurry. It created its own traffic. Cars with boards on the roof puttered, turning signals ablink, searching for parking spots. Bare-chested grommets scampered across the road, logo-bedecked thrusters under arm. Cyclists overtook joggers, joggers trotted past power walkers, power walkers shuffled around leisurely strollers.

I passed the Tweed Heads apartment building where twenty-six-year-old, five-time world champion Stephanie Gilmore lives. In , Stephanie—fresh-faced, innocent, eternally smiling—was walking up the steps to her place when a homeless man attacked her with an iron bar. Now the surfers are the ones in the shiny SUVs with big houses on the hill. I arrived in Byron Bay right on time. The streets were packed with tourists.

The Great Northern Hotel advertised a gig with the Sunnyboys. Disenchanted by city life, surfers moved to the northern NSW coast, settling in old cottages in Angourie, Lennox Head, and chiefly Byron. The living was cheap and stress-less.

The waves were so good you could center your whole life around them. Much has changed in the last half century—crowds, real estate hikes, retro hipsters making a travesty out of the whole enterprise—but vestiges of genuine Country Soul still exist around these parts.

Flicking across the radio, I found a local station. I found Derek on a low wood railing under a pandanus tree, eyes fixed on The Pass. Waist-high waves of light turquoise crashed against the headland and winded down the point. There was something anachronistic about the scene, every surfer on a longboard, wetsuitless, riding in hood ornament fashion. It looked like the late fifties. He wore a white T-shirt that draped loosely over his wiry torso, black knee-length boardshorts, and no shoes.

He has the short, knock-kneed legs of a lead guitarist who mid-solo drops seamlessly to the floor, say Hendrix or Prince. In front of us a couple of bush turkeys pecked at the grass. A few seconds later a goanna, gnarled and ancient-looking and about two-feet long, dawdled past. It crawled across the grass and across the boat ramp as if it were a crosswalk.

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