how to get out at lennox on a big day

bybraithy:

The Ox. Big risks, bigger rewards.

Originally posted on petebowes.com:

How can that be so hard?

Even you, lately travelled up from Sydney or some other poor seaport further south that almost freezes in winter, up here in the carpark, and for the first time you see naked Lennox. The whore with barbed wire on her bed.

You look at it out there, under the heat of the May sun, and it’s ten foot. Oiled. It writhes with great power.

It’s ten foot for every one of the twenty sets that you watch roaring past, because you’re on the bench down on the edge of the grass now, watching closely. You’re no mug.

It shows.

You’re watching the locals get out, seeing where they go, what configuration of fast emerging and submerging sharp-edged boulders they lock into and slide through, over, and past – with just a few big power paddles. Seeing whether they time getting out early on a…

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Stand up Paddling — it’s war out there.

spitfires, like SUP's they're coming to get us.

Paddled out to this bank which has been spoiling me rotten all week, for what looks like the best yet. Lefts and rights, mid tide, straight offshore. Only one other guy on it. Perfect.

A head high, slightly overhead set comes through, I duckdive one, cop two on the head. Get out the back and look around. Over my right shoulder staring out to sea. Are my eyes playing tricks on me? What the fcuk is that?

… They lined my horizon like a squadron of WWII spitfires . There was at least 20 of them, maybe as many as 30. I became a little disorientated, to be honest.

Then they started descending into the lineup. First a couple — the front edge, I called them. Then the rest, it seemed like all at once they were next to me and beside me, behind me and in front of me. I wanted to fight back but was powerless to even talk. My chin dragged along the rising and falling ocean surface.

Stand Up Paddlers. Most without leashes. Some with sun hats. The braver ones wore no shirts and above-the-knee boardies. It was bedlam. I felt small and like I was being slowly violated. I guess I was.

I looked back into the beach and on the rocky headland there were photographers and a video guy setting up. The photographers had tripods and were clicking feverishly.

Fcuk, my session was ruined. I considered my sudden state of affairs for a set or two. Up the beach it’s closing out, down the beach is a nippers/ junior carnival. No car, I rode my bike. I did the only thing I felt empowered enough to do.

I undid my boardshorts drawstring, raisied my left — non legrope leg — through the leg and released my berries onto my board while my boardies swirled around in the current held to me by my leggie. I paddled hard for the next set wave, burning two SUP’s  either side of me in the process. I heard a, “Fcuuuuuuukkk!”

I smiled, possibly manically. We’ll need to get the film to confirm.

I could feel the gaze of the camera lens on my shrunken tackle as I raised to my feet, drove the tail down and planted a bottom turn. The lip came down and collected me halfway up the wave face and drilled me. As I entered the face of the wave, I felt my bare, spread arse be the last thing swallowed up out of view, if you were on the beach.

In the white water I dressed myself and climbed back on my board and let the white water take me into shore.

I hope the camera men as they watched me disappear through the back dunes … I hope they wondered what the fcuk had just happened and if what they’d just seen was real. I mean I really hope I screwed with their thoughts for the next 15 minutes.

I told my wife about it when I got home. She thinks I may need psychological help.

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