Byron Bay

03/02 Byron Bay

One night as others...

There is a very tan rasta playing acustic guitar, people sitting around smoke marjuana at their own peace, a girl is dancing smoothly beside the sit of the player... Another girl beside me poke me and says: “listen what a gig...”. Of course, I had heard about: Byron Bay. Once upon a time an hippy paradise, now just used to host penniless smiling people with flowers in their head, as became more a radical chic paradise, with surfing schools and big money cars around.

Not necessary worst, I actually think it can even be better now: walking down the street in direction of the beach you can meet street bands amusing bunch of happy people dancing and enjoying, reaching the seaside is like entering a strange middle dimension. With one ear you can still hear the music coming from the bars nearby, but from the other ear the waves bring the sea song, while your bare feet touch the smooth sand and your lungs fill with the fresh air, you let your eyes wandering around thousands of stars, and your mouth is recalling the taste of the beloved hop... it is like each sense of yours was pulling you in a different direction... which one follow?

04/02 I surf, You surf, She/He surfs...
Pro wake up before dawn to get the best spot free from wannabes and crowd.
As completely novice I peacefully went to surf around 11. The first try is quite comic and the day ended without I could manage to stand on the board for more than 5 seconds. Of course the equipment didn't help: they say long boards are easier to ride, but to me is just an excuse to avoid renting an expensive board to a complete untrained person... Anyhow the weight of the motherfucker largely overcomes any eventual small advantage delivered by the length, as to pedal on that monster requires an olympic fitness, so that is a bloody work to reach the right position and catch a good wave:

I know I haven't been the first “prospective surfer” to spend 90% of the time rolling in the water smashed by waves like a sock in the laundry, but the poor performance needed to be revenged. The wannabe surfer (like me) is easy to spot: hard-nosed and slightly conceited smile approach the sea running with his board between the accurately inflated chest and his best biceps like a character of “Baywatch” (note that he thinks “How cool I am” even if the board is 3 to six times bigger than him); after one hour during which nobody has ever seen him eventually he crawl out of the water shuffle the board hopefully still attached to his feet by the apposite safe-line, completely defeated by the waves that barely allowed him to stand once, and not for more than few secs.
However, the picture sounds good, doesn't it?