Crunch Punch
One of our mates is known as The Reefshark, for his uncanny ability to catch giant waves on razorsharp reefs in remote exotic locations and return alive to tell the tale, more or less in one piece, without leaving more than a few square feet of skin on the coral for future generations of cuttlefish to feed on. In our own home playground, a endlessly rolling lush and luscious pointbreak with a soft sandy bottom, he is renowned far and wide for being able to sneak his way onto the most ferocious-looking cycone engendered waves with three rows of shark-style teeth that glare at you with contempt as they prepare to swallow you alive, chew you up and spit you out. He will sit there, calmly bobbing up and down on rising and falling mountains of black, murky and deep salt water, and will casually appear to be looking at everything but the waves approaching with intent to kill. Then, as if by afterthought, he will casually cast one look in their direction, slowly turn around, glance at the roa...