Anthem for Doomed Youth
Blasting windswept mountains of water collapsing on the knees of a misted cliff-face. The Sentinel. The old greying consortium-owned grandfather watching over surfers with balls the size of Jabulani’s (FIFIA ’10 Matchball). It’s like a scene adapted from a Wilfred Owen World War poem. The young and brave climbing through trenches and into thundering death. Or maybe more like the ending chapters of a greek legend. Odysseus… in surfer stubble… escapes from Cyclops Polyphemus on the west winds and (in slow motion with a deep husky voice over)… into the lair of Laestrygones! But then again, we’re eating biltong and spilling those really great woolies chutney chips over the deck. The rain is punishing me for something I tweeted last week. I refuse to be the first guy to call sick as my stomach hauls me over another 20 feet of ocean. 70-200mm Canon in one hand. 17-22mm intestine in the other. There’s something about surfing that makes me swear a lot. But swearing doesn’t do this place justice.
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