Moon Barrel
The full moon sat high in the sky. It smiled down upon us in a benevolent, silvery sort of a way. We had gathered again for our monthly ritual of surfing by the light of the moon. The wind, swell and tide had conspired to produce first class waves for us to ride. I had arrived early, and had climbed the look-out by myself, for a sticky-beak. The quiet night-time bay stretched out endlessly in front of me, with long, straight and regular lines of swell rolling in from the wide ocean, pulsating in regular intervals. It looked very promising indeed. Five of us members of the crew, of the Brotherhood of Madmen, waded out through the shallows near the rocks and pushed out into the waves. First cab of the rank was The Pocket Rocket Grommet, pint-sized and possessed of never-failing good nature and an eternal smile and limitless kindness for everyone. Hard on his heels was myself, The Baboon, living evidence that primates left Africa millions of years ago and padd...