The Barefoot And Baffled Blog

We paddled out into the dark this morning, three members of The Brotherhood Of Madmen: The Snake Catcher, vigilant militant against any would-be drop-ins and wave thieves, The Uncle, staunch supporter of youth at risk and fatherless kids, and myself, The Baboon, master of surfing with an ungainly wobbly pink arse sticking out and pointing up. The stars overhead were bright and alert, the eastern sky a black featureless wasteland, devoid of light or sign of life, and the water of our sea was warm and welcoming. With the low tide we waded out through the shallows, side-stepping rocks here and there, till we made it to waist-deep and launched ourselves headlong onto our boards, paddling leisurely out onto the bay. The sea was calm and placid, with no wind scarring and chasing the water, and we paddled out into the middle of the water in our own sweet time, not chased by any pressures of sweep, dumping crashers, howling wind or clamouring crowds. In spite of its relaxed and peaceful appea...

26 January 1788 Several wooden ships with tall masts and big white sails sail into a huge river mouth, surrounded by rolling hills on all sides. They drop their anchors, and, before long, a row boat is lowered over one side, a whole heap of people get in, and they start rowing to the shore. On the water all around them there are dozens of canoes with people in them who are fishing and doing various things. Smoke is curling off the canoes, which have small fires burning in them, and the people are using traps and nets and spears. At the sight of the big ships they turn away and head towards shore. In the wooden row boat heading towards the shore there’s a strange collection of people. Some are barely covered in rags, and they are bent over the oars and are pulling the boat closer to land. Others are dressed in bright red coats, and they are holding muskets, not doing anything else. In the front of the boat is a bloke, standing up, one foot in the bottom of the boat, the ...

The wind had been howling northerly for weeks and weeks on end. It seemed like it would never stop, and we were growing desperate. It had started blowing more or less on cue towards the end of September, the end of our dry season here, and had launched itself with gusto into The Northerly Season. We knew that for the next three months or so the prevailing wind would be from the north, it’s the weather pattern here in our country. It usually starts to back off around mid-December or so, when the warm season starts, what other people elsewhere might refer to as Summer. The Northerly Season is more or less contiguous with The Build Up in my home of the Northern Territory, that time when the humidity in the air rises to 200 %, visitors from down south take off towards Antarctica with burning rubber and boot wide open, often accidentally forgetting their wives and kids on the footpath besides them, we eat mangoes five times a day, and divorces, murders and suicides increase dramatically an...

New Year’s day came around, and of course there was only one way to see the new year in. Various members of the crew gathered in the dark on the beach. When I got there at 4.30 The Shredder, Deluded Devotee Of The Useless Shortboard, was already there, thoughtfully studying the ocean in front of us. Within seconds we were joined by The Snake Catcher, Scourge Of All Illicit And Un-Authorised Wave-Snatching,   Snaking And Dropping In. In the darkness we congregated, congratulated and contemplated the movement of the water in front of us, and democratically agreed that we couldn’t see the square root of fuck-all. So I myself, The Baboon, Expert Of The Arse Pointing Uselessly Skywards On The Surfboard, climbed the steps up to the look-out that sits on top of a rock at the water‘s edge. I faced into the wind blowing from the north, not usually a good sign for surf conditions here on our beach, and I stuck my bagpipes under my arm. Blew a goodly amount of air into them, punched them gen...

I am a hunter. I hunt and kill animals for food. There’s all sorts of reasons for it. When the kids were little we lived out bush remote in the sticks, had a go at living semi-self sufficiently, and had zero money. Meat from the bush was free, and our kids were raised on fresh kangaroo, duck, goose, wallaby, rabbit. You know your tucker is guaranteed to be free-range and untainted by chemicals like preservatives and antibiotics when the animals you eat spend their entire lives running around doing what they want. You can’t get more free-range than a kangaroo. I also do it because I like it. There’s a special quality to the experience that I have been trying to define for a very long time. I get up in the dead of night, drive to my hunting ground under cover of trees hanging over me by the light of the moon or the stars, and move in silence through the world. I hunt on foot, by myself, with a single shot bolt-action rifle. I used to use a bow and arrows, but the ratio of food brou...

  Peace and quiet is hard to find sometimes, especially in a popular surfbreak in the middle of the summer holidays. Therefore us devoted and committed madmen venture out as early as possible to try to beat the crowd, score some waves and enjoy the silence and solitude of the ocean before the onslaught of the masses.    Being particularly keen, I had arrived earlier than early, before any of the others. When the full moon is out we habitually get together and surf by moonlight, often at times of day or rather night that may well be considered ludicrous, insane or just downright stupid by people more grounded and with less salt water obsession between their ears. When the moon is running, so to speak, I usually get up at 2.45 am to make it to our home break and be on the water by 4. With a bit of luck we get a good two solid hours of surfing in the night by silver light before the less deranged crowds come strolling down our beach.    On this day however, t...