The Remembering and The Telling

The deadly black-base of a rampant Guillotines. The scouring rock-race at Bawley or the rarity of smoking fifteen-foot No-Toes peaks sneaking past Brush Island and being ridden by fearless locals and skinny young schoolkids.

The perfect day at Collaroy or the miniature Kirra that Kiddies @ south Palm puts up every twenty years,or Mona Vale blowing a blending offshore wall all the way down to Mick’s Rights.

– Or Turrimetta doing a long hollow sweeping peel under a summer Nor’wester.

Or the Joey smashing its twenty-foot unridden and majestic path from the Button to

The Beach, or Newport Reef sucking out double on a wide surprise.

Or North Point breaking clean all the way through its confusion of rock platforms and dry pours

Or the Basin, looking like a foreshortened Malibu, or Cooksies with the perfect peel on

every bank, or Rockpool’s blessing of every wave with a rigid face, a fold and a triple

sectioned length

The endless track of Pumphouse working in a heatwave, or the mystical join up of Coffee

Grinder and DumDum.

Or the Path’s stacking take-off when a southwester beats off swell from a north coast

Cyclone.

Golfers and tennis players and the footballers and swimmers and runners and walkers.

Gymnasts and weightlifters and joggers and fools and old deadmen walking all have their

means of measurement, but we have what?

Note-pads, scorecards, stopwatches, laptimes, records?

Memory and vanity is what we have, and no witnesses worth the validation of either.

Our puzzle is remembering what’s just happened, and where does it all feel best?

In the legs, as the rail bites deep on that quick flatwater?

In the fade, as the darkening raceway bellows open?

In the take-off, as time slows and the drop promises a speeding and airless fall down

that slope of dreams?

In the quick-folding wall, as trim bets speed to win against the nature of a

breaking wave that zippers down a barely covered reef?

In the hoot of a stranger who wishes you flight and cover on the set of the morning, or the ripping acceleration and wrenching torque of that skeeting cutback, or the change from streaking to stopping, then the tight gouging bury of it in a sandy close-out?

Where does it all feel best?

The remembering?

Or the telling.

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