The Golden Hour
We study the conditions. We observe the weather patterns, analyse the swell, time the frequency, watch the wind, and, above all, monitor the tide like a cat stalking a particularly juicey mouse. If all else fails we sacrifice small furry animals to Huey, The God Of Surf And Violent Hangovers. Here in our often-forgotten corner of northern WA the surf is unpredictable at best. Long flat spells in the dry season will be broken by cyclonic monsoon swell, and we’ll switch from knee-high wind-blown close-outs, our regular daily fare, to triple-overhead man-eating bone-crunching monsters at virtually no notice. It’s very much feast or famine. As always there are the tricks of the trade, the bits of jealously guarded Local Knowledge, acquired over painfully long periods of trial and error, and divulged only at knife-point. Hogged with all the parochialism, narrowmindedness and petty avarice only True Localism can breed. If you don’t have five grandparents i...