My uncle taught me to surf during a summer holiday on the Sunshine Coast when I was twelve. The first time I tried, I somehow managed to bash my head on the board bailing under a wave, and left the water telling myself that this surfing caper wasn’t my thing. But two weeks later I gave it another shot, and after successfully riding a couple of six-inch dribblers, I was hooked.
Life as a surf-obsessed teen growing up in the decidedly waveless inner western suburbs of Brisbane was pretty frustrating, and I relied on school holidays and the occasional Mum & Dad-powered weekend surf trip (if I could persuade them) to get my fix. Back in Brisbane I lived on a diet of magazines, and fell asleep mindsurfing the perfect waves that Tom Curren and Shane Powell tore apart on my bedroom walls.
I had a couple of bodyboarding mates but for the most part my friends didn’t surf. Surf culture was always something that I kind of looked in on from the outside. When you grow up away from the coast, it’s easy to feel a bit like an outsider to surfing – you’re not a ‘local’ anywhere (whatever that means), and you don’t get in the water often enough to rip like the brown-skinned, blonde-haired kids that are lucky enough to be able to ride their pushies to the beach every day for a surf after school.
As I got older I drifted away from surfing a bit. Skateboarding was good enough as a landlocked alternative. I was into music and intellectual stuff. I still surfed occasionally with my mate Ben, especially once he got his drivers’ licence, but more and more I felt like surfing was a bit of a fad that I was growing out of. It didn’t fit very well with the image I had of myself any more.
I went on a student exchange to Montreal in 2001, in my third year of Uni. It was an unforgettable time but for a whole year I was nowhere near the ocean. Over there I met K, also doing a student exchange – she’s from Adelaide, so pretty soon after we got back to Australia I moved down to SA and shacked up with her (in her parents’ house, of course). Six months later, we moved up to Brisbane and I spent the next couple of years there living, studying, working and for the most part not surfing.
In 2005, ready for a change, we moved back to Adelaide. I left my board behind. Something about the cold water and enormous white pointers didn’t really appeal to me as a Queensland boy. Basically, since then, my time in the surf has been non-existent aside from the odd bash on my old 6’0” (which was great as a lithe teenager but hopelessly inadequate for my now-slightly-expanded frame and office-worker arm muscles) maybe once a year when I went back to Queensland to see family and friends.
So why have I jumped back into the water? Basically, it’s because I know what a great escape surfing is from the daily rut, the normal stresses of life. It’s reconnecting with something that’s given me so much joy throughout my life. Sitting through the landlocked work week hanging out for that next surf is still frustrating, but it’s all worth it once you apply fibreglass to water…
"It may be a blessing in disguise. ... Something happened a long time ago in Haiti, and people might not want to talk about it. Haitians were originally under the heel of the French. You know, Napoleon the third, or whatever. And they got together and swore a pact to the devil. They said, we will serve you if you will get us free from the French. True story. And so, the devil said, okay it's a deal. Ever since they have been cursed by one thing after the other."
.. or 108 in the old money. Managed to cool down at Parsons' yesterday morning though, small waves but very fun, beautiful crystal clear water and barely a puff of wind... 
