If you’re one of those weirdo’s who watch the sequel and then only the original movie (Guilty!), here’s Part One. Perhaps you just need your memory refreshed. Either way you’re welcome.
So without further ado, we continue with:
Sending/receiving surf reports.
So, the beach is in sight – as per Part One. So it’s only fair to send a few reports. We assume you’ve also seen/heard some reports from other mates already. Regardless, Trident has already suggested this entire review is premised on knowing what the waves are like already, more or less. So this section on surf reports feels rather pedestrian. Anyway. Bottom line is, the better the surf is the more stoked you’ll be and that’ll reflect in your enthusiastic reports. The more underwhelming the waves are (compared to official reports as well as the possible reports from your mates) the more bummed your report sounds.
Three outta five stars because who really cares about reports. We just wanna surf it’s good.
Picking a surf spot.
So, you’ve done a round trip checking spots and have dutifully sent a few reports. Let’s assume the waves are relatively fun everywhere. Nonetheless, for whatever reason, one spot appeals more than others. Less crowded, better on the current tide, more mellow/more gnarly, depending on what you personally enjoy. You find a parking spot, spy several of your surf tjommies’ cars parked nearby, and begin the slightly laborious process of preparing to surf. This means applying sunblock and the less than dignified dance of climbing into your state of the art wetsuit which is just about as easy to get into as the Illuminati. All while politely dismissing fungus riddled unhoused folk and assuring car guards you’ll pay them after you’ve surfed.
As you’re suiting up, another one of your surf mates rocks up. This oke happens to be the slightly dumb dude who never has sunblock nor wax and always asks to borrow some of yours. All while trying to convince you to join the church of Scientology. Surprise surprise, he asks you for wax and sunblock. After you’ve already locked your car and were about to hit the water.
Two outta five, as this is mundane and laborious, as we’ve said.
Hittin’ the surf.
You forgot your only current leash was on another board. Which is at home. And your dumb mate who always asks for wax, sunblock and invited you to join Scientology doesn’t have a spare. Nor does anyone else. You drive back home. Again. You curse everything in the multiverse and briefly consider becoming a Scientologist.
Minus one outta five stars. This is the low point today. You hope.
Actually hittin’ the surf.
You wonder how some of the younger surfers, particularly newbies, run so effortlessly across the sand to jump into the water with ease. You realise however, nearly all of them stub a toe or fall helplessly arse over kettle over the hidden rocks in the sand. Amusing! Until one unfortunate dude found a piece of glass stuck in his heel. Not so amusing now.
“Please, no needles,” you silently pray as you walk, confidently cautious, across the sand. You hit the water, wading out as far as possible before paddling proper. “Sjoe!” You mutter to yourself. “The temp’s a bit fresh ‘ey!”
One and a half outta five, rounded up to two.
Actually surfing.
This is where it all happens. When the waves are so good, you forget instantly how much time and petrol you wasted on the trips home. When you do such rad turns the incoherent car guard insisting on an up front payment becomes a distant irritating memory. Even if he smelled like he’d soiled himself and you were concerned about getting hepatitis, you hit an air section so you couldn’t care any more. You even get such a sick barrel that you briefly consider politely accompanying your mate to the next Scientology seminar.
Or perhaps the surf is poor and the crowds are thick. Maybe you surf with all the skill of the incoherent car guard if he were sedated on horse tranquillisers.
Or maybe your surf is just another fun but average session.
One, two, three, four or five outta five stars.
Leaving the beach.
Assuming all is well with your car, and you have a rugby game/braai/Scientology seminar to attend, you reflect on your time surfing. Doesn’t matter how good, mediocre or epic your surf was, in Trident’s books any surf should score a perfect five for the simple joy of riding waves.
