In this weekly column series, Bernie Shelly explores the strange, funny rituals of everyday surf life — from awkward line-up conversations and endless paddle-outs to bruised egos and near-collisions in the surf. At the centre is Ichabod: intense, stubborn and fiercely focused, the perfect foil for Bernie’s dry humour and sharp observations about friendship, etiquette and the absurd beauty of sharing waves with other people.
14. The Trip of a Lifetime.
Sometimes a person you know well can truly surprise you. Like when Ichabod sprang a surprise surf trip for my birthday. A few months late but what does that matter — winter was upon us and I craved warm water and sunshine — which he promised.
He suavely, masterfully, arranged everything. All I had to do, he said, was pack my bikini and tropical wax. Bikini. Tropical wax. My entire packing list.
As the day of departure approached my excitement grew in proportion to my skepticism diminishing. The anticipation filled my soul and dispelled that tiny little niggle of anxiety. I stopped asking silly questions about visas. I was surprised that he didn’t subject me to vaccine requirements but I let it be. I even gave up guessing which exotic paradise we were going to.
Picturesque islands, palm lined beaches, quaint customs, melodic languages. Perfect surf in turquoise waters. These visions filled my dreams and every waking moment. Right up until the announcements on the plane the gist of which had to do with in the unlikely event of . . . I stopped listening.
I had packed motion sick tabs just in case we would be on a boat. I wondered about the other passengers then. Would I be the only woman? Amongst sun-bronzed husky bruisers? What sort of waves would the guys want — massive barrels? Hollow coral reefs? (Just as well I packed my Gath.) Mellow logging ones? My heart thumped in my throat as wondrous possibilities enveloped me.
Sun-bronzed Husky Bruisers.
The plane landed without too much turbulence at a hot and balmy airport. I was immediately overwhelmed by strange customs and melodic languages. Indecipherable airport announcements. Exotic aromas. King Shaka International Airport buzzed with tropical promise.
“You didn’t say there’d be a layover,” I say as we travel the 35 kilometres to the city centre.
“No layover,” he says. “Did you pack your Gath?”
The bachelor flat opposite New Pier would prove cramped, and the debate as to who gets the pull-out couch constant and bitter. But what the hell, I’d be in the water most of the time. The gorgeous warm tropical water. In my bikini. And my Gath. And surrounded by sun-bronzed husky bruisers.
Check in next week for more lessons with Ichabod.