Monochrome Monday (a wall is not a door)

"Dont spend time beating on a wall

hoping to transform it into a door"

Coco Chanel

Hibiscus Dawn

We were standing on the sand dunes last night waiting for the full moon to rise and eclipse over a seething post-cyclonic Pacific Ocean when a couple of fellas rocked up with quite a bit of camera gear.

Of course we had a chat and during our convo, one of them stated emphatically that dawn photos are best when there's no clouds.

I was perplexed, but polite.

This one's for you, bud. Iphone. Hand held. No tweaking of any kind.

Moon photos tomorrow.

Style (waiting for Ita)

Nana Brine's house sits 50 meters from the high tide mark, where the rain is driving horizontally and little bits of frothy foam are blowing across the soaked sand, tumbling over a thick line of pumice stone, bird feathers and tangled pieces of seaweed, freshly ejected by the ocean. A cyclone is coming, but the choppy waves are still small and chaotic.

Nana Brine's house will never feature in one of those glossy Home Style type of magazines, but she doesn't care. She has her own style accumulated from 90 odd years of savouring the sights and sounds and tastes of the planet - Accidentally Retro. The 1970's cups and plates and clothes still function, so why throw them out? 

Nana Brine's house has withstood the onslaught of many thunderous weather events (and the odd debate about politics). It's 70's style wood panelling suits the enlargements on the wall of places visited last century and the collages of her children and their children and their children. Her garden is vital to her health and happiness - azaleas, hibiscus, New Zealand Christmas bush and all manner of veges and  the 30-year-veteran lemon tree in the back corner that she's loath to prune lest she jinx it's productivity.

Nana Brine's house exudes the soaked up memories and the laughter of a home lived in by the same clan for a long time. When she walks her country, she recalls the stories of those who went before her, remembering that style is more something you grow into rather than something you can buy from a shop and climb into or in her words "whack on".

Nana Brine's house shakes from the winds. An eerie whining sound in the wires is punctuated by a lone long blast of foghorn from one of the massive tankers anchored off the beach. But Nana doesn't notice. Her hearing isn't what it used to be. She asks me to make her "a cuppa" while the  fella on the national radio asks listeners if the pension age should be raised to 70 and Cyclone Ita creeps closer.

The Pocket

Found $9 which had been rattling around the pocket of my boar dies for the last nine surfs!
Epic, including a slide with Huon and his Bing Elevator in fairly ordinary surf this morning - but fun nonetheless.

Sub-optimal

We've been talking a lot lately about why our friends gave surfing away and let their boards gather dust. 

Some got into other scenes. Some pursued careers far from the brine. Some were seduced by their demons, never to return.

We've also been talking a lot lately about why we keep surfing. 

Even in dribbly conditions, after searching for an hour along scoured sandbanks. And we keep coming back to the social aspect of surfing a quiet spot with a couple of pals.

Doesn't matter whether they are riding one fin, no fin or three finned mals. It's the social aspect of sharing the brine under a big blue sky with people dear to us.

A big feed, a coffee or three afterwards and talking story is the icing on the cake.

Here's one for everybody who still goes out even when it's sub-optimal.

From Batman to Gathman

The other day I watched my nephew introducing his son to bodysurfing. 

The way the little fella was clinging to his dad's shoulders as they soared towards the shore whooping and laughing took me back to Kirra last century and my own dad teaching me about the ocean's pulses and rhythms and dangers - the same ocean where land and time and responsibility and mortgage payments and deadlines end, an an endless playground oblivious and disinterested in our macho machinations and digital dreamings. 

Where analogue starts.

Where generations and memories blur.

Where the Stoke is maintained.

Later, while we all talked story, the little fella and his little brother exchanged surf clobber for Action Hero outfits, oblivious to time, the heat and the rest of us smiling on. 

One day you're rocking the Batman mask and before you can say "Holy drop in, Batman" you're rocking the Gath helmet in full water person style and a couple of decades have evaporated.

Summer Palette

Computer says "no"

Ryan Wilkie in between body whomps

Two failed attempts 

and I'm cancelling Kawana Big W 

from my list of places to get cheap digital prints.

Seems like their technology 

can't handle USB3!