CHARTER ELEVEN // 21 AUGUST - 1 SEPTEMBER // 2004

Passengers: 
Jeff Sweeny, Graeme Taylor, Paul Hart, Glen Casey, Peter Mulholland, Dale Loader, Brett Loveless, David Johnstone

Let's talk about driving away from the name spots on a new swell and scoring one of the best breaks up here to ourselves. 4-6ft smoking lefthanders all bloody morning. It was not as big as some of the other spots on this day, but it was oh so perfect and uncrowded. Mobes' zen-like chanting from the Lizard Lounge whipped the Bells Beach boys into a frenzy. Gouging tube rides and soul arch slouches were all the go.

Shit, we've got to mention that 10ft set at another right that had them all wondering if those extra long sections were makeable. Who better to test it out than Sweens and Case. The wind turned and they came back stating it was very hard to surf. So we set up shop in the other waves on offer till the afternoon offshore gave us the perfection we so desired.

The stories this trip were like music to an old salts ears. Davo won this competition, hands down with his epics about White Pointers and Whales, he is a crayfisherman in the southern part of Australia where sea shantys are all the rave. Mind you, Tom's tale about a 10ft long singing tiger-snake came close. There were wax heads presented each evening for the "Big Balls" award and it was pretty easy to see these guys have been laughing their way through life.

Our fisherman took the claim of a rather large sailfish on a 15kg line. Photos were taken and it was allowed to swim away.

Dale, Eddie, and Nuttsy's wave quota soared. And Dale almost had the GT of the trip.

Most stoked of all was the Capt, who with a 6'9" Lynchy under his feet now has no excuse at all for pulling back··

CHARTER TEN // 7 AUGUST - 18 AUGUST // 2004

Passengers: 
Peter Morrison, David McArthur, Dugald Christie-Johnston, Bradley Smith, Stephen McCaughey, Mark Neumann, Ross McCorkell, Graeme Murdoch

DOUBLE TAKE: By Graeme Murdoch
AUSTRALIA'S SURFING LIFE 2005 Photo Annual "Seasons" Page 44

I'm delirious enough for God or Huey or whoever to tap me on the shoulder and whisper so mate, here it is, what do you reckon? I'm sitting between sets at the head of a left hand reef. A B-grade wave by this chain's standards is having an A-grade couple of days and it's answering an idle prayer I've thrown up for the last 15 years without expecting a response to.

*********

Me and the mates Ð PM, Spike, Macca, Rossi, Braddo, McShack and Doogs Ð are halfway through a Mentawai boat trip that's within reach of any Australian surfer with the means to save up four grand and two weeks off work.

It's all so commonplace and popular and easy these days. There's thirty (!) boats who want you on board. Thirty captains to take charge, thirty chefs to cook you a brekky omelette, thirty indo deckies to race you out to the lineup in the ships runabout, thirty other deckies to share a laugh with.

And they're kept busy all through the ever-lengthening Indo surf season by a constant parade of customers touching down and sweating the snakes and ladders queues of Padang airport arrivals. In our line alone there are tight-knit eight-packs of surfers from Margarets, the Central Coast and the Goldie. There are Brazillian and French surfers. Mostly though, there are the Americans, abandoning all inner monologue in their high-fivin', runnin'-commentary, I'm-a-good-bloke-but-I-just-might-have-pissed-my-pants excitement.

And so this excitement begins for all of us, the overnight channel crossing where the armada splits and regroups in smaller numbers at different breaks. The Captains on their radios co-operating and scheming, a hundred FCS keys screwing fins, tropical wax and zinc cream and betadine, Lances, Diablos, Playgrounds, Bells and Burgerworld, boatloads surfing in shifts, swell pulses and lulls, Bintangs and digicams and iPods and payouts and loving it all but hoping for a few less boats and a few more waves.

*********

We're halfway through the trip and the mighty Barrenjoey sits alone, anchored half a k down the line where the reef finally ends in a bend to the beach and IÕm wondering, why do I feel so privileged to be sitting here? Why does this left feel so completely and utterly right?

That's when I realise a playful and generous god has erected some kind of huge mirror reflecting my home break and has created a classic east coast pointbreak, he's imprinting on this reef a strong south easterly groundswell at mid tide on a still autumn day. Everything's Burleigh reversed: the water colour; the texture and the angle and the speed of the faces; the way it's perfect but not perfect; the way you're turning with the next 50 metres in mind.

15 years of surfing with my back to the Burleigh wall and wondering how it'd feel on my forehand are answered and the answer is it feels fucking unreal. Macca paddles back up to the spot and reads me with a you're-loving-this-aren't-ya-mate grin.

It's sacrilege not to surf eight hours a day when you're offered this so we pledge our skin to the sun and our shoulders to endless return paddlebacks. And as I fix this reef as a beloved Burleigh reversed, I can NOT let the smaller inside ones go through untaken. I'll picture the boys Ð a goofy-foot Harris brother, a natural Nick Heath or Brad Jeffries swarming all over the place, and figure to let anything go to waste is to do these blokes some kind of disservice.

But the occasion and the sun and the Neurofen will play tricks on you after a while. One arvo I'm wearing a pair of Oakley water-sunnies around my neck and start thinking they're earphones and wonder why they don't fit my ears and why nothing's playing through Oem. I can feel my retinas burn and sting, and worst of all start dreaming at one stage of how I could murder this wave on my backhand. Talk about a fickle mind.

**********

Soon enough the blood red blob of the sun sets on our two days here and we sail overnight back on to the chess board of boats and shift surfing and the next day we're anchored next to a boat full of Aussie blokes at a murderous right. Rossi slinks over on the runabout hoping to get the footy scores off Oem, but they're from the Central Coast and don't care about how the D's went against the Bombers.

A shifty left a couple of k's away catches our eye and we motor to check it. I'm leaning on the bow rail, peering and freaking out: Every distant wave has another identical wave directly behind it, feathering and falling in exactly the same place at the same pace. I take off my sunnies, clean Oem on my t-shirt and rub my eyes and try to focus on the nearby horizon of the blue tarpaulin, the white painted railings, the ropes. Every edge has a ghostly, hovering apparition. Holy shit, IÕm seeing double. I surfed Burleigh's twin for fifteen hours in two days and now I'm seeing double.

The heat and the waves and the Bintangs and the mates. The Mentawais have got me.

CHARTER NINE // 10 JULY - 21 JULY // 2004

Passengers: 
Bruce Gair, Terence O'Sullivan, Warren Randell, Jason Higson, Geoffrey Martin, Michael Sheard, Darren Speight, Justin Haines

The plan was to give it one more go. One more try before major engine reconstruction. Biding time with the hope of finishing the season and a decent plan for a replacement engine. Shit, to do the job now would mean missing a charter, maybe two. All seemed fine as we headed out to the islands. Our temporary solution may just get us through. We had some good fun waves this trip and the boys had a blast. The Captain was still out of action with 10 stitches in his shin. He sat and watched and took photos and dreamed of perfect scenarios for the ultimate engine solution. All the while the lads kept surfing, drinking, and eating.

Unbeknown to Wazza and his mates, the Captain's dream was fast turning into a nightmare.

As luck would have it, the engine gave out at another offshore spot with plenty of waves to while away the days. Including a new spot they christened "Jindys".

They made it back to port and all were stoked. Except the Captain, who would be pushed to the limits in the next couple of weeks.

CHARTER EIGHT // 26 JUNE - 7 JULY // 2004

Passengers: 
Andrew Read, Michael Spackman, Douglas Goodwin, Peter Blyth, Timothy McGuigan, Richard Edmonds, Richard Rogers

They say when a local fishing boat crosses another vessel's bow it is attempting to get rid of it's bad luck by passing it on. I was fortunate to have such a near miss as we passed gunnels that stormy night, rounding the point and coming into Pasangan Bay, better known as Macaronis. Mind you, I'm a solid old steel bitch and I would have kicked that timber boat to splinters. If bad luck comes in threes, then here's 3 for the record.

It is the best swell of the season. Macaronis is perfect, as good as it gets and there are a handful out sharing, hooting and carrying on. It is a backside barrel bonanza. My Captain's getting cocky. I know because he starts taking off on what I would call 'unmakeable waves'. The bottom drops out of one and he goes over three times with the lip, one of which is with his board and the fin gets knocked out by his shin He waves for the Toranna (my tender) and gets dropped back to me, asking if Olly, the Captain from Komodo could come and sew him up. A big flap of skin and subtenaceous fat is hanging off. There is blood all over my deck, which I don't mind. Just do not bring sand onto me. An hour later Olly's whacked in 10 stitches and my captain sits morosely contemplating the perfection in front of him; out of action for a month·bad luck no.1

The next morning my blood (oil) has been contaminated by water. My heart (engine) cannot function like this. My cylinder liner has blown a seal. My heart needs re-conditioning. I am dead in the water. It's mid charter. It's looking like a tow back to port, transferring the passengers to another boat and ending this charter now with another huge swell on the way. The captain's despair deepens. Bad luck no.2

While all this is going on, The Office or Lances Rights, is doing its epic double-up mad thing with a handful of very good surfers from Hawaii and Oz. Not only that but Lance Knight is there after 13 years on a type of pilgrimage. I don't even have to be there to feel the power that is spewing out of those incredible barrels. Dinosaur saliva spits, heavy wipe-outs and rinsings to the beach. Missing a day like that, and there have been three since the fishing boat crossed my bow, is what my Captain calls bad luck no.3.

Andrew Read and his mates. A bunch of mid 40 year olds. Mates from school. Booked the boat a year ago. They are the archetypical blokes. Have been excited about this trip for a whole year. They get on board. They have video of the hotel in Singapore, the airport chaos, the car ride to the boat, and every nook and cranny of the boat. They hit the surf like they are going to get their money's worth. 2 hours later we have 2 broken boards, 3 stitches, multiple reef scrapes and 7 very happy blokes. By the end of the day they are surfed out, sore, and sipping Bintangs. The pros hit us the next day and we run to Maccas and they score the best waves of their lives. The pros hit us again and they end up surfing with Danny wills, Dean Morrison, and the Hawaiins. Everyone is friendly and they have a blast. At one stage they are sitting in the dinghy, cheering all the boys, taking photos with their digital cameras and having a blast. They are stoked to have seen all the pros and surfed with them. Raving that night over how they could tell their mates and show em the photos.

During all the turmoil; my Captain's leg throbbing, my broken down heart, and my passengers' sympathy coated by the perfection on offer, the weather turned to shit. I was towed to a safer anchorage devoid of any name breaks. Yet we managed to salvage the day and ferry Ready and co to a rarely surfed reef where they scored fun waves in the 4' range by themselves. Never mind that the mangrove drained past it with all the debris of a forest flood and the fact that if ever there was going to be a saltwater crocodile it would be here. The boys were grinning.

It was a sad day when we parted ways and they sailed off on another good 'ol boat and comrade in arms, Katika. My Captain limped across my deck, sat down and patted my steel skin and muttered "these things are sent to try us". A small hiccup in our grand adventure.

CHARTER SEVEN // 12 JUNE - 23 JUNE // 2004

Passengers: 
Ty Arnold, William Arnold, Russell Molney, Daniel Haggerty, Marcus Davidson, Nicolas Huet, Sebastien Marro, David Perry, Steven Benson

They knew there was a swell coming. Everybody does these days. It all depends on what you want to surf. About 3am the BJ began rocking at her anchorage. There was no wind and little sleep till the sun burnt silhouettes of volcanoes along the eastern horizon.

Solid, tubing waves welcomed them for a pre breakfast bash. With the double-ups it was a case of breakfast smash. It was hands in the air barrels, and some! Dinosaur salivating spits exploding from within. Sheer utter chaos if you did not make the wave. Screams and hoots and adrenaline till after lunch when the whole crowd, all 8 of them, were spent and there was nothing left but sleep as big perfect waves gnawed at the shallow low tide reef alone.

They moved on that night. The desire to surf other spots with real swell a persuasive magnet. They scored perfect lefts till the swell dropped off and all and sundry were literally surfed out and did not care anymore. It was one of those charters.

The Capt put it down to the good karma that accompanies surfers from the Central Coast of NSW. They always get bloody good surf.

Ty, Russel, Dan, and Marcus simply ripped the shit out of everything.

Bill was in the thick of it and enjoyed watching his son and his mates surf. He and Dave had an ongoing fishing competition that yielded a Blufin Trevally and a barracuda. Not much, but it was all in how they played the game.

Dave had booked the trip last year but all his mates pulled out. He averaged 3 surfs a day for 10 days, had the time of his life, and was on his way home to organize a BBQ and video showing to stir his mates up.

Steve's bag went missing for a couple of days and proved the theory that all one really needs is a pair of boardshorts and boards. It had been a long time since he had surfed. Nothing like real waves to get that grommethood stoke back.

Nico, one of the French connection from the alps was blown away by what he saw. He and his mate, Sebastian, were snowboarders. Good ones at that. They took on all the challengers of big waves. Well, when you ski high mountains, base jump, and climb cliffs, a bit of water ain't going to hurt you. In Sebastian's case, the reef got him in the end, but the Capt's suture job pulled him back together and he left the boat feeling a bit bruised but happy nonetheless.

All-in-all and epic trip!!!!

CHARTER SIX // 29 MAY - 9 JUNE // 2004

Passengers: 
Gareth Collins, Gary Lord, Kyle Williams, Scott Somerville, Robert Bain, Trent McCann, Craig Cox, Maris Luidmanis

What a lovely bunch of boys from Queenscliff that scampered around the decks for the last week. Civilized, motivated, tough, and a barrel of laughs. They wanted waves by themselves, in the Mentawais, mid season. So there was an attempt to pull a couple of rabbits out of the hat. It's a funny thing when one begins to look around and finds spots rarely surfed, unknown pockets of reef, and little alcoves of cinematic jungle riddled with bugs of all shapes and sizes.

The QBC, led by Kong, where on a mission to produce a small documentary of their unique holiday. It involved props, scripts, rehearsals, and waves. The waves were on offer, albeit pulsing due to the somber swell that raked across the Indian Ocean.

Rob led the charge with clockwork tubetime and searing slashes. 5 score and ten years on the pro tour will do that to one's style.

Trent took the gong for keenness, paddling no matter what was on offer. His alter ego, Julian, was admittedly a bit soft when it came to pulling in above shallow razorlike reef.

Cougar, showed zipper-like precision in both the waves and the jibbing of his mates, although his alter ego, Lance, was also a bit quirky at times.

Gary, enjoyed the solitude of waves on offer and began to enjoy the motion of the ocean, wondering if it would be feasible to set sail on the high seas in his retirement years.

The Vulture picked up every single wave on offer and surfed it with aplomb be it right or left.

Marvo, the zen master peacefully ripped the shit out of the waves.

Kyle, the King of sarcasm showed once again his aptitude for self mockery and ker-banking turns in dire situations.

Cecil B. Dakong caught everything on celluloid and we are all holding our breath for its release.

CHARTER FIVE // 15 MAY - 26 MAY // 2004

Passengers: 
Nathan Edwards, Christopher Graves, Bruce Turner, Andrew McMurtie, Adam Taylor, Ryan Taylor, Brad Potter, John Robertson

Only the dolphins were having fun as they spun out of the 2 m north slop to check us out. A quick squizz at the BJ's bow as it slammed down the troughs on it's crawl back to Padang and they were outta of there, leaping away on top of the waves like there was no tomorrow. Aboard the Barrenjoey, we felt like tomorrow would never arrive. A low pressure had developed right over the Mentawais and kicked up some strong north winds, causing chaos amongst the fleet. One squall, around the 50 knots, hit with a vengeance around midnight and ripped the mainsail to shreds, ending the BJ's stabilizer existence. Oh we were living the dream alright·a bouncy, rocking, wild, never ending nightmare of movement.

It's not all beer and skittles," commented Myrtle, Bintang in one hand, rail in the other. Both he and Robbo were genuinely enjoying the wild ride as they bagged their mates for attempting to get some rest.

In a charter that had the fleet whinnying about lack of surf and inclement weather, we did alright. Gut feelings took over in more ways than one. The swell pulsed back and forth but never really went bang. The rain kept the sunscreen usage to a minimum. The wind, well it blew on occasions, but one had to find the offshore spots for the barrels to tease the surfers.

We went to some popular places and the boys notched up some tube time. We traveled to some mysto spots and they cracked a few rarely surfed waves. We fished and ate sushi. Ryan was particularly adept with the spear gun till the head fell off. Also scoring 2 of the best barrels of the trip. I saw 'em.

Nathan showed us all, and others, what power surfing is all about. Robbo invented maneuvers on his personal Strappers after being charged by the jellyfish. Although he would possibly call it being "nailed" by some fierce stinger. Scared for life. Adam was enjoying the power of the right-handers while Potz cruised through the whole trip (his third with us). You couldn't get Myrtle out of the water, and when he did, he was ordered back in again.

The goofyfooters a special mention. Power surfing from the boys. You could tell they needed some big lefts, but that did not stop them. Chris's laybacks brought us back to another era and had us all cheering till one deep gut wrenching thing took him out. Bruce was unbeatable, and for his age (???), one of the older blokes, showed us all up with some inspirational surfing. We had to watch them tear the last lefts to pieces on the final day.

CHARTER FOUR // 1 MAY - 14 MAY // 2004

Passengers: 
Nigel Mills, Brian Round, Peter Shaw, Richard Cohen, John Malane, Robin Megson, Timothy Bolch, Beau Fahnle

In 8 seasons, the Capt had never seen this wave break. A head high shelfing thing that did more than take a few of the boys out. It tweaked Dick's shoulder and effectively ended his trip. With only 3 days to go, it could have been worse. We were claiming the break and named it Tortoises (everywhere else has a Turtles).

Betadine was just about habis (finished) this trip. Voltarin sent the over 40's into muscle relaxant slumbers. Blood flowed freely over the decks. An old footy coach once said,"if you're not bleeding, you're not having a go" These guys had a real go.

Dick, before the accident, was chucking reos like there was no tomorrow, and making them. He showed all the style of a Vicco vetran. The Capt couldn't believe he had not surfed in months.

Weather smashed us on a couple of days. Smashed the whole fleet actually. Boats were hiding from the wild winds. Water tanks were filled. At a few spots, it blew that offshore that it was hard to paddle in.

Rob, the kneeboarder, was unlucky as his boards were left in Singapore for a few days and he sat on the boat with the patience of Saul. Mind you, when the boards did arrive, he made up for lost time by scoring many, many waves. Some-one said it was the yellow rashie that caused him to be in most of the video·reality being that he caught some of the best waves each day. The dying breed of fin clad wave riders lives on!

Bos's incessant grin was a pleasure to behold. "I'm not a very good surfer, so tell me where to sit" He did not listen and paddled deep with his mates to score a few epics. It only enhanced that grin. When he, Beau, and Selemat came back with a rather large sailfish in the dinghy, they were all grinning. Apparently the fine fish was fingered by the time they got it to the tinboat. So we took some photos, made a hunters' sacrifice to the Gods in the form of an ancient fisherman's jig, and ate it.

Beau took everything in. Kept surfing, kept fishing and kept us supplied with tasty morsals from the sea, and generally loved it all. Good luck on your forthcoming adventure mate.

Johnny's silver flash on several slashes had all the boys gaping in awe. He never let a wave go by. He made the most of each session, surfed his guts off, and relaxed in true form each arvo in the Lizard Lounge.

Millsy, the organizer, was on his second trip aboard the BJ. He saw new ground, discovered new spots, and relived old times with his mates. Millsy is a ski instructor by trade and promised he would take the Capt down the gnarliest double black diamond run as a payback for some of the heavier waves he was coaxed into, if it ever so happened that the Capt stumbled along his way. On ya Millsy!

Tim was the only goofyfooter in a trip with predominantly rights, one would of thought he would be at a disadvantage. Not so. Those years of surfing Lagundri Bay paid off and he cranked the backhand regardless.

Shawy's comment summed the trip up after the big day at the right. "I haven't had a surf like that since 8ft Nias when I was 25!" He is another one of those blokes somewhere over 40.

12 days, 2 swells, many fish and a lot of laughs··.a classic trip!

CHARTER THREE // 16 APRIL - 28 APRIL // 2004

Passengers: 
Robert Hatton, Michael Law, Stephen Cox, Martin Loosemore, Stephen Sugden, Paul Baker, Jason Andrews

Somewhere else in the world storms raged and oceans smashed coastlines. Way down in the Roaring Forties, low pressure systems stirred up swell and sent it marching across the Indian Ocean. The first real swells of the year. The boys wanted to go here, so we went there. No point in hanging with other boats, when you can be surfing uncrowded waves by yourself. What has previously been classed by the spoilt operators who were fortunate enough to be here in the halcyon days, as 'B grade' are becoming surfed more and more. In doing so, we are learning that they are actually bloody good waves. We had a few on this trip.

Is a double over head wave 8ft? We asked ourselves this when looking at the video of Coxy at one particular left. The lads did not want double overhead at the start of the trip, but thought it was pretty bloody good at the end of the day.

The Wailing Welsh Maniac, Martin, was on his second trip. This year he had new boards and experience to guide him into every surf. It showed. He had improved a hundred fold, spent many hours in the water, and left the trip with countless waves under his fins and that good old Welsh laugh.

The Flying Doctor, Mike, who had just completed a stint on the islands, was loving the comfort and mobility of a boat. Like his mates, he took to the heavier sessions with gusto, fought some demons and came out with a grin from ear to ear.

Then there was The Argonaut, Jason. The quiet achiever. The Red Pelt, whose rail grab cutties reminded us all of that great Italian Icon·.Occy.

The artistic Guru, Paul, whose stories of unsurfed Tasmanian mammoths and kinetic energy kept us all entertained. A quiet bloke by nature. When asked at the end of the trip if he had enjoyed himself, no-one was surprised with his answer·.yes!

The Sandon Point Duo of Suggo and Rob "the wounded Gull" showed their South Coast power participation in the perfect rights on offer and never let their mate, Coxy, get too many waves.

Coxy's Indo savvy had done it again. Put him in the best spots on the waves. Took plenty of photos for us all to enjoy and proved that at·.how old was he? Age is no barrier to surfing perfect waves. The eternal grommet.

Special mention must go out to Kelly Slater. After watching him surf the left, then the thick rights, we all agree that he still is way ahead of anyone when it comes to surfing.

Oh, and also special mention to the shark that scared the crew out of the water at that other left on that day. Martin and the Capt shrugged off the dangers and scored the most glassy of sessions! Ha!

CHARTER TWO // 3 APRIL - 14 APRIL // 2004

Passengers: 
Todd Lookinland, Randolph Colosky, Matthew Beach, Stephen Hall, Scott Randall, Darren Hawthorn, Mark Thompson, Jamie Valance

Renoir, the artistic boat captain with a pronounced limp and sporting an eye patch, surveyed the assortment of weird and wonderful passengers that had partaken in this latest salty sea saga. He shook his head, strained a neck muscle and had to ask his off-sider, Little Belle Peep to massage the old injury; a legacy of his yak herding days in the high mountains of Peru.

Running a surf charter boat was a bit like yak herding, he thought while blowing the horn in an attempt to gather the passengers back to the boat and weigh anchor. Thommo (baa!), the lone sheep of the herd, would not get out of the water. One last wave was all he wanted. His mates, Dazza and Rooster heckled him from the newly renovated lizard Lounge on the top deck of the Barrenjoey. Captain America who lives in Australia joined the Aussies in bagging the kiwi (baa!). After all, he'd been around enough of the uncouth barbarians and reckoned he knew a thing or two about them. Vegemite, beer, and bagging was what made them tick. The other Americans, The Mad Hatter, Clark Kent, and the Duganaut still, after 10 days, did not have a clue to what these Southern Hemisphere boys were saying. "I didn't come here to learn another language," commented Clark Kent as the boys babbled incessantly between the perfect lefthanders.

Back in the Lizard Lounge, Wasabi sat in yoda-esque silence, a sly grin lighting up his sunburnt noggin. His surfing had taken on new meaning by the end of the voyage. Some would say it had proceeded in leaps and bounds. He reckoned it was more like leaps and bounces. He had stashed the mal by day 4 and by day 10 was pulling into everything. At 48, was the born again grommet.

Renoir was attempting to paint a picture as Thommo (baa!) was lagging behind waiting for that elusive set wave. Little Belle Peep threw his paintbrush overboard and told him to keep his two minds on the job. So he climbed the mast and began a yak yodel that had Dazza laughing and Rooster crowing. Not that this was any different from the rest of the trip. Dazza, with his offsider Thommo (baa!) had not stopped laughing except when Little Belle Peep abused them for falling off inside the tube and Thommo (baa!) was devastated that no-one had captured his 'barrel-of-the-trip' on celluloid. Renoir and Captain America-who-lives-in-Australia had seen it, promised that it would be forever etched in their minds, and promptly forgot about it.

The Rooster never stopped crowing at the sight of the waves, the islands, the sunsets, the sea, the laughs. Except one early when Little Belle Peep got up him for crowing too loud. Offsiders, she stated, need their sleep.

Duganaut found his straps and became the red shining light in all their lives and his searing turns and gung-ho take-offs reminded the boys of that great Aussie icon, Mick Campbell.

Clark overcame his demons. He had only be surfing for 2 years and never over coral. He found a true joy in riding waves and not even the world's strongest handcuffs could stop him from pursuing his newfound freedom.

As for The Mad Hatter, well, they were in awe of him. Not only did the waves turn on every time he paddled out for a solo surf· but·he was the kid in Big Wednesday that handed a hung over Matt Johnson his board at the bottom of the Malibu stairs. "Here Matt, you can take mine". Deadset! And they even found out it was filmed at The Ranch and some fun surfs went down between shoots. AND·his brother is Bobby Brady..fair dinkum! He even went to Hawaii with them when Greg learnt to surf. AND· he was the chicken that threw eggs at the Karate Kid!! Mind you, all this info (supplied by his buddys) only fuelled the Aussies in their non-stop jibing.

Yes, thought Renoir, as he limped back to the helm, a good trip. He kicked the engine in the guts and drove off into the tropical sunset. A moment later, Little Belle Peep, informed him he was supposed to be going East, not West!!!!