Assassination

Courtesy in the surf is an important thing. Everyone wants to catch waves and enjoy themselves, as well they should, and so it’s vital that we show respect and consideration for other people. That means being aware of who’s got right of way, who’s been waiting for a wave and is next in line, and taking it in turns. By observing these few simple rules everyone in the line-up can get waves and have a good time, no one misses out, and there’s no aggro or shitfights.

It’s a simple thing to do, and in our group of people who surf together it goes without saying: we wait for our turn, we make sure everyone gets enough waves, and, frequently, we share waves among ourselves, with two, three or more of us all jumping on and riding the same wave. It’s awesome fun, and, somehow, even more satisfying than catching a great wave by yourself. Having a mate there to share the experience with adds another dimension to it. Sharing is caring, after all, and we never fail to have a hoot.

However, unfortunately there are a lot of people around who either don’t know about these surf etiquette conventions, or don’t care, or both. Some people will paddle out, pull into the line-up, and, with no regard for anyone else, pull into the first thing that comes their way, often dropping in on or snaking someone who’s been patiently waiting for their turn. It’s easy to see how that would piss people off quick-smart, and it’s understandable. It’s as simple as queueing up at the post office, provided, of course, that anyone still goes to the post office (“send me a postcard from your overseas holiday when you go” – “what’s a postcard?” – “just put up a picture on Instagram, thanks mate”). No one likes a queue jumper, and in every day daily life, in the shops, in a bank, in a doctor’s surgery, no one would dream of pushing in in front of other people so they can get what they want first, and bugger everyone else. The approach known as “me first and fuck you”.

At least not in Australia.

I’ve seen people push, grab, fight, punch, jab, shove, kick, elbow, scratch, bite and flog each other with sticks and whips to get on crowded buses and trains in other countries which, in respect, sensitivity and deference to other cultures, traditions and customs and out of careful consideration for other people’s values and feelings, I will tactfully refrain from mentioning here, but it was Egypt. Nevertheless, here in our country it’s not considered acceptable, and anyone who tried would find themselves snatched by the scruff of the neck and, quite literally, pulled back into line pretty quickly. We like to think that as a society we don’t condone selfish, self-serving behaviour, with the notable exception of anything to do with politics, religion, business, finance, stock markets, real estate, mining and anything else where a few people stand to make obscene amounts of money at the expense and to the detriment of everyone and everything else.

Come to think of it, maybe we don’t need to look so far afield as Egypt to find role-modeling of arsehole behaviour.

Be that as it may, in the surf all conventions of civilised behaviour go right out the window. Some people, who are mild-mannered self-effacing, polite and respectful bank clerks, accountants and childcare workers leave their humanity in the car and undergo a Jekyll and Hyde style metamorphosis as soon as they get into their wetsuit and strap on their legrope, or, as is the case with a particular breed of people who disdain legropes and other people’s intrinsic right to a non-fractured skull, don’t. At the slightest whiff of salt water, briny air and breaking froth their teeth and nails grow a foot long, black woolly fur springs up all over their skins, their ears grow long and pointed, and their eyes go bright red and focus on the inside of their own arseholes. Then, while steam pours forth from their nostrils, they steal and piratise each and every wave that comes their way, while running over disabled grandmothers on li-loes, gobbling up and spitting out little children in floaties, and raping passing dolphins.

Such is the state of the world.

One of those characters is unfortunately all too well known to us. On dry land he is polite, pleasant and friendly. In the surf he’s an arsehole. He is a tall lanky fella who wears a little white hat perched on top of his head, tied under his chin with his mum’s shoelaces, and is the proud owner of a fat grey moustache the shape, appearance and size of a toilet brush that wobbles around under his nose like a half-dead possum trying to squirm out from underneath a tractor tyre. He’s one of few people who wears wetsuit booties on his feet, and he uses them to walk, clamber, climb and scramble over the rocks to the furthest possible point out to sea all day every day. By doing so he bypasses the entire line-up of everyone else who paddles from the beach out into the waves, and lands himself smack bang at the top of the line-up, right in front of the next wave, and in front and inside of every other surfer, kneeboarder, boogie-boarder, stand-up paddler, kayaker, body surfer, scuba-diver, chess player and bungee jumper in the water.

This in itself would not necessarily be such a bad thing. It could be said “ah very well done, clever boy him that one, good thinking taking the short cut and side stepping all the unpleasant shit getting to the sweet spot easily, give him a medal that fella, first class”. And that would be true. It wouldn’t be an issue if he did that and then sat there politely waiting for his turn while the twenty-five people he just pushed in front of got their long-awaited rides. But of course that’s not what happens. As soon as he gets to his prized Number One Spot, he jumps on the first wave that comes his way and whooosh! he’s away, straight past the perplexed faces of half the population of the town, who justifiably feel themselves hard done by, and more than a little pissed off. Rumour has it that no one knows the exact whereabouts of his house, and that when he drives home he takes elaborate and far-fetched detours of several dozen kilometres to throw any would-be avengers off the dead possum scent. Can’t blame him, really.

We call him The Assassin.

He was there today. I saw his unmistakable silhouette as I was paddling back up again after a great ride that went for donkey’s years all the way to woop-woop. He was doing his signature trot over the rocks, on his way to The Prime Spot. We’ve seen him do it even at dead low water on a king tide at a full moon, when the sea goes so far out you can actually walk around the rocks on the ocean side without getting more than your knees wet. He even does it when it’s not necessary, and when there’s no point. It has been suggested that he’s got some sort of mental health disorder, and that he doesn’t realise what he’s doing. That doesn’t seems to add up with the fact that he holds down a professional job and, of all things, runs meditation classes. Several people have gone out of their way to politely and diplomatically talk to him about his actions. Some have gone to great lengths to explain patiently and meticulously in great detail the descrepancy between his behaviour and the generally accepted standard, going as far as drawing complex diagrams, flowcharts and pictures in the sand, quite often using his nose as a drawing tool. All to no avail.

I watched him disappear around the rocks to the dark side of the moon. I paddled on. Sure enough, two minutes later he appeared right in front of me, about ten-fifteen metres away, proudly and triumphantly on a wave presumably snatched away from before the eyes of some poor innocent unsuspecting sod who’d been sitting there for half an hour, waiting for his turn and playing with his Rubic’s cube.

I looked left.

I looked right.

I looked in front. There was The Assassin, coming straight at me on top of a beautiful wave.

I thought “I’m gonna get you, you bastard.”

And I spun around, fast as I could, pointed my board downstream, bent my head down and paddled with all my might. Looked over my shoulder, saw The Assassin looming up right behind me, not a metre away to my side. Dragged my arms through the water one last time, slid into the wave, put my hands down in front of me, jumped up and carved the most beautiful bottom turn the world has ever seen right up to his front door, ending up no more than 30 centimetres from the edge of his board, pulling up right along side of him.

He looked at me with startled eyes, peering out from between the narrow space between hat brim, nose and dead possum.

I nodded and gave the biggest brightest smile, all teeth and no gums, grinning like a pirate’s skull and cross bones, then stuck up my hand and wiggled it at him with the thumb and pinky extended and the other three fingers curled over into the palm. Shaka. The age-old international surfing gesture that means, variously, “goodday mate”, “great waves”, “surf’s up”, “what an epic session”, “nice tits”, or, in this case, “I’m on the inside now and you’re screwed mate”.

Because I had him pinned. I was right inside of the curl, there on the edge of the white water and the green slope where all the power and the energy of the wave are generated, and where you want to be or at least where you want to be able to get back to if you want to ride the wave at length and successfully. I stood between him and the curl, and he couldn’t move. I inched closer, pushing my board closer up to him, still grinning manically and nodding like a crash test dummy after a particularly violent session on the grog the night before a big smash. He tried to cut back, to get back to the inside. I grinned and steered straight, forcing him to keep going straight. He glared at me. I grinned. Gave him another shaka. Keep going mate, you’re not getting back in there.

And we rode like that the whole way across the bay, all the way from within seconds of his take-off point at the rocks through to the knee deep water at the far side of the beach, several hundreds of metres. Glaring, grinning, and boards 20 centimetres apart. Whenever he tried to move I blocked him. He tried to go left. I pushed him back to the right. He tried to go high. I went higher. He tried to go low. I went lower and cut him off.

I could have gone more forward and actually pushed him off the back of the wave, but I didn’t do that. That would have been crossing a line somewhere, although it’s not a line he has minded crossing in the past. There are several stories around of him deliberately running people over. Instead I just blocked his every move, and he had to be content with sticking it out right in front of me. He still got the wave he had cheated so many other people out of. He just couldn’t do anything with it.

Eventually it closed out right near the shore break and we both fell off. He stuck his head out of the water, wrung the water out of the dead possum, and glared at me.

I beamed at him brightly and said:

“How ya goin mate!”

He glared a bit more for good measure, then the possum moved and from somewhere underneath five layers of fur, skin, mangled bones and hat brim came the words:

“If I had been on a soft board I would have gone around you.”

I nodded sagely. If only. One can only wish.

“Ah yeah. Well there you go.”

I got back on my board, pointed it into the breakers, crawled on again ready to paddle back to where we’d come from, and then, looking back over my shoulder, nodded one more time and said:

“Sharing is caring, isn’t it.”

He stared and glared. The possum twitched and twisted spasmodically in various curious, interesting and unusual directions and dimensions, but no words came welling up from the deep dark mysterious, and, quite possibly, profoundly confused murky depths of his brain.

I paddled off.

Not long afterwards I told the story to Miss Galore, First Lady Of The Night, veteran of many night time full moon ventures and survivor of several tandem rides with her and me, including one that very day not long previously and not all of them ending in collision, disaster and mayhem.

She said disapprovingly: “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

And she’s right of course.

But in this case, maybe a little bit of poetic bush justice will bring home the point to this bloke. And, just maybe, he might get it.

After all, sharing is caring.