10:38pm — 18th November 2009 •
The caravan thumps down on the gypsy wooden pegs for the last time in Capbreton - the port town south of Hossegor. Along the stone waterfront, which is being sured-up against the Atlantic, the nations awkward athletes stagger and wheel themselves about wondering whether they picked the right sport. They are all being housed in a red brick, monstrous sports rehab clinic which overlooks the ocean and the people who are playing in it, and the broken pole-vaulter can’t bare to watch the surfy kids having all that fun. Although it is serious fun, as the clean solid waves break hollow and rush towards the drooping old german war bunkers, now covered in graffiti. Del, Bodean and Hellybutt are dry and excited to watch the surf and then it’s all too much to simply just observe and down the street they run, in braces and farmer’s hats, yelling and grabbing the wet suits and surfboards. The bicycles sit patiently under a low slung, heavy branched tree.
The crowds are thick in the water in the very south-west of france. Everyman and his dog and his cousin and so forth. Many of the locals are sporting the brightest of hooded jumpers, some in matching tracksuits. And it would seem that brand names rule the cultural roost. Then you begin to worry as solid minded, solid bodied longboard riders pummel towards the sand, and the parades of sticker smashed boards twist and flick in the throngs of 60 or more. Unbeknownst to dear sweet Del, one young lady who had been thrashing around as if in a raging tempest, attempted to lodge some spittle in his swaying portuguese face.
On hearing this story of putridity, Hellybutt announced “Deary me!”, and then discreetly exited the water.
One does not want to be too hasty, though, on passing judgement from these anecdotes alone. For of course, the water was empty before 10 am - nobody here is rising to greet the sun’s first blessings of the day, and there was Paul - French Surfing Champion back in ‘81. From an idle conversation he distinguished himself as a true gentleman and pirate of sorts. Taking Del in for a light meal and giving him a ride to a city in the south (after the expected, yet still sorrowful death of Del’s yellow, Australian-made girls bicycle).
And so it goes - the waves arrive, and there are people coming and going all day, and it is warm on the back patio and this is fine. Is it enough? Oh lingering sweep of the sub-concious! What are you trying to say? Is there some deeper omnipotent force brewing - wishing to be revealed?
