Bondi Stories, vol.1.

W
Fuck off, trog!
hen I was 12 and a half, I went for a surf at South
Bondi. I was riding a fibreglass board for the third or
fourth time after two years on a styrofoam coolite. I must
have got in the way of an older, better surfer, because he told
me to “fuck off, you trog”. I knew I wasn’t a trog, because I
was just learning. So, I was more pissed off than shattered,
even though in hindsight I came to learn that learners are
effectively “trogs” to more experienced surfers. So, I dealt
with the feeling of rejection and decided to go back to riding a
coolite. I had been riding one of those orange coolites with a
deck concave, and a round nose and square tail. They snapped
more easily than the Firestone originals, but not as easily as a
Kentucky Fried.
Going back to my coolite was a step backwards in coolness.
But, it also meant being totally free to surf the entire
north end of the beach right up to centre. It was winter and
there was a righthand rip sandbank just on the edge of the nofibreglass
zone. So, I went home to get my coolite, which I
then felt guilty for having rejected. But, we soon became
reacquainted, as I removed the flexy white plastic fin and
replaced it with a larger timber fin recessed into the foam and
secured firmly in place with Araldite.
The next day, when John and Mont continued bravely to
deal with the agro of the south end, I just paddled across the
imaginary line that marked the edge of the no-fibreglass zone,
into a level of peace and freedom, which was to more than
offset the performance back step I had just taken. There
wasn't even a swimmer on the bank, as I rode scores of
bowling waves by myself, doing turns and slight slides with no
one to hassle me, but also nobody to share it with. I missed
that bit, but I valued the freedom so much more, which is sort