Tag 54: The Bloodhound is best served medium-rare

08/22/2016

"Never give up" is probably the most characteristic and fitting motto if you're looking for one for my surfing career. I've been trying - sometimes more successful, sometimes less - in the sport for eight years. Despite modest success, I somehow always manage to motivate myself. That's why, right after failed attempts on the pro board, the logical next step when I'm out of the water is checking the wave report for the next day in Byron Bay. It's supposed to be quite impressive and excellent in the morning. Conclusion: We're leaving in the dark today to be among the first to witness the morning splash.

Arriving in Byron, I'm faced with the sobering result of the previous calculations. I surf almost as badly as my interpretation of the wave forecast is. And yet, today it's especially fun for me to actually surf the first waves on my new board, cheered on by the second visitor of the sea, an older man from Sydney. Gradually, the old man and I form a symbiosis in the water, as I benefit from him because of my presence and talkativeness, while he turns out to be an excellent teacher of the duck dive technique.

I linger in the icy-cold water for far too long and almost forget that Gudi is waiting for me and hasn't had breakfast yet. When I finally leave the extremely cool water, I realize that it feels a little bit like thawing frozen fingers under hot water. A funny feeling on the hand, less tingling (although that's exactly what it does: tingle) all over the body. Maybe I should invest some money and get a wetsuit, but somehow I believe that swim trunks and a lycra shirt in lederhosen style (hello patriotism!!) should be enough. It's worth mentioning that at 19°C water temperature, no one else on this trip is as tough/stupid (adjective of your choice) as I am.

After this refreshingly fresh morning exercise, we drive to the next bay, which turns out to be the actual surfer's bay. Despite the greed in my hands (or is it still the ongoing tingling?), I force myself to have breakfast in the sun first and then teach the Australians to fear. Unfortunately, this happens to me again and again, less out of a consciously applied skill, but more out of loss of control of the surfboard. Maybe on the domestic ski slopes next winter, I'll curse a little less at uncontrollable Arabian projectiles, as I can now identify with some of them.[1]

We spend the rest of the afternoon actively chilling in the wind-protected and sun-repellent camper and grilling an excellent steak. I do the world a favor on this day by turning at least a small piece into a Trump steak. Obviously, hate and stupidity taste best when bloody, because I rarely ate such a successful steak, let alone prepared one.

The evening belongs to Gudi, who has to watch me all day anyway (you can also call it admiration). She wants a little walk in the extremely cute town of Byron Bay, which in our opinion (contrary to many travel reports) is still full of hippies, flower crown wearers, and world improvers. So we enjoy the wonderful flair of the sixties and wonder why they ever had to end.

Gudi's glorious laws:

Every decade has to end at some point!

...Gudi keeps saying to me incessantly. In the meantime, I'm wriggling on the floor and refuse to acknowledge that I have to say goodbye to the barefoot walkers again tonight. I have become too identified with them in just a few hours. I also had the impression that I was quickly accepted into their midst, which of course can be attributed to the similar beard and filth habits.

[1] Attention, story made up for better readability! Although I'm not the best surfer, I lost control of my board for the last time in the pro conditions in Nias.