Vor kurzem fanden wir eine Mail von unserem australischen Freund Sam Morgan im Posteingang die uns mehr als neidisch machte. Wenn ihr also keine Neidgefühle aufkommen lassen wollt, dann lest lieber nicht weiter. Wenn ihr damit umgehen könnt und weiterlesen wollt, dann empfiehlt euch Sam, das Ganze mit folgender Musik zu tun.
Four in the morning, I wake up from out of my dream. The excitement of anticipation gifted to me vivid, twisted dreams that kept me drifting in and out of consciousness. As the open bedroom window allows the warm morning air, pregnant with water from the night’s rain to rustle the plants in my room, I wipe the sleep from my eyes.
I have already packed my backpack with the surfing necessities for the day and now I make the final adjustments for some quick snacks along the way.
We meet on the backstreets on the inner city; the flying foxes above us strip the unripened mangoes to the core. We begin our journey.
As we arrive into the Royal forest, the sun greets us.
The view from the platform gives us hope of the waves we have been craving. A fickle spot, working best on an uncommon swell direction mixed with forecasts of a compromising secondary swell… Not an ideal scenario.
Parking the car, we grab our gear and start the hike across the rocks and the remains of an early settlement. In the 1920’s squatters walked these very same tracks carrying the supplies for their shelters on their backs. By law they shouldn’t exist. It is a perfect homage to the righteous men and women who weren’t to be defeated by the depression era of the early 20th century. Aptly named, we arrive at Era Point.
Crystal clear, warm welcoming seas, only a handful of others around and a shear cliff face shroud in morning mist as the sun gently kisses its weathered face. This is why we do it. This is why we wake up.
As the tide begins to drop, the point starts to drop off and the beachie begins to turn on. It’s like a dreamscape, deep in the heart of nature surrounded by a plethora of waves… it’s that shit.