The D.J.Files #54 “Familiar Faces” 1985
Malt and Bear were in the parking lot next to the Kirra kiosk. Overnight it had poured in that wonderful tropical way it often does when a cyclone is not too far way. But now the cloud was breaking and fierce rays of sunshine were bursting between like a Cecil B. De Mille special effect. And most importantly, overhead lines were slipping around the groyne and along the rocks in a desperate attempt to reach the cafe. They failed, of course, and were being punished unmercifully for even trying, by a mixture of local lads and international visitors.
The boards were waiting patiently on the ground to be given some wax. M & B were taking a long time to get ready, because in summer you don’t need a wetsuit. You _do_ need 15+ blockout everywhere, zinc on ya beak, ears and tops of your shoulders. All this takes far longer than slipping sexily into a full body neoprene number. Funny really, not having to do that was one of the big attractions of migrating for this pair.
Eventually tho, they started to put on the wax. Malt glanced up for another look at the waves. Leaning on the rail were a mixed group of guys. Catching the Malt’s gaze, a couple of them nodded ‘gidday’ and he nodded back, saying to Bear “Where do I know those guys from?” “Um…here, possibly”, Bear replied, retrieving a Surf Mag. from a seat in the VW. “Oh.. hah, yeah”, said Malt, looking a bit sheepish. …
They must have been in the line-up for nearly an hour. They’d probably only had 3 or 4 waves between them. Neither of them were inclined to drop in on anyone, and the place was pretty busy. It was only a week before the Stubbies was due to start. So the International Surfing Circus was in town. And most of em seemed to be out here today. Good to watch tho. Bear went for another wave, expecting to have to back off..again.
At the last second a Hawaiian said “Yours, bruh” and after being very patient Bear was dropping down a wave of his own. Being backhand here, he sat into the bottom turn, banked off the lip and set a speed line for the fast-peeling tube of the middle section. There’s a continual line of people paddling back outside, and he’s trying to keep an eye on them. Then something gets in the way. His vision seems blurred… Now Bear has had one or two (not hundreds tho, I have to say) tube rides in his many years in the water. Mostly forehand, altho he has grabbed a rail from time-to-time and slipped temporarily into a backhand one, and mostly folded up like a tree-frog in a thunderstorm. Knees in ears, head up arse, I’m sure you’re all familiar with the position (No, grandma it’s _not_ in the Kama Sutra).
But what in fact was clouding his vision, and it took him a second or 2 to register the fact, was the falling lip of this, now A-frame, Kirra tube. Not even a smile crossed his dial. It was all happening too fast. His prime concern was “I can’t see, I’m gonna run over some poor bastard!” . He saw people peering up the tube. One or two went “Woohoo!” or “yee-ha!” or similar and in that adrenalin-induced t..i…m…e….s..t..a..l…l, it seemed like minutes before he popped out into the warm sunshine again, as it backed off on the inside. A standup tube! He’d never had one o’ those before.
His pullout was smooth enough, but as he lay down again to paddle, it all caught up with him. He howled in delight, and the shakes set in. After getting outside and having to wait another long time, in which he became quite relaxed and resigned to not having another wave all day, he got another, almost identical, wave. Except he blew this one before the pullout.
There was a third. Given the crowd and the standard of surfing happening out there, he was rapt. So was the Malt with a similar set notched up.
On the drive home, Bear suddenly remembered D.J. jokingly refer to Killer Kirra. He’d only ever seen, and surfed, it small. Bear laughed out loud: for once in his life he was one-up on the bastard. Malt opened a dozing eye, quizzically.
“Nothing mate”, said Bear and Malt re-shut the eye.
