In his latest blog, Simon Says shows he is not shy to court controversy by suggesting that the ever growing popularity of the SUP brings the sort of marine mayhem best left to a Sponge Bob Squarepants cartoon.
First came whale watching as clutches of binoculared cetacean lovers backed up Boyes Drive, waxing lyrical over blubber and spy-hopping. Enter shark spotting, with Smartphones, HD YouTube video feeds and webcams mere metres from the shoreline, says Simon.
In the abyss, fathoms deep with buck-eyed teeth and cartilaginous stealth they lurk. Loitering around the dog-eared corners of our nightmares are perfect instruments of submarine terrorism. Forget Nile crocs the size of Land Cruisers, or grumpy Puff Adders infused with large doses of cytotoxic inertia. We surfers are hardwired to relegate all other fatal mishaps to that of a mozzie bite when encountering a very large fish of the order Selachii. So says Simon
Simon gasps for air after being ragdolled by one-too-many big wave articles, and wonders whatever happened to Joe Average, the weekend warrior whose arms turns to jelly when a solid 6 foot set blots out the horizon?
Just when you thought it was safe to get back in the water those
fiendish marketing spin doctors have contrived yet another chunk of
prohibitively expensive nostalgia; the Alaia, says Simon.
Historically, September is a dark month. Sixty five years ago on the 1st of September Herr Hitler plunged Western Europe into the greatest conflict that humanity has ever suffered. By 1941, the world was aflame and would burn until the surrender of Imperial Japan on the 2nd of September 1945. More recently, 9/11 proved that terror could strike at the very cosmopolitan jugular of the world’s superpower, America.
A couple of weeks back I heard some whispers flicker around a wintery braai about a secret spot. I thought here we go again, an unmapped gem that's always head high, requires no rubber and is dusted by genteel land breezes. Yet another salty Elysium I will never surf. I gave up on ‘The Search' when I realised toddlers are somewhat allergic to Sex Wax, damp car seats and copious amounts of Weskus grit, says Simon.
When I was a kid I’d dream of an 8 to 10 foot wave that would lurch up from a rugby field sized stretch of satin smooth concrete. The peak would peel for hundreds of metres before exhausting itself as no more than a kerbside ripple. I would drop down the face effortlessly, wheels reverberating and bearings singing like a Verdi Aria in my concrete cathedral.
There’s a moment that every mortal surfer will experience, a shadowy epiphany that will mark the beginning of a new life stage; middle-age. This harbinger of agedness might manifest itself by physical means in form of a gammy shoulder or the need for copious amounts of extra sunscreen and a dorky looking sunhat. Perhaps “ballie-dom” will present itself as a sobering reflection of a pregnant looking profile in rear window of your car, as you ponder the mysterious qualities of ever-shrinking neoprene. , says Simon
I’ve prepared for the worst and come to terms with the inevitability of my
fate - lightning will strike me down soon enough. I’m about to commit a
sacrilege that will no doubt reduce me to a pathetic smoking mound of ash, says
Simon
Friday 16 March 2012
