The Chunderbox

Not long ago an old mate of mine came to see us and stay for a bit, and since he had at one point used to surf, a fair while ago, we took him out with us in the morning. By a stroke of good fortune, or, alternatively and depending on how you look at it, by catastrophic bad luck, his visit coincided with the full moon. So we dragged him out of his bed at 3.30 in the morning, and, yawning, scratching and farting, shoved him in the back of the car and hauled him off to the beach where we gave him a board and pushed him out into the boiling surf by the light of the moon. He afterwards confessed that he thought his number was up and that he was sure he was going to die out there. Miraculously he didn’t, and he survived to tell the tale and to meet a good few of our regular crew, us mob who meet in the darkest hours of the day and claw our way through impenetrable darkness to sneak waves in solitude and peace and quiet. During a rare spell of lucidity and relative sanity afterwards, in between visits to his psychiatrist and episodes of ultra-invasive electro-shock therapy, he referred to us mob as “a brotherhood of madmen”. He is currently enjoying an extended period of solitary confinement, and apparently the prognosis tends towards the optimistic, indicating that he may well, sooner or later, be able to resume life more or less as it was beforehand, provided he never leaves the house by himself and sleeps with the light on at all times.

   One of this “brotherhood of madmen”, as we were so uncharitably described, is The Shredder. An experienced veteran surfer, The Shredder is distantly related to Kylie Minogue’s next door neighbour’s third cousin twice removed, and so shares with her such family traits as a pint-sized physique, an innate flair for show business and drama, a deep and philosophical understanding of and empathy with the human condition, and an inability to sing in tune.

   The Shredder also shreds. He Shreds, Carves And Rips. No wave too big or small, he will tackle every slightest bump and ripple on the ocean with a vehemence and cold-blooded determination usually only found in Siberian tigers with inflamed testicles. As a result, he occasionally finds himself on the wrong side of caution, in hair-raising situations where inferior humans with less courage and more brains would tremble and cease and desist.

   On this day The Shredder found himself faced with the prospect of an uneventful and waveless ocean. Swell had been lacking for a while, and our bay, renowned throughout the world for its first class waves, had failed to throw up anything more exciting than ankle-high dribble for a good little while. The Shredder had been aimlessly floating around for a while without getting anywhere fast. His attempts at catching such ripples as came along were further thwarted by his inexplicable foolhardy insistence on trying to ride boards the size of which is more usually associated with toothpicks, matches and hypodermic needles. Finding himself surrounded by several other members of The Brotherhood Of Madmen, who in their wisdom, keen understanding of prevailing conditions, careful analysis of optimal surf performance, and in-depth interpretation of advanced surfing techniques, had embraced the superior concept of The Longboard, and, as a result, were catching waves where he wasn’t, he was getting edgy and twitchy.

   Fed up with getting nothing and watching the backs of people’s heads disappear down the line in loud maniacal cackling with raised middle fingers, he cast his hungry eye over the water. There, a bit closer in to the rockwall that hemmed in the bay on one side, he thought he could spot a subtle movement of water that, with a bit of luck, careful coaxing and perhaps a bribe, might well be able to be persuaded to carry him along on his toothpick board for a couple of metres.

   So he mozzied over into the patch of water he had identified. Sat up and looked around. reassessed, and decided that the better chances lay just that little bit further in towards the rockface. He sidled over a bit more, and positioned himself right there, right where he figured the heart of the action would be sooner or later.

   Sure enough, his unerring instincts and finely honed intuition for the perfect surf spot had not deceived him, and before too long a side serving of water rolled along, crested as predicted right behind him, and offered him the opportunity for a ride he had been hanging out for. So he struck out madly, legs and arms pumping and kicking like a non-swimmer in the deep end of a billabong full of crocodiles, and with one smooth and well-practised movement he jumped up and started Shredding, as is his wont. All his christmases appeared to have come at once. Because not only had he managed to get onto a wave, but no sooner had he launched himself into full Shred than the crest rose above his head and started curling over into the distinctive shape of a barrel, the ultimate prize in surfing and an experience I personally have never had the pleasure of being exposed to. “Hah! You Beauty!” he thought to himself, and, wishing to prolong the moment a bit, he ducked his head down and crouched into the hole of the barrel.

   Until he looked straight down the line, and saw the emerald glistening green of the wall of glass he had been expecting be replaced by a yellow and brown stream of regurgitated sand, rising up from the bottom of the sandbank, and heralding death, doom and destruction due to terminal shallowness. “Ah Shit!”, he thought to himself, and had just enough time to finish that thought before the roof of the barrel slammed down on top of his head, he was swiped sideways off his board and went somersaulting through the air to the great merriment and entertainment of all present.

   However, it wasn’t the terminal velocity with which he was being spat out that was the problem. His problem was one of geography, and, quite possibly, geology, with a potential hint of biology and taxidermy soon to follow.

   Because in his desire to get as close to the action as he could he had gotten very close to the rockwall on the side of the water. And that rockwall curved around to one side, leading towards a set of rocks sticking out at the end, with the result that the water he had caught his sandy barrel in was caught inside of a half-horseshoe of rock, and was now driving him forwards inescapably towards a set of big, black, gnarly, sharp and crusty rocks, looming up threateningly and unavoidably in front of him. I could testify to their unyielding nature, having a few months previously smashed my board headlong into them in the dark of the night. That board now bore a strong resemblance to a Swiss cheese, and needed some serious TLC.

   It’s not like we didn’t know those rocks were there. They were always there. They didn’t tend to move around very much. Suicidal daredevils with deathwishes and shit-proof underwear occasionally made it their mission to sail as close to them as possible and to round their cape without leaving overly much skin behind. It was rumoured that the patch of water on the other side of them held a treasure trove of broken surfboard fins, snorkel masks and dentures, and on several occasions people have spent many a merry hour lost in joyful occupation trying to recover their lost and broken gear and prostheses from there. Sometimes, on dead quiet days when the water was as flat as a tack we’d go snorkelling there. There was a channel in between the two main rocks, about75 cm wide, through which the water would gently surge and splutter, on a quiet day, and bubble and boil. We’d lie on our backs and let the current carry us through there, feet first, and we’d use our hands to steer clear of the various bits and pieces of sharp rock sticking out on the side and underneath, including one massive rock sitting squarely at the end of the channel, like a great big cork or a doorstop. You had to be careful bobbing your way around it. The passage had been named “The Chunderbox” by one of our crew, The Pocket Rocket Grommet, and though no one knew what it was supposed to mean the tag had stuck.

   Towards that set of rocks the Shredder was being washed now, completely caught up in the momentum of what had been, a few short moments ago, his prized trophy wave. Trapped in the whirlpool of the washing machine of the rushing whitewash he was helpless and powerless to get away from them, and was driven onto them in seconds. He braced himself for bone crushing impact and a leisurely six months of recuperation in a wheelchair with doting and attentive nurses in a quiet countryside hospital, when by a stroke of unbelievable luck he ended up smack bang right in front of the Chunderbox, and in the next heartbeat he was sucked through it, board first, then himself, arms over his head, and frantically praying to a random and mismatched collection of gods and goddesses from around the world, none of which he believed in. Whoosh! Off he went, headfirst down that passage full of rocks and sharp things sticking out. He scraped along one wall, bounced off another wall, and then, right there in front of him, sat The Stopper. The fat rock at the end of the passage, blocking everything coming through there and usually eating it.

   He looked at it in between two cartwheels, and just when he was about to convert to catholicism and pledge to enter a convent if he survived, to dedicate his life to the terrorising and abusing of small helpless children, a surging wave appeared right behind him.

   And that wave picked him up, along with his board, dancing around madly on the foam, and in the split second before he was going to get what passes for his brains smashed in against that rock, that wave lifted him up high and dry above Stopper Rock, catapulted him forwards and over the top of it, and he landed face down in the quiet eddy pool of knee-deep warm water behind it.

   He stood up, and looked at the rock. He looked at his board. He looked at the ring of gobsmacked faces around him. Then he smiled, brushed a bit of imaginary dirt from his wetsuit sleeve, stuck his board under his arm, and said: “Yeah. I meant to do that. Pretty good, ey?”

   And before the incredulous faces of the bystanders, poised with their fingers above the speed dial for the ambulance on their phones, he turned around and paddled back out again.

 


 

 

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