CHARTER SEVENTEEN // 10 NOVEMBER - 24 NOVEMBER // 2004
Passengers:
Phil Leadley, Glen Platt, Richard Gadd, Eden Scallan, Rick Scott, Luke Wilson, Ian Wallace, Adam Gibson, Simon Gibson, Peter Campbell.
10 Passengers on the Barrenjoey....could be a bit busy but hey we are all mates aren't we? A couple of weeks on a boat will sure put that to the test!
The charter was the last for the year and the maps were sending us mixed signals....oh well it can't be worse than back at Bondi (north east, flat, full of pommy backpackers and yuppies who think a mal is a fashion accessory).
PC was looking as pasty as I had ever seen him and his back and neck were looking as stiff as a 4x2. Platty had total reconstruction from the waist down. The Gibbo sisters were untested in Indo waters (unusual on this charter as the other pax has a combined total of 87 trips between them) Adam's preference for hanging his tongue out at every opportunity had the boys reaching for the 40+ block out before each surf. Gadster had a fine looking 7'4 Local Motion that hinted that we might be getting some serious overhead stuff! The Weepster...was the man Elvis turned to if fish was on the menu....time and time again he landed a big one when all hope seemed lost! Thanks Champ Rick, Deadley and Scall (The Doctor, Randy Longslong, take your pick!) just kicked back knowing the waves we were about to get! Wall was just looking to smash any lip he saw.....
1st couple of days dawned with great waves in the 4ft ranch to ourselves, 3-4 surfs a day!...surfed out and a couple of Bintangs and I'm hugging the pillow...anyone who's been up here knows the feeling!
The Lizard lounge has heard it all before but some of the stories seemed to grow on a daily basis (and I was telling them!)......shit if you can't sling it to your mates up here....where can you?
The boys fell into a pattern, some over the side before dawn, some needing a bit more grooming and some wheeled out on a stretcher in their favorite slippers to see their mates pulling in!
Second week and still we're in the water every day......not epic by local standards but tell that to the broad smiles that greeted you each evening in the Lizard lounge.
An ugly shirt night was called towards the end of the charter...the boys had kept each of their shirts hidden until the unveiling! It happened the last arvo, The BJ was anchored by a perfect 3ft right-hander. Slowly the boys were magically drawn back to the mother ship for the unusual fashion parade. Deadley paraded around in a shirt that looked like a test pattern on acid, Weepster took it up a level and strolled out with his gimp mask on accompanied by a green G-string a freshly caught mullet completed his ensemble. Rick was next to arrive dressed as Leif Garrett....long white socks and sandals, Tom Carroll tight red shorts a yellow red orange muscle top 4 sizes too small. Wall, he took another tack ...... lets just say he raided a chicks wardrobe and after 2 weeks at sea his pins looked alright! Scall turned up with an asian influenced shirt and had everyone on it from Bruce lee to Fo man chu (his handle bar moo had him looking to star in a bad 70's romantic comedy). An expression session was called in the fading light and the villagers looked on in disbelief as the Gimp-master pulled into a perfect barrel, Leif Garret was not to be out done and donned a pair of aviator sunnies and paddled out on a 70's single fin classic hot buttered. Surprisingly Leif socks sandals sunnies and single fin got slotted 1st wave unfortunately the boys in the lounge were laughing so much no-one had thought to pick up a video....some things are burnt into your memory banks anyway.
The Ugly shirts now have new owners so if you up here and you see a local in a particularly amusing number you know were they came from. We ended up getting waves every day...the same couldn't be said for some of the other boats, as always The Barrenjoey had good karma on her side.
See ya next time.
CHARTER FOURTEEN // 2 OCTOBER - 13 OCTOBER // 2004
Passengers:
Stephen Hall, Stephen Vallance, Gary Skow, Ross Vincent, Jeffrey Sheard, Tony Blundell, John Kent, Stephen Blakey
It was one of those white rash shirts with the built in hat. Brand new. He looked all the part of an alpine paratrooper on a reconnaissance mission in the Artic Circle. His yellow boardshorts tore through the glare like a sand storm scraping the terygiums from the eyeballs of his fellow surf comrades. He saluted. A steel forefinger leaving an imprint in the middle of his forehead. The seven surfers had lined the gunnels of the Barrenjoey and they returned his salute, yelling out an almost incomprehensible 'Hai!' in unision. His name; Colonel Wasabi. His mission; to overcome the demons running riot from his brain to his heart, to confront the giant waves crashing on the coral reef, to stand tall and lick the roof inside one of the enormous caverns being formed by said waves, to lead this band of mid life panic merchants in a battle against the fearsome foe of 'lost youth'.
He jumped overboard and began the short lonely paddle towards the empty lineup. The surfers watched their leader, in absolute awe of his bravado. They would follow him anywhere and so began readying themselves for the smashings to come.
Skowy removed his front tooth. The mark of the man from a battle fought years before. He and his good mate, Roscoe, had been lured aboard by memories of adventure with the Captain's alter ego, Bucket from 19 years previous in a sleepy fishing village on the coast of Portugal. A time when games of 'Get-Off-Me', Dumb Heads, and jumping off 50 ft cliffs left no margin for the faint of heart. Stevo, his mate, Stevo, and their mate, the Sheep Shearer began gingerly waxing their boards. They were members of an elite group known as 'The Blind Force' from a similar era of youthful undertakings. PK had already shed his city windings claiming absolute relaxation as his highlight of the voyage so far. But the twitching had returned as he readjusted the velcro on his leg-rope strap. Tony's torn calf muscle began to uncontrollably throb as he rubbed all the ointments available on the boat. No-one would know what pain he was in till after the battle.
They paddled as a team just as the first wave picked the Colonel up and threw him awkwardly as he stylishly attempted to drop into its bowels. It was not a good start. The grey beards bristled upon crusty chins till Stevo screamed like a Banshee and entered the zone in a frenzied paddle.
The view from the Lizard Lounge was spectacular. Waves were caught and surfed with abandon. Wipeouts were witnessed and zapped their energy. Barrels spat the odd warrior into pure bliss. Fear fornicated with their souls. But they emerged, oh yes they emerged·.smiling, somewhat battered yet miraculously unscathed.
As the sun set and the Bintang cans clinked in prelude to a well earned thirst quenching guzzle, a photo was snapped freezing an aura of pure exuberance, of a ceaseless battle against the elements, of grins a mile bloody wide. There could only be one word to describe the scene·..deserving.
Postscript: after the epic, the Barrenjoey and all aboard tapered off on some fun waves. There was not a worry in the world till Elvis, the stalwart cook and creator of countless meals that have sustained the BJ's clientele since day one, fell to the floor clutching his side. A suspected appendicitis was confirmed by Dr Dave Jenkins who was in the area. The trip was cut short and the boat steamed back to Padang where Elvis was rushed to hospital and operated upon immediately. He now has a personal piece of bait he plans to catch a very special fish with upon his return to work.
CHARTER THIRTEEN // 18 SEPTEMBER - 29 SEPTEMBER // 2004
Passengers:
John Bennett, David Lang, Antony Warrilow, John Clarke, Brian Murtagh, Ian Lyons, Adrian Ouilter-Harvey, Neill Rose-Inness
The Wilderbeast was back with a bunch of motley mates from around the globe. We left in a storm. We returned in a storm. Full circle encompassing a voyage of fantastic surf, a released sailfish, and good old relaxation.
The Maldivian Maestro, Ian, began complaining about aches and pains he had not felt in years. But he could not stop. It was 6ft and reeling. Just the 2 of them, and the captain would not let him go in. The beers never tasted so good that evening. Langy saw similarities to his time at Jefferys Bay. "way heavier" was how he described this wave. Adrian caught the longest wave of his life, as did Ian, and the Wilderbeast. In fact it was one of the best days of the year for all and sundry·.but enough of that.
Between fishing jaunts, Brian and JB, caught more than their fair share of waves. Our American rep, Johnno, learnt a thing or 5. Neil simply loved every minute of every wave.
We have to mention that little left on that lazy afternoon. It was only an hour and a half. But it was perfect and any goofyfooter worth his salt would have loved it·funny thing was, the natural footers weren't complaining either.
2 swells in 10 days. That'll do!
CHARTER TWELVE // 4 SEPTEMBER - 16 SEPTEMBER // 2004
Passengers:
Nicholas Chalmers, Malcolm Chalmers, Robert West, Ben Ingwersen, Blake McKinnon, Stewart McKinnon, Lachlan McKinnon, Dean Cogle
Mentawai's aboard the Barrenjoey by Andrew McKinnon
Our maiden Mentawai's voyage upon the good yacht Barrenjoey in September 4 th- 15th, 2004 was magnificent. The Gold Coast group of 8 was all Mentawai virgins and we surfed our brains and bodies to the max. The surf might not have been 8 - 10ft epic, we still surfed at least 7 different breaks, scored perfect 4ft Lances lefts, 6ft Thunders, 2 -4ft Macca's, plenty of fun 4 to 6ft sessions at HT's and jewel in the crown for the natural-foots was scoring Rifles. Not a day didn't go by without surf, - the first 5 days, we surfed three times a day like there was no tomorrow!
"Stop your whinging!" said the Skipper John McGroder in jest as we were like kids in a lolly shop! The Skipper led by example (the bugger can surf!) was out first, McGroder knew all the breaks like the back of his hand which made us feel prepared. The Skipper's crew from Nias were totally on it - first mate Selamat would escort us out to the various breaks on the run-about, drop us off, after the sess, pick us up and ferry us back to the boat where we would be greeted with a glass of cold aqua from third mate U-de. To ensure we were fully fuelled up, Elvis the Cook who could surf and play the guitar made sure that we feasted like the Royal family. In fact we ate so much we HAD to go surfing as Elvis would serve up a sumptuous feast - three times a day - Elvis- you're a legend! One day my oldest son Blake caught a trevally and Belinda the skipper's wife and 6 months pregnant and Elvis went to town on a sushi spread. "It's all in the preparation," said Belinda as she proudly passed the plates across the saloon bar to the mess table for the hungry surfing wolverines. Unfortunately one of our crew didn't eat seafood but Elvis always whipped up a tasty alternative. Rob and I shared the dreaming (big time) cabin, I was lucky to score the bottom double bunk (Belinda's sister Sharon insisted on it!) while Rob was content to sleep above.
On the first night it was really barmy and Rob decided to let some fresh air in by opening up a porthole right next to his head. He was in a blissful sleep until a wave came crashing through the port hole and drenched him in the middle of the night! He told me about it in the morning and we laughed until we looked closely at the instructions under the port-hole which stated, "Do not open unless with the Captains permission!" Rob West became something of a legend on that trip breaking the record for the number of floggings and one broken board but would always come back for more. Rob grew up in a circus and is a tough fella. He also broke the record for nicknames, prior to boarding Barrenjoey, we had a little warm-up in Bali, to cut a long story short his first nickname was "Tom Cat?!" Rob nearly drowned at HT's after going over the falls, his rash top pulled over his head like an underwater parachute dragging him down and losing a booty that was ripped mercilessly. That made him more determined and he charged on courageously to be given the second nickname, "Captain Carnage" by Mal who had as many nicknames Meninga, melanoma·. Rob survived all the beatings to score his best surf at perfect Rifles and the Captain anointed him the, "Rodeo Clown".
Our crew was divided up fairly evenly; the good ol boys included Rob, Dean "Picasso" Cogle an incredibly talented artist who drew a black and white portrait of a local chief from Thunders in 30 minutes on board and also landing the biggest fish. Mal Chalmers who went to Hawaii with the great Peter Drouyn in the seventies took the big drop out at Thunders and yours truly talked everyone in to the trip (not that I had to try to hard!) The young crew included my two sons Blake (21) and Lachlan (18) it was a dream come true to surf with my sons who were joined by good mate big Ben Ingwersen and Mal's son Nick. Ben got the bomb at HT's, Blake carved everywhere, Lachs was like a wave magnet and Nick ripped like a young version of Rob Machado.
We all had one mad night on the Bintangs cheering everyone and anything and after 11 days; we were like new people - fully charged and sparked. It was one good call after another, playing cat and mouse with the other charters who we're all very nice, the most crowded was about 15 at Thunders - thanks to John we beat the pack earlier to have it to ourselves. It was just such an excellent trip for all of us, thanks again John and Belinda and Selamat, Elvis and U-de for making it happen and oh yes thanks Huey, u beauty!
CHARTER ELEVEN // 21 AUGUST - 1 SEPTEMBER // 2004
Passengers:
Jeff Sweeny, Graeme Taylor, Paul Hart, Glen Casey, Peter Mulholland, Dale Loader, Brett Loveless, David Johnstone
Let's talk about driving away from the name spots on a new swell and scoring one of the best breaks up here to ourselves. 4-6ft smoking lefthanders all bloody morning. It was not as big as some of the other spots on this day, but it was oh so perfect and uncrowded. Mobes' zen-like chanting from the Lizard Lounge whipped the Bells Beach boys into a frenzy. Gouging tube rides and soul arch slouches were all the go.
Shit, we've got to mention that 10ft set at another right that had them all wondering if those extra long sections were makeable. Who better to test it out than Sweens and Case. The wind turned and they came back stating it was very hard to surf. So we set up shop in the other waves on offer till the afternoon offshore gave us the perfection we so desired.
The stories this trip were like music to an old salts ears. Davo won this competition, hands down with his epics about White Pointers and Whales, he is a crayfisherman in the southern part of Australia where sea shantys are all the rave. Mind you, Tom's tale about a 10ft long singing tiger-snake came close. There were wax heads presented each evening for the "Big Balls" award and it was pretty easy to see these guys have been laughing their way through life.
Our fisherman took the claim of a rather large sailfish on a 15kg line. Photos were taken and it was allowed to swim away.
Dale, Eddie, and Nuttsy's wave quota soared. And Dale almost had the GT of the trip.
Most stoked of all was the Capt, who with a 6'9" Lynchy under his feet now has no excuse at all for pulling back··
CHARTER TEN // 7 AUGUST - 18 AUGUST // 2004
Passengers:
Peter Morrison, David McArthur, Dugald Christie-Johnston, Bradley Smith, Stephen McCaughey, Mark Neumann, Ross McCorkell, Graeme Murdoch
DOUBLE TAKE: By Graeme Murdoch
AUSTRALIA'S SURFING LIFE 2005 Photo Annual "Seasons" Page 44
I'm delirious enough for God or Huey or whoever to tap me on the shoulder and whisper so mate, here it is, what do you reckon? I'm sitting between sets at the head of a left hand reef. A B-grade wave by this chain's standards is having an A-grade couple of days and it's answering an idle prayer I've thrown up for the last 15 years without expecting a response to.
*********
Me and the mates Ð PM, Spike, Macca, Rossi, Braddo, McShack and Doogs Ð are halfway through a Mentawai boat trip that's within reach of any Australian surfer with the means to save up four grand and two weeks off work.
It's all so commonplace and popular and easy these days. There's thirty (!) boats who want you on board. Thirty captains to take charge, thirty chefs to cook you a brekky omelette, thirty indo deckies to race you out to the lineup in the ships runabout, thirty other deckies to share a laugh with.
And they're kept busy all through the ever-lengthening Indo surf season by a constant parade of customers touching down and sweating the snakes and ladders queues of Padang airport arrivals. In our line alone there are tight-knit eight-packs of surfers from Margarets, the Central Coast and the Goldie. There are Brazillian and French surfers. Mostly though, there are the Americans, abandoning all inner monologue in their high-fivin', runnin'-commentary, I'm-a-good-bloke-but-I-just-might-have-pissed-my-pants excitement.
And so this excitement begins for all of us, the overnight channel crossing where the armada splits and regroups in smaller numbers at different breaks. The Captains on their radios co-operating and scheming, a hundred FCS keys screwing fins, tropical wax and zinc cream and betadine, Lances, Diablos, Playgrounds, Bells and Burgerworld, boatloads surfing in shifts, swell pulses and lulls, Bintangs and digicams and iPods and payouts and loving it all but hoping for a few less boats and a few more waves.
*********
We're halfway through the trip and the mighty Barrenjoey sits alone, anchored half a k down the line where the reef finally ends in a bend to the beach and IÕm wondering, why do I feel so privileged to be sitting here? Why does this left feel so completely and utterly right?
That's when I realise a playful and generous god has erected some kind of huge mirror reflecting my home break and has created a classic east coast pointbreak, he's imprinting on this reef a strong south easterly groundswell at mid tide on a still autumn day. Everything's Burleigh reversed: the water colour; the texture and the angle and the speed of the faces; the way it's perfect but not perfect; the way you're turning with the next 50 metres in mind.
15 years of surfing with my back to the Burleigh wall and wondering how it'd feel on my forehand are answered and the answer is it feels fucking unreal. Macca paddles back up to the spot and reads me with a you're-loving-this-aren't-ya-mate grin.
It's sacrilege not to surf eight hours a day when you're offered this so we pledge our skin to the sun and our shoulders to endless return paddlebacks. And as I fix this reef as a beloved Burleigh reversed, I can NOT let the smaller inside ones go through untaken. I'll picture the boys Ð a goofy-foot Harris brother, a natural Nick Heath or Brad Jeffries swarming all over the place, and figure to let anything go to waste is to do these blokes some kind of disservice.
But the occasion and the sun and the Neurofen will play tricks on you after a while. One arvo I'm wearing a pair of Oakley water-sunnies around my neck and start thinking they're earphones and wonder why they don't fit my ears and why nothing's playing through Oem. I can feel my retinas burn and sting, and worst of all start dreaming at one stage of how I could murder this wave on my backhand. Talk about a fickle mind.
**********
Soon enough the blood red blob of the sun sets on our two days here and we sail overnight back on to the chess board of boats and shift surfing and the next day we're anchored next to a boat full of Aussie blokes at a murderous right. Rossi slinks over on the runabout hoping to get the footy scores off Oem, but they're from the Central Coast and don't care about how the D's went against the Bombers.
A shifty left a couple of k's away catches our eye and we motor to check it. I'm leaning on the bow rail, peering and freaking out: Every distant wave has another identical wave directly behind it, feathering and falling in exactly the same place at the same pace. I take off my sunnies, clean Oem on my t-shirt and rub my eyes and try to focus on the nearby horizon of the blue tarpaulin, the white painted railings, the ropes. Every edge has a ghostly, hovering apparition. Holy shit, IÕm seeing double. I surfed Burleigh's twin for fifteen hours in two days and now I'm seeing double.
The heat and the waves and the Bintangs and the mates. The Mentawais have got me.
CHARTER NINE // 10 JULY - 21 JULY // 2004
Passengers:
Bruce Gair, Terence O'Sullivan, Warren Randell, Jason Higson, Geoffrey Martin, Michael Sheard, Darren Speight, Justin Haines
The plan was to give it one more go. One more try before major engine reconstruction. Biding time with the hope of finishing the season and a decent plan for a replacement engine. Shit, to do the job now would mean missing a charter, maybe two. All seemed fine as we headed out to the islands. Our temporary solution may just get us through. We had some good fun waves this trip and the boys had a blast. The Captain was still out of action with 10 stitches in his shin. He sat and watched and took photos and dreamed of perfect scenarios for the ultimate engine solution. All the while the lads kept surfing, drinking, and eating.
Unbeknown to Wazza and his mates, the Captain's dream was fast turning into a nightmare.
As luck would have it, the engine gave out at another offshore spot with plenty of waves to while away the days. Including a new spot they christened "Jindys".
They made it back to port and all were stoked. Except the Captain, who would be pushed to the limits in the next couple of weeks.
CHARTER EIGHT // 26 JUNE - 7 JULY // 2004
Passengers:
Andrew Read, Michael Spackman, Douglas Goodwin, Peter Blyth, Timothy McGuigan, Richard Edmonds, Richard Rogers
They say when a local fishing boat crosses another vessel's bow it is attempting to get rid of it's bad luck by passing it on. I was fortunate to have such a near miss as we passed gunnels that stormy night, rounding the point and coming into Pasangan Bay, better known as Macaronis. Mind you, I'm a solid old steel bitch and I would have kicked that timber boat to splinters. If bad luck comes in threes, then here's 3 for the record.
It is the best swell of the season. Macaronis is perfect, as good as it gets and there are a handful out sharing, hooting and carrying on. It is a backside barrel bonanza. My Captain's getting cocky. I know because he starts taking off on what I would call 'unmakeable waves'. The bottom drops out of one and he goes over three times with the lip, one of which is with his board and the fin gets knocked out by his shin He waves for the Toranna (my tender) and gets dropped back to me, asking if Olly, the Captain from Komodo could come and sew him up. A big flap of skin and subtenaceous fat is hanging off. There is blood all over my deck, which I don't mind. Just do not bring sand onto me. An hour later Olly's whacked in 10 stitches and my captain sits morosely contemplating the perfection in front of him; out of action for a month·bad luck no.1
The next morning my blood (oil) has been contaminated by water. My heart (engine) cannot function like this. My cylinder liner has blown a seal. My heart needs re-conditioning. I am dead in the water. It's mid charter. It's looking like a tow back to port, transferring the passengers to another boat and ending this charter now with another huge swell on the way. The captain's despair deepens. Bad luck no.2
While all this is going on, The Office or Lances Rights, is doing its epic double-up mad thing with a handful of very good surfers from Hawaii and Oz. Not only that but Lance Knight is there after 13 years on a type of pilgrimage. I don't even have to be there to feel the power that is spewing out of those incredible barrels. Dinosaur saliva spits, heavy wipe-outs and rinsings to the beach. Missing a day like that, and there have been three since the fishing boat crossed my bow, is what my Captain calls bad luck no.3.
Andrew Read and his mates. A bunch of mid 40 year olds. Mates from school. Booked the boat a year ago. They are the archetypical blokes. Have been excited about this trip for a whole year. They get on board. They have video of the hotel in Singapore, the airport chaos, the car ride to the boat, and every nook and cranny of the boat. They hit the surf like they are going to get their money's worth. 2 hours later we have 2 broken boards, 3 stitches, multiple reef scrapes and 7 very happy blokes. By the end of the day they are surfed out, sore, and sipping Bintangs. The pros hit us the next day and we run to Maccas and they score the best waves of their lives. The pros hit us again and they end up surfing with Danny wills, Dean Morrison, and the Hawaiins. Everyone is friendly and they have a blast. At one stage they are sitting in the dinghy, cheering all the boys, taking photos with their digital cameras and having a blast. They are stoked to have seen all the pros and surfed with them. Raving that night over how they could tell their mates and show em the photos.
During all the turmoil; my Captain's leg throbbing, my broken down heart, and my passengers' sympathy coated by the perfection on offer, the weather turned to shit. I was towed to a safer anchorage devoid of any name breaks. Yet we managed to salvage the day and ferry Ready and co to a rarely surfed reef where they scored fun waves in the 4' range by themselves. Never mind that the mangrove drained past it with all the debris of a forest flood and the fact that if ever there was going to be a saltwater crocodile it would be here. The boys were grinning.
It was a sad day when we parted ways and they sailed off on another good 'ol boat and comrade in arms, Katika. My Captain limped across my deck, sat down and patted my steel skin and muttered "these things are sent to try us". A small hiccup in our grand adventure.
CHARTER SEVEN // 12 JUNE - 23 JUNE // 2004
Passengers:
Ty Arnold, William Arnold, Russell Molney, Daniel Haggerty, Marcus Davidson, Nicolas Huet, Sebastien Marro, David Perry, Steven Benson
They knew there was a swell coming. Everybody does these days. It all depends on what you want to surf. About 3am the BJ began rocking at her anchorage. There was no wind and little sleep till the sun burnt silhouettes of volcanoes along the eastern horizon.
Solid, tubing waves welcomed them for a pre breakfast bash. With the double-ups it was a case of breakfast smash. It was hands in the air barrels, and some! Dinosaur salivating spits exploding from within. Sheer utter chaos if you did not make the wave. Screams and hoots and adrenaline till after lunch when the whole crowd, all 8 of them, were spent and there was nothing left but sleep as big perfect waves gnawed at the shallow low tide reef alone.
They moved on that night. The desire to surf other spots with real swell a persuasive magnet. They scored perfect lefts till the swell dropped off and all and sundry were literally surfed out and did not care anymore. It was one of those charters.
The Capt put it down to the good karma that accompanies surfers from the Central Coast of NSW. They always get bloody good surf.
Ty, Russel, Dan, and Marcus simply ripped the shit out of everything.
Bill was in the thick of it and enjoyed watching his son and his mates surf. He and Dave had an ongoing fishing competition that yielded a Blufin Trevally and a barracuda. Not much, but it was all in how they played the game.
Dave had booked the trip last year but all his mates pulled out. He averaged 3 surfs a day for 10 days, had the time of his life, and was on his way home to organize a BBQ and video showing to stir his mates up.
Steve's bag went missing for a couple of days and proved the theory that all one really needs is a pair of boardshorts and boards. It had been a long time since he had surfed. Nothing like real waves to get that grommethood stoke back.
Nico, one of the French connection from the alps was blown away by what he saw. He and his mate, Sebastian, were snowboarders. Good ones at that. They took on all the challengers of big waves. Well, when you ski high mountains, base jump, and climb cliffs, a bit of water ain't going to hurt you. In Sebastian's case, the reef got him in the end, but the Capt's suture job pulled him back together and he left the boat feeling a bit bruised but happy nonetheless.
All-in-all and epic trip!!!!
CHARTER SIX // 29 MAY - 9 JUNE // 2004
Passengers:
Gareth Collins, Gary Lord, Kyle Williams, Scott Somerville, Robert Bain, Trent McCann, Craig Cox, Maris Luidmanis
What a lovely bunch of boys from Queenscliff that scampered around the decks for the last week. Civilized, motivated, tough, and a barrel of laughs. They wanted waves by themselves, in the Mentawais, mid season. So there was an attempt to pull a couple of rabbits out of the hat. It's a funny thing when one begins to look around and finds spots rarely surfed, unknown pockets of reef, and little alcoves of cinematic jungle riddled with bugs of all shapes and sizes.
The QBC, led by Kong, where on a mission to produce a small documentary of their unique holiday. It involved props, scripts, rehearsals, and waves. The waves were on offer, albeit pulsing due to the somber swell that raked across the Indian Ocean.
Rob led the charge with clockwork tubetime and searing slashes. 5 score and ten years on the pro tour will do that to one's style.
Trent took the gong for keenness, paddling no matter what was on offer. His alter ego, Julian, was admittedly a bit soft when it came to pulling in above shallow razorlike reef.
Cougar, showed zipper-like precision in both the waves and the jibbing of his mates, although his alter ego, Lance, was also a bit quirky at times.
Gary, enjoyed the solitude of waves on offer and began to enjoy the motion of the ocean, wondering if it would be feasible to set sail on the high seas in his retirement years.
The Vulture picked up every single wave on offer and surfed it with aplomb be it right or left.
Marvo, the zen master peacefully ripped the shit out of the waves.
Kyle, the King of sarcasm showed once again his aptitude for self mockery and ker-banking turns in dire situations.
Cecil B. Dakong caught everything on celluloid and we are all holding our breath for its release.
