Right there...
Yeah, well, this photography thing is becoming a bit embarrassing — especially the surfing side of it. I'm starting to feel a piece of the furniture down at Llandudno and along the Sea Point breaks. One day though, I'll get it right and head for the hills — picture taken.
"Who's that old #$@*?"
"Dunno. He's always there. Does nothing else. Sits and takes pictures of the sea."
"Mad #%$@!"
"Yeah. It takes all types."
As indeed it does. After a week from hell and only one day resting at work, we decided to get out of town and do what we do best, i.e. sit on rocks and stare at the sea. During summer, there's very little surf to be had in Cape Town. Winter brings a howling north-westerly, rain, and a dip into the south Atlantic storm swell. During summer, the weather's reversed, there are no waves, very little rain, and a howling south-easterly generally drives people berserk. My favourite headline, Dinner Table Gun Battle Kills Three, kinda sums it up.
To compound the problem, we're talking South Africans here. They're already off the rails. Come summer, 'psychosis' does not do us justice. The best thing to do is head out of the city and lie low until the explosions, screams, and gunfire die down.
Llandudno and Sea Point are not 'out of the city' but, given the sea washing their crazed coasts, they are bearable. Saturday we spent eight hours in the sun taking photographs of by-now-well-known surfboards desultorily carving an indifferent two-foot swell. It was cloudy, balmy, and the ozone layer had buggered off to Australia.
Smacking the lip...
If it's hot on the rocks, it's not so in the water. Although as kids we'd surf these breaks in baggies, I know the Atlantic coast's bloody cold. It gets down to 10 or 11 degrees at times and is considered pretty warm at around 16. Around the corner in False Bay, it gets up to 23. Back then, we'd spend half-an-hour in the water and two weeks in bed with hypothermia. Today, as old Bob points out, "Things have changed." Baggies are found in California and surf ads. People who spend the day in the water are fully covered, their faces protected by peaks.
As someone who likes to photograph the innate speed and grace of surfing, these bodysuits are bloody ugly. They're not photogenic and don't cut it in terms of style. And no wonder so many surfers are getting chomped by Great Whites. They're all seals now.
Eventually, a lack of rideable surf and decent pictures drove us from the rocks of Llandudno towards those of Queens on the off chance it might be working. There were three guys out and the waves were coming in larger and more surfable than at Llandudno so, though the light was bad, we planted ourselves on our usual rocks, maintaining a low profile while travelling incognito.
"HI! ARE YOU MIKE GOLBY OF YBLOGZA?"
It was like a sonic boom. I ducked under the nearest rock and pulled my .44 Magnum.
"Who wants to know?" I screamed. "And get your hands in the air, you demented fucker."
"Hey, there's no need..."
"You from the CIA, NSA, Revenue Services or what?" I snarled, pulling Wendy in behind me to back me up with the 30mm cannon borrowed from the hood of Marek's Caddy.
"I'm Hugh."
Spiderman heads south...
I must admit that every hard man, good Catholic boy, and blogger to boot has a soft spot. This startlingly frank admission by the obvious thug confronting me disarmed me totally.
"The poet?"
"Umm...yeah, except that I'm not a poet."
I was about to shoot.
"Except that Spike says I am."
I lowered the weapon. It was indeed Hugh 'Hectic Drop' du Toit, my resident. He's been living in my comments box ever since he moved down from Jo'burg ten years ago (you know what they say — "You can take the boy out of Jo'burg..." etc.?). A Sea Point local, he rouses himself whenever matters pertaining to waves are raised. He has enlivened and generally raised the tone of this blog by his informed presence.
The poet thing? It's the job description of the guy listed above him in a series of articles featured by Wavescape.
"Hugh, you dumb bastard!"
"Heya Mike, you @#%$ idiot!"
It's a Cape Town thing, but it happened just like that. Ask Hugh. He's as open and friendly on the Web as he is in what some term the 'real' world.
Which kinda gets back to my original observation, if you will. Heading for the mountain or the coast, I escape the town, the city, and the 'real', respectable, obligation-laden world of this, that, and other mundane things whenever possible. So my finding the surf pictured here while speaking to a friend met here meant a melding of the so-called 'real' and so-called 'unreal'.
Unreal, eh?
And really good to meet you, Hugh. Who are these two, by the way? They really tore into (or worked with) the good stuff that came along after you'd headed for home.
