Kick back in the arms of Angourie's still-warm Country Soul.

The pretty little coastal hamlet of Angourie, separated from the burgeoning town of Yamba five clicks down Angourie Road there, is one of those rare joints that has so far resisted the siren call of development.

Curbless streets, rocks pools, everyone knows everyone, two world-class waves. If you’ve ever seen the 1971 surf classic Morning of the Earth, you’ll know the sequence of Baddy Treloar hacking the point to bits on a board he made in his backyard to the John J Francis song Simple Ben.

The birth of country soul. 

And, now, if you’ve got four-mill or thereabouts, you can get a piece of sweet little Angourie with 65 Pacific Street, the closest joint to the Point and overlooking Yuraygir National Park out the back. Land size is almost seven thousand square feet.

It’s a compelling sell,

The house itself is what sea change dreams are made of. 

A sophisticated and contemporary twist on the classic timber beach house, with some of the most spectacular ocean views you will find anywhere. 

This spacious one-bedroom, one-bathroom beach house includes an open plan living, dining, kitchen area with a covered veranda wrapping around three sides.

The materials, finishes and fixtures used in the home are of the highest quality and pay homage to the surrounding natural landscape. 

A dream for nature watchers, there is a huge range of birds in the surrounding bushland, families of kangaroos who often visit to feed on the grass close to the house and migrating whales which can be seen from the veranda.

Spectacular views of sunrises, moonrises and sunsets from the property are a highlight.

How much to retire to one of the last great surfer houses, which last traded in 1988 for sixty-five gees?

The joint next door sold for four-mill back in May (bought for $420k in 1998) so expect that as a minimum.

Contact the agent, the lovely Janis Perkins, if you got the cash, want to retire to heaven. 

Expressions of interest close February 14.

Tiramisu.

I am now in Milan’s airport waiting to exit this glorious country having just stood in front of Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus” awed. The amount of art, of tiramisu and Negroni in Italy is positively stupefying. Potentially supernatural and possibly more supernatural than the recent viral sensation of a shark with a “mysterious” bite on its back.

The image, captured by photographer Jalil Najafov, self-described shark enthusiast, conservationist and filmmaker, in Mexico said it “changed his life.”

Najafov was born in Azerbaijan, a country I once visited and impressed by its use of the color yellow and also its lack of nightlife, has been studying and documenting sharks for decades though never saw something like the above.

What could cause such a scar?

Experts immediately ruled out a mating incident wherein sharks apparently love nibble each other and worry began to spread that it was maybe supernatural.

Aliens knowing if the ocean goes, we go, or more poetically stated by Najafov, “There is no ocean without sharks, and no oxygen without the ocean. So by saving sharks, we save the planet.”

His main concern is shark finning but have you ever tasted shark fin soup?

Nowhere near as tasty as tiramisu I’d gamble.

Yum.

Back to the scar, though.

Alien?

Ben Gravy?

Hmmm.

“Outrageous kick in the teeth to all Australians who’ve endured such draconian restrictions for so long. Rewarding an anti-vaxx loon like this sends a terrible message.”

The world number one tennis player Novak Djokovic has sparked fury, outrage etc among residents of the most locked down city in the world after he was given a vaccine exemption to compete at this month’s Australian Open in Melbourne. 

Brit polemicist Piers Morgan tweeted, “Outrageous kick in the teeth to all Australians who’ve endured such draconian restrictions for so long. Rewarding an anti-vaxx loon like this sends a terrible message.”

 

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A post shared by Novak Djokovic (@djokernole)

Australian football star Corey McKernan tweeted, “People with loved ones who are dying / some needing urgent treatment cannot get into their own states. You tell people they can’t go to Coles or a cafe without being vaxxed but if you’re world number 1 you get a pass? F***ing disgrace.”

The good people of that once-bustling city lived, barely, through six lockdowns totalling 262 days after COVID kicked off worldwide in March 2020. 

It wasn’t a breezy sorta deal either, local cops ate up the chance to kick hell out of anyone who didn’t affix their paper mask correctly.

REPORT: Angry cop slams a man to the ground. Could have killed him. – Flinders Street Railway Station. Australia. pic.twitter.com/I1nc1O2nJg

— New Granada (@NewGranada1979) September 22, 2021

Anyway, exemptions can be given for reasons such as anaphylactic response to the COVID vaccine, a poor response to vaccination or having had Covid in the last six months.

Serbian Djokovic told fellow Serbian athletes on a Facebook chat a year ago, “Personally I am opposed to vaccination and I wouldn’t want to be forced by someone to take a vaccine in order to be able to travel…” 

Earlier this year, Kelly Slater was slammed by the Australian press when he launched multiple fronts in the online vaccine war and claimed friends had “literally” been killed by vaccines, although this would later be amended to “horrible reactions”. 

Slater’s vax hesitancy, scepticism, whatever it is, previously meant he’d be shut out from competing on this year’s Australian leg of the tour, which encompasses Bells Beach and Margaret River.

Only two months ago, The Guardian opined that the country’s ultra-strict vaccination requirements would not be loosened even for superstar tennis players like Novak Djokovic. Not even for the world’s greatest surfer Kelly Slater.

Slater’s predicament underscores a looming dilemma for international sporting competitions. While Australia’s long-closed borders are now slowly reopening, the blanket ban on foreign arrivals is being replaced by vaccination requirements that are stringent by international standards. In sports notable for their globe-trotting – including tennis, golf, road cycling, Formula One, surfing and cricket – Australia’s entry requirements make being unvaccinated a significant competitive liability. Across a season of fine margins, sitting out one of the four Grand Slams, a Grand Prix or two WSL legs is unthinkable. Or is it?

The Djokovic decision opens the door to the greatest of all time to give Australians one more taste of his divine act, flying out on sheer bazaaz, his fans twitching like laboratory rabbits with electrodes planted in the brain. 

We hope that once in a while we can find some space, however small, in the chaos.

There I was, sitting in the lineup at Rincon, just an innocent girl going for a surf.

It wasn’t even good Rincon.

Around here, this hasn’t been a winter to be especially picky about the conditions. A girl can’t wait forever for perfection.

If I think my board might float on it, I go surf.

I have given up on the idea of choosing the right board for the conditions. It’ll be small. It’ll probably shitty. Just take the shortboard and make it work.

This particular day offered a jumbled mess of windswell from assorted directions. Random peaks. Weird sections. Odd corners. Pretty fun, actually.

My standards, they are so gone now. Love you long time, good waves. Come back someday, maybe.

That bitch La Niña stole the good waves and turned the water colder than usual. I whined my way through the paddle out. I am not a fan of an ice cream headache without the ice cream.

There’s waves. Shut up, and surf.

Then along came a likely-looking peak. It wasn’t anything special, but it was a wave, no one sat near me, and I could ride it. Things were looking up. I turned around, ready to do some surfing, or at least, the closest thing to surfing the conditions would allow.

Then, out of nowhere there he was: the backpaddler.

Riding a brown-tint midlength — which, let’s just stop right here for a minute. You ordered a board, and you asked for a resin tint. Out of all the colors you could have picked, you went with brown? And not like, a cute, tawny brown to match your sun-streaked hair. Just plain brown. I really don’t understand this life choice.

The brown midlength casually swung around the back of me. Then he dropped in beside me, close enough to brush rails. I’m pretty sure he thought he was doing some super awesome surfing thing there. Check me out, I picked off this wave with inches to spare!

Before we go much further I should say, the backpaddlers are almost always men in my experience. But it’s not like women are not out there wearing halos, by any means. I am not here to put anyone on a pedestal.

In truth, the modern lineup inflicts countless indignities. There’s the guy paddling casually over the shoulder, just as you come down the line. There’s a girl dropping in. Never look back, that’s what she says. Then a beginner drops in on you and promptly falls over.

There’s loose boards from who knows where yardsaled around the inside. A guy is teaching his girlfriend to surf in the middle of it all. They stare up at you, anchored like buoys. And of course, Wavestorms.

It’s enough to send a girl running for the hills. If only I could run.

With short legs and flat feet, running is an exercise in comedy — and futility.

And yes, I do see you out there alone, holding down your cold-water peak, somewhere up north. There’s no one to backpaddle you out there. You’ve never seen a Wavestorm. It’s so idyllic.

I also see the 6mm wetsuit, the hood, the booties. And I see the shark circling beneath your feet. She’s trying to decide if she’d like to have a nibble. Nah, not today. Still full from breakfast. Maybe tomorrow.

If I had to pick one, I’m pretty sure the backpaddler is the worst of the modern lineup’s indignities. There he is, just cruising along on his favorite 7’6”. There he is, just so stoked to be out there today.

Then, bam!

He’s behind you, grinning like a goon. There he goes, taking off right next to you.

Does he know he’s an asshole? Probably not. He looks far too happy.

In truth, it’s not like he has any reason to know better. Most places in California, lineup etiquette is dead. What the crowds and the midlength revolution began, the Wavestorms finished.

Sure, there’s some hold-outs where the grumpiest locals throw their collective weight around the lineup. And sure, you can paddle out somewhere cold and lonely, just you and sharks, having a time together.

But most of us, live with the crowds.

We dodge and we weave.

We hope that once in a while we can find some space, however small, in the chaos.

There’s peace in the eye of the hurricane.

Just keep dancing.

I watched the happy backpaddler surf down the line, arms in the air. I cursed, even knowing he couldn’t hear me. I imagined his wax peeling off his board and his fin dropping out. I realized I’m not at all good at imagining suitable punishments. Too much thinking gets in the way of the surfing, anyway.

Another little peak headed my way. This time, the brown midlength was nowhere in sight. All mine. Lucky.

I got up and wiggled down the line. I even did a little turn, which felt like a miracle.

There wasn’t much wave there for turning, and I am not Dane Reynolds, who somehow defies all laws of gravity and throws huge turns on tiny ripples.

It was nothing special. It was surfing. It was enough.