Log In Log Out
You’d think it was a log floating around out there. Long, brown, a few knobbly bits on one end, and a more pointy bit at the other end. We’d made the trip through the dunes, through the dry creekbed, around the spinifex and straggly creeping wattle, up the big sandhill and down the big drop. Sand burning hot on our feet, dancing the cockroach-on-a-hot-plate dance of the determined and pigheaded barefooter, who realised too late that there were some conditions that warranted footwear, and, more to the point, that midday sand of a temperature of approximately 1000 degrees was one of those. At the high tide the surf was no good. But with the arrival of the dry season the winds had shifted to the east, blowing offshore, so we had the rare luxury of waiting for the tide in the middle of the day. Sure enough, with the dropping of the tide the lines of swell rolled up, and there, near the low lying rockshelf at the end of the beach, a perfect wave started breaking. So I stuck my b