Frothin' Up!

 'Let me go out there and get one wave, man! ... I'm not going to paddle to New Zealand!' 

Now that I’ve discovered that ‘surfing’s the source’ (thanks Patrick and Keanu) I was pretty excited about the Rip Curl Pro over Easter. Unfortunately the night before I was scheduled for a private surf lesson followed by the Pro, I accidentally ended up at The Peel until 4am getting up to no good so wasn’t the picture of a healthy surfer babe – instead it was a look of giant do-rag and sunglasses hiding a pasty face. Still, I made it to the surf lesson after 3 hours sleep (the movement of the waves gave me motion sickness) then I cruised the Pro checking out the veritable sausage forest clutching my binoculars and hangover cure of hot dog and coke. And what a sight – not me, the sausage forest.
I realised that a surfer is my ideal man. Physically, he is healthy, strong, has great guns and broad shoulders. Boom! Mentally, he obviously has commitment (at least to the waves), determination and we would immediately have something in common. Bang!

I was frothin’ up.

This was a term that was thrown around over the loud-speaker commentary at the Pro. It seemed that when a surfer won a heat there was a lot of ‘frothin’ up’. Sadly I wasn’t in fine form that day so didn’t even manage to chat to a surfer. There has been some discussion amongst my non-evangelical-grommet friends that all surfers are not that bright. But as I have done before with other male-related untruths, I’ve decided to do some serious experiments. I’m going to take it upon myself to be a mythbuster.

'OMG.. you love surfing? I love surfing, too!'

So now I need to conduct field research and talk to more surfers other than man mountain (who isn’t dumb btw). I’ve noticed out on the waves there’s not much talking just a lot of stare bears. Next time, if I have another dude eyeballing me I’m going to say something. For shiz. I’m assuming they’re eyeing me off because of my sassy wetsuit that has a tendency to unzip itself and not giving me greasies because I’m doing something wrong or wondering what the hell I’m doing out on the waves. I know for sure they’re not admiring my board uglybetty.

The trip down to Wye River last weekend was both irritating and liberating. As I am still trying to work out how to read the surf reports, I tend to suss it out and then am only incredibly disappointed when the Great Ocean Road looks flatter than St Kilda beach. Galling.

So late Saturday afternoon we retired to the pub, ate our fish and chips, stared at the ocean and prayed for a good swell in the morning. There were four ladies – all keen surfers – and we were pumped. Early the next morning we wake up to the pitterpatter of rain on the roof and the growling of 120 dirt bikes revving their engines. There were 120 country boys staying at the same caravan park and they were frothin’ up to continue their charity ride. We zipped up our wetsuits, waxed up our boards and wandered down to the beach, failing to realise that we had to walk past a bunch of men straddling their dirt bikes. Needless to say, all eyes were on us. A wetsuit sure does hug a lady’s curves. We heard a shout of ‘You sure can sell a wetsuit!’ Indeed, kind sir, we can.

Down at the beach the waves were beautiful. The rain had flattened the ocean and there was enough of a break in between sets to paddle out and sit with the DILF and his son. We ladies thought we were pretty cool. We were doing it! We were surfing in the rain! We were going to catch waves! Lady-body-idol and I had bought booties for the winter and were keen to try them out. How wonderful was it going to be to feel our feet and not have them turn blue in fifteen minutes?! Yeah! And when the sets began so did our bloody awful attempts at surfing. The booties gave us sticky velcro feet and there was no way we could manage to stand because as soon as the booties touched the board, bam! there you were, stuck. There was a lot of head first falling off, shouts of frustration and not much victorious fist pumping. A new member of the ‘chicks can surf’ chapter surprised us all when she could actually … surf. While the three groms ended up back in the whitewash we turned to see a sexy-siren-Poseidon rising from the deep, totally kickin’ it on the board. So calm, so controlled, so happy. Hot dang! I wanted to break me off a piece of that action! And oh how I will. Yes, indeedy. Off down the coast again on Sunday to get my booty-wearing booty up on the board. I’m frothin’ up just thinking about it.