Question: should you keep a post-surf diary?

Does greatnesses lay in regular post-surf analysis?

Northern winters do strange things to people. All that time for deep, dark contemplation begets some quirky shit. Norwegian doom metal. Peep Show. Eurovision.

And it’s surely only that twilight fog, swirling and meandering through the psyche like some tangled ghoul, that ever allowed this idea outta Scotland to progress beyond conception: a surfer’s notebook.

Surf Notes has fields for you to enter the conditions as they were forecast, swell size, direction, wind direction etc. Note them down to get a better understanding of what works best at your favourite break or when to come back to a special one on your travels!

A place for more details on the session is included so you can wax lyrical about how epic that right was, or how the whole beach stopped to watch that one lip slash. Looking back might just give you a reminder when the details start to fade, and you never know, it might even make you a better surfer.

What do I think? Surfers don’t need diaries.

Yes, Derek Hynd’s notebook was the stuff of legend. Careers were dissected, flayed, with a flick of that bony wrist.

But for the rest of us? Get ya hand off it. I know a few guys who do keep session logs but it’s only for conditions, locations. Future reference. Coupla lines per surf, max.

Self analysis? Except for the odd crywank in the rearview mirror, I keep my eyes forward and pedal to the floor.

And yet. There’s something quaint about the thought of it. Sorta like Surfline Replay for Luddites and Angry Locals. Sitting in front of a roaring fire, wrapped in a fine down blanket, goblet of port swishing about in one hand while quilled notes are hurriedly transcribed with the other. Ultra-analogue surf candy.

Plus, ya know, RUOK n that. Gotta get that shit off your chest.

So with all the cracks in the wall of positivity, quit-lit, actual heavy investigative journalism etc dropping ‘round here of late I thought I’d lighten the mood a little, and ask a couple BG scribes to put their own pens to paper, post surf.

See if you can guess who’s who!

Desolate, windblown peaks emptied onto the shelf under a lead lined sky. I took the first drop that presented, and deliberately rode it into the rocks. Just to see what would happen. Just to see if I could still feel. About surfing. About anything. The jagged protrusions, ancient basalt lava heads, sliced deep. Blood gushed from me like a draining loch/standing wank. Dumb cunt. But 50 quid says I cannae do it again.

Who?

Wow, the point was crowded today! Saw one murfer almost scalped by hipster with a Greenough fin. She just laughed. Reminded me of Dostoevsky’s disquisition on the irrational pleasure of suffering. Like the time me and Owl C. gutted a bore barehanded while high on mescaline. Must pitch to Derek.

Who?

Sigh. Another day of Bondi closeouts. Got slapped by a young French backpacker when we were paddling for a set and I asked her if she goes both ways. Pervetir? Moi?

Who?

And let’s hear yours.

Could be your Grit compatriots, da pros, ELO, Cote, a George bro, your own. Etc.

Best one wins a BeachGrit tail-pad or similar.