The Wombat Surf
The roaring, bone-crushing surf of the last few days and weeks had faded into a distant memory, or, some might suggest, a figment of our imagination. We stood gloomily under the stars and stared out at the black water lapping sedately at the beach. Tiny ripples fanned out towards the night sky horizon. ‘Right. We’re stuffed for a wave,’ said the Reefshark. ‘Nah, look at it, look, there’s a set coming through right now,’ said I, the Baboon, enthusiastically, pointing at the water in front of us with one hand while resting the knuckles of the other one on the sand. Three heads turned, very slowly, to the right. Even more slowly they swivelled back around to the left. A tiny crest of bubbling white water shimmered in the night, spluttered anaemically like an old two-stroke lawn mower on stale fuel, and laid down and died. Three heads turned back towards me. ‘So ... you sure there’s nothing wrong with your vis...