“Take, if you want a slice, If you want a piece, If it feels alright
Break, if you like the sound, If it gets you up, If it brings you down
Share, if it makes sleep, If it sets you free, If it helps you breathe
Don’t come over here, And piss on my gate,
Save it, just keep it, Off my wave
Keep it off my wave, My wave...”

My Wave by Soundgarden

Rain. Shit. What’s the weather going to be like up there? I need not have worried. The spot might only be two hours away from good old slaap stad, but it might as well be on the other side of the planet for its weather. Raining and cold in the mother city? Hot as a summer’s day in the bay. Hot and dry in Cape Town? Beyond belief at the location.

So there I was, early morning cold and wet outside my bedroom window. My alarm clock was going off, telling me it was time to go, go, go. We had agreed to leave at seven. By six thirty I was ready, bags packed, breakfast eaten, and my first cup of coffee a distant memory. Not knowing what to expect up there, I had packed a couple of books, just in case there was a lull in the proceedings. Next time I will know better. There is never a quiet moment. Every hour, every minute, every second, is full up with living. Even if you are not doing anything, you are still doing something. Laughing, talking, eating or surfing, a 24 hour day feels like its 48, and it still has hours to spare.

I felt excited and glad to be going away to the bay. I was supposed to have tagged along the week before for a session with the crew, but I wound up sick in bed instead. I caught up with some of the guys on the weekend and got the report back. They all agreed that it had been awesome, especially Thursday. Thursday had cooked, plain and simple. The kind of dream day that surfers spend hours dreaming about.

Legend waves, legend weather, an empty backline, and enough stamina to go the whole day. Which they most definitely did, I was told that six and half hours was the shortest session for the day, two hours in the water is usually the average, but six? What can I say, the boys had a good time. You could see it in their eyes, hear it when they talked about it, feel the rush of dropping into a wave when they complimented one another about their individual rides.

They had been up there for five days the last time, but after spending the same amount of time back in the city, the collective mind spoke to them all. “Time to go back” it said. They heard it loud and clear, one and all making arrangements to get back there as fast as possible. It was one of those times in everyone’s lives that they could just simply pack up and go.

Two on holiday, me and one of the guys on sabbatical, one starting a new job in a weeks time, and one able to take leave at short notice. Phones calls were made, dates where set, times and places agreed upon, all they needed now to pull it all together was the co-operation of the seas and the tides. Big storms in the roaring forties took care of that one for us. There were big swells being pushed up from the south and the waves were predicted to be good for the next week or two. A quick check on the surf web site confirmed it, and there was even talk of waves and sets that could possibly become rogue. We would have to wait and see.

I am no stranger to the ocean. Having grown up in Natal I have been lucky enough spend copious amounts of time observing her more than sublime shores. I have fished in them, swam in them, spent hours gazing at them, and I have fallen asleep to the sounds of them rumbling outside the flaps of my tent. As of this moment, I actually have the sea right outside my front door; I am looking at it, as I write this, only now it’s the Cape coast I am on. Kalk Bay to be exact, home to a sneaky little left break that gets surfed by the guys on a regular basis.

The famous Greek storyteller, Homer, describes the seas colors as “ Wine dark” in his writings. That’s one way of putting it, but it looks like liquid silk to me, in another couple of hours it will look like something entirely different. The sea, ever the fickle Mistress, has a thousand different faces that she can choose from to show you. Cold and dark the one minute, warm and friendly the next. But if there is one thing that I have learned from people who really know the ocean, it is that you should always, always, treat it with respect. Never turn your back on it, just as you would never turn your back on a rabid dog. You never know, when it’s going to bite.

Despite the proximity of the ocean and regardless of my many trips to see it, I have never surfed. I am not ashamed to say this though. Look, I will even say it again. I have never surfed. I can hear the great wailing and gnashing of teeth from where I sit.

Sorry guys, but just because up until now I have spent my days as a crusty landlubber who deserves nothing better than to walk the plank, does not mean that I have not enjoyed my life so far. I have done many, many, many interesting things in my years. Things that some people could never even dream of, so put that on your board and ride it. I have my reasons, and I will try to explain them to you.

Now I know surfers. Quite a few of them actually. Some I would even go so far as to say are close friends. But for the most part I think they can be complete and utter wankers, shallow and self centered little pricks that are the proud owners of personalities that are as annoying as a dripping tap, and that goes for their IQ’s as well. Now having made that statement, I do not mean ALL surfers. I reserve this particular view for those kind of “ hey my broo, shoowa dude, its like totally total” California sunshine assholes. The ones who will never get in the water without an audience and have a nasty habit of thinking that they surf like Kelly Slater. The surfers I was going with were not of this ilk, they were real, they were surfers of the purest kind.

Go to a house party for example, where the owner is a surfer, and every other person is too. Stand outside around the fire with all the other guys with a beer in your hand, and listen to them talk. They are worse than a sewing circle, I swear. First off it’s the language. Now I understand that surf speak is reserved for those who take part in the sport and there is actually no way that you can describe what it is that you do out there in plain English.

Lets face it, happy and stoked are not even close and sick is definitely not stay at home sick, but after a while you can sort of fathom out what the guys mean. Then there are also the names for the surf sports, Dungeons, popcorn, Jaws, you name it, it’s out there somewhere. There is probably even a spot called Auntie Rita’s dentures, who knows. Then there is the stimulating conversation, and guess what? It’s all about surfing, and I mean all. So right about now, as the non-surfer of the group, I am bored, bored, bored. I am meaning bored with a capital B. You feel about as welcome as a pork chop in a you know what.

These kind of goings on only go to exclude someone from the circle of surf. All they have to do is include you in what’s going on and explain it to the stranger in the strange and watery land. That to me is what defines a surfer who actually knows what it’s all about from the ones who don’t. The crew that I was about to go away with is not like that. When they talk surf they include the outsider in it as well. Questions are answered with a smile rather than a sneer, and you are spoken to on the same level as opposed to being spoken down to as a child. The impression they give is one sided and makes them appear to be that they are only in it for the image. So there you have it, that’s why I had been put off from getting into the backline and claiming my slot. I did not want to become like that.

I am not alone in thinking this way. There are others out there like me who look at surfers as if they are a gang akin to the secret seven or the famous five and no one need apply. Now the other crew is more like Peter Pan and the Lost Boys, they think happy thoughts and they fly. They surf with skill, but they surf with soul, and they definitely surf with style. To me they are the epitome of what a surfer should be and what surfing is all about.

“Satan goes surfing
He is on his board
He can’t hang ten
He can only hang four..”

Evil Superstars

The clock said seven. I grabbed my stuff, locked the front door, and met my friend by the bakkie. He had been busy; there was a stack of boards on the racks already. The silver board bags looking dull and faded in the morning light. Above us the clouds were slithering around each other, black on Grey, like giant snakes made of mist and vapor. We were set to go.

First stop was to pick up one of the guys, he was in his first year at UWC doing a Bachelors degree of science that would see him majoring in medicine and one day being a Doctor. I had heard his name mentioned before but had never actually met him. A few more stops and we were off, a little later than anticipated, but finally heading up the West Coast. It was the first time that I had been up that way, and I was impressed by the scenery.

You get used to seeing mountains in the Cape, but the terrain was surprisingly flatter than I expected it to be. On the way you pass the salt pans at the Cerebos factory. Huge white mounds of salt ready to be bagged and shipped to you so you can sprinkle it over your fish and chips. You never really think about where things come from do you? We just see it in the shops and take it home.

During the time of the Romans, when their Legions controlled nearly the entire civilized world, salt, was what the soldiers were paid in. Not gold, not silver, not even priceless gemstones but good old fashioned salt. The size of the piles that we had driven passed would have been worth Billions and Billions, enough to fund the Legions for ten years or more. That’s where the expression “ is he worth his salt “ comes from.

Funny how things change over the years.

One hour later we were turning right into the property that the guys call home. Years ago it had been an old dilapidated pub with a thatch roof. A watering hole for the locals. Now of course it looks much different. It’s just the kind of spot you imagine that surfers would stay in when on safari. Spacious, beds, and sunlight everywhere, it had steps going up to a loft type space that had even more beds. A gas boiler supplied hot water and because the oven had been stolen, fire would be used to cook our meal at night. We ate sandwiches during the day, no mess, and no fuss.

First things first though, we headed across the road to scope out the surf. I could tell that they were a little disappointed by what they saw, but they all agreed that it would be bigger by late afternoon. It was cold though; the wind bringing that winter chill to remind us what season it was, despite the sunshine and blue sky. We headed back to unpack our things and have some lunch. A couple of the guys were playing in injury time, so they decided to sit the first session out, hoping that they would be better for the others that were to follow the next day.

One of the guys mentioned that he had a camera and I immediately felt like taking some snaps. I usually record and capture events and circumstances with my writing as opposed to actual imagery, but I felt that for this trip a picture would be better at documenting what they were up too out there. After my neighbor had suited up and waxed his board we headed down to the beach.

It was about four thirty in the afternoon. The sun was setting to our immediate left giving the water a faint tint of orange. There was no one out there at first, but after about fifteen minutes or so a car drove up and disgorged another four guys into the water. It was hard to spot whom was who at first, but luckily I was helped by one of the guys who knew what they looked like in the water. It’s not how they are on land. If you know someone fairly well its easier to spot them walking a short distance away from you than it is to spot them dressed in black on a board with about a ton of frothing water behind them.

I would love to be able to describe what it was out there, but I can’t. I am still learning to speak surfer. But what I can do, and will do is tell you how they looked to me. And I am going to put it in to terms that I can understand and try to sum up the guys as I saw them out there.

My neighbour surfs like REM sounds. He waits for the right wave to find him, not the other way round. He is light on his board and light in the water, but he is even more delicate on a wave. Little touches here and there that make all the difference, rythmic and pure. On the surface it sounds just like any other piece of popular music but its definitely not, you really have to listen to it to understand it, just like him, that’s how he surfs, with the wave and not against it.

Then there is Mr Fireball, he surfs like The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, full of spark and energy and all over the place. Up and down, in and out, he surfs like punk sounds, cutting from one place to the other in the flick of his skegs. He doesn’t slow down, on water, or on land. Despite his ferocity he is calm on the wave, he feeds off its energy, then spits it straight back out at the ocean.

Its hard to describe the other guy, he was out there for ages, hour upon hour and wave after wave. He lies low on the backline, almost sneaky, and then BOOM, he comes out of nowhere and takes the wave from right under your nose. He stands tall on his board, legs wide apart, arms in the air, shredding up and down, despite the fact he had lost his left skeg. I would definitely say he was like the Rolling Stones out there, good time Rock and Roll, the stuff you listen to when you want to let your hair down and party up a storm.

One of the guys had hurt his neck but he decided to go out anyway. He was hard to spot because he sat so far out in the water, waiting, just waiting, and getting in touch with the pull and push of the water. Watching the breaks come and choosing the one he wanted. He was one with the ocean, a part of it. He was peaceful to see, a true soul surfer out there in the mist, riding his waves all the way to the end. He would definitely have to be like Bob Dylan, the master of folk and feel good rebellion.

He taught me a lot that first day on the beach, where to look, what to sea. I got a great picture of him in the neck of a barrel that he rode all the way to the beach. I laughed myself silly when he told me about that wave. He had just dropped into it and before he knew it, there were three pairs of eyes wide eyed with terror and begging for mercy right there in front of him. It was a close call, but he managed to slalom his way around them and follow the wave to the end without causing any casualties.

Last but not least was the owner of the house in which we were staying. Experienced and forceful out there in the water. I never got to see him that much but what I did see made me think of Beethoven’s fifth symphony, classic, timeless, his many years of surfing showing as he made his board do exactly what he wanted it to do. He doesn’t take note of the arguments that can sometimes fly out there while the guys are waiting, but drop in on his wave and you will be a sadder and wiser man in the morning. His philosophy is simple, there are enough waves to go around, take your time.

By the third day I had collected a stack of great shots of the guys doing their thing out there. I enjoyed being able to show them what they looked like on a wave, and most of all I enjoyed the sincerity they expressed when looking at what I had captured. I might not have been out there in the swell but inside I felt that I had ridden every wave with them, enjoying the highs and the lows.

On the last day the water was too full. Surfers as far as the eye could see. They were stealing waves left right and centre, and then screwing them up by not committing to them. One guy in particular, he was like a ravenous pig with his snout stuck firmly in his trough. He was just stealing wave after wave after wave. He seemed to be saying “look at me, look at me, I am so cool” but he wasn’t, he was a dick, and everyone knew it.

I saw a guy with a white wet suit on. He is a pro with all the right moves out there, but to me there was something missing in his performance. He looked like it was just another training session to him, like it was merely an exercise routine he was following. I think what was missing was that sense of the primordial. I don’t know what to call it in surf speak but I would call it harmony.

With a sun setting to your left and a moon rising to your right, you become the focal point of the axis, and with nothing but the sea beneath you and the sky above, you claim your space in the universe.

So all that being said, I am off to by a wetsuit and a board. I want to become a surfer and enjoy that break that I stare at everyday. I am ready to incorporate another muse, one that will sit in harmony with the one I already have. Rhythm is her name, and I won’t be at all surprised to find that she will look exactly like her new companion does. They are after all two sides to the same coin.

Musicians use the environment that surrounds them. Be it the city lights or the stillness of the outdoors, they draw on it and in conjunction with their instruments they make music, using either their hands or their breath. Just as surfers do out in the deep, a combination of board and wave become the canvass on which they paint. And even if no one is around to see it when it happens, or hear it out loud, it doesn’t matter.

Why? Because it’s yours, you made it, and you can put that memory away or take it out as often as you want. You may even want to share it with your mates if you want its up to you. Because every note that you play or every wave that you catch becomes a part of you and nothing can take that away from you, ever.

Every wave is an original, but not every one you carve becomes a classic. The difference between the two is in your hands and yours alone.

Our heartfelt thanks go out to Mr. A Cunningham, a true musician of the soul.

If you have an experience you'd like to share with us, please let us know asap!

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