Tasty Burger

Monday, May 28, 2007

Come back soon

From wikipedia:
Some species and/or populations of cranes migrate over long distances, while some do not migrate at all

Seems we got the migrating type cause we had our last weekend of surf with Joeleee before he heads to the big apple. Dub, Sergio, Dre, Niko and I join him down the west side to find perfect offshore breezes, reasonable sized sets and unreasonably large crowds. Jan Juc is dumping everywhere except the spot reserved for the surf comp so we head out at Torquay with 42 other mofo's (yes I counted, and that is just the folks out the back!) on the incoming tide for some chaotic surf action. By the time each set arrives, everyone is so antsy that they're 5-6 strong on each wave and running over each with desperate abandon. Fortunately we can perch in the middle and catch some glorious reform that keeps us satisfied. Anyway, who needs strangers to run you over when you've got perfectly good mates? :) Dub gives Joeleee a goodbye nudge and I give it a try too but narrowly miss him (I'll get you next time gadget). Beautiful autumn day to bid Dave adieu and with the sun setting over the Torquay surf club and the tide filling in we call it a day. It was hard to be certain from the hill (because Dave is made from approx 292131000 cubic kilometers of salt water) but I'm sure I saw the bogan wave god shed a tear.

I've added an "eternal" flame that will burn until our next burger posse surf trip (I think we drunkenly agreed spain or portugal last night yeah??). Can't wait!

See you soon I hope mate

1 Comments:

  • Mark my words: draw back... like an acute angle formation of cold-sensitive cranes stretching beyond the eye can reach, soaring through the winter silence in deep meditation, under tight sail towards a focal point on the horizon, from where there suddenly rises a peculiar gust of wind, omen of a storm. The oldest crane, alone at the forefront, on seeing this, shakes his head like a rational person and consequently his beak too, which he clicks, as he is uneasy (and so would I be, in his shoes); whilst his old, feather-stripped neck, contemporary of three generations of cranes, sways in irritated undulations that foreshadow the oncoming thunderstorm. After looking with composure several times in every direction with eyes that bespeak experience, the first crane (for he is the privileged one to show his tail feathers to the other, intellectually inferior cranes) vigilantly cries out like a melancholy sentinel driving back the common enemy, and then carefully steers the nose of the geometric figure (it would be a triangle, but the third side, formed in space by these curious avian wayfarers, is invisible), be it to port, or to starboard, like a skilful captain; and, manoeuvring he thus adopts, since he is no dumb creature, a different and safer philosophical course.

    By Anonymous Dub, at 12:44 am  

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