Like a large autumn leaf falling from the top of a tall tree, the earthy-coloured kite canopy cascaded purposefully towards the glassy sea. The wind had instantly abated and the atmosphere in the surf break was peaceful and calm. The normally tense kite lines were now relaxed and lazy, all five lying slack and idle. Like long strands of wet spaghetti simmering in a gigantic pot, the strings coiled and gathered together just below the surface. Once again Shotgun Point had cooked up an occasion, her fickle wind leaving the rider completely powerless; to be served up in the soup and eaten by the next on-coming set of big waves.
Like a broken-down motorist stuck in the middle of Surf Highway, the stricken kiter fisted his control-bar in frustration, yanking the steering device from side to side --the downed kite an impotent vehicle that had run out of petrol. A sea breeze shutting down abruptly with no hint or sign of warning was a characteristic of the famous surf break. Regular kiters knew the risk and took the gamble. Kiting the Point was a high-stakes game of chance and the house-rules were well established. But the prize of scoring a deep barrel ride that peeled forever down the shallow reef was worthy of the wager. Dark shadowy lines coming from the horizon were shaping into clean rising swells and aiming for the far outside reef of Shotgun Point. As the drama in the surf break began to unfold, Dude and Man, two local shredders, sat on the cliff top which overlooked the Point and observed the proceedings.
Dude was totally unconventional -- as queer as a quiver of foil kites, as odd as a three-strapped kite surfboard. The eccentric kiter was an adrenaline junkie who got his fix by boosting huge over two waves at a time at his local pointbreak. It was Dude's favourite party-trick, a manoeuvre no one dared to emulate. Man was a gearhead, an equipment freak, a tinkerer of kite parts and pieces. He could rip waves to bits as well. He dreamed of making a small fortune from the kiting industry -- but he knew he'd probably need to start with a large fortune and then watch it slowly diminish. Out of sheer necessity, he once carved a control-bar from a piece of rough bushwood while camping at a lonely and remote wavespot having snapped his proper bar on the previous day. The next afternoon he was seen fanging down the line of a desert reef peeler, shredding and pulling turns while holding a funny-looking stick in his hand. His weird experiments like flying old kites with struts intentionally deflated were always entertaining.
Dude and Man studied the kiter floating helplessly in the surf zone. Separated from his strapless board but still attached to his downed rig, "Ripper" Lovelace, teamrider for BRO SURF Kiteboarding, adjusted his sunglasses for improved vision and then clearly eyeballed the situation. He noticed the location of his loose board -- upwind and slightly out of reach. The pro-guy removed his crimson truckers cap and raised it high above his head. He waved it from side to side frantically, desperately seeking attention, a red flag signalling a call in distress.
"That cap has a special solid brim so it won't bend up when riding," said Dude.
"The BS truckers cap has a vice-like grip on your head," added Man.
"Yeah, super snug fit but comfy as," agreed Dude.
"It's strapless too -- and it won't take off in 30 knots of breeze," informed Man.
"What? The cap or the board?" enquired Dude.
"Both," replied Man.
The two cynical locals laughed at their silly joke.
Dude thought about the dilemma that was being played out in the impact zone right in front of them. Ditching the kite and swimming for the board was the usual tactic when the wind turned off. "Remember the time I lost sight of my board in big surf after being separated and I opted to swim for my kite instead," reminisced Dude. It had been late on dusk, everyone had left the Point, the wind had shifted to a strong offshore and Dude spent the next four hours at the mercy of the sea, hanging onto his kite like a wartime survivor clinging to a life raft. "Around midnight I heard surf breaking on some beach so I abandoned my kite and started swimming for shore," recollected the local kiter. Man had heard the story many times in the past.
"When I reached shore, I staggered to the road and attempted to flag down a passing motorist," recalled Dude.
"Dude, who's going to pick up a freaked-out stranger dressed in a black wetsuit in the middle of the night on a lonely bush road?" asked his mate rhetorically.
"Anyway Man, I ran the whole way home on some crazy adrenaline buzz," he remembered.
"And your loyal dog lovingly greeted you and celebrated your safe home-coming," embellished his kiting buddy.
"Only because she wanted to be fed," replied the pet's owner. They both laughed at the irony. The two friends silently pondered on just how challenging and hazardous it was to be local kiters at the pointbreak.
From the narrow swimmer's beach called Sunset Strip, two smoking jet-skis launched and blasted across the water, both heading for the crimson truckers cap being waved in the air. Looking from the sea, the land was a curved wall of cliffs that bordered a rocky bay broken only by a short, sandy strip of beach. By now Ripper Lovelace had drifted into Supersuck, a treacherous inside section that minced your equipment and then spat you out. "Jet-ski support is a pro-guy's pleasure," remarked Man. Both locals had already anticipated the impending mechanical rescue.
"If only the local crew could afford such extravagant assistance," dreamed Dude. The jet-ski brand name was printed in very large letters on the pro-guy's kite -- a floating billboard advertising escapism.
"Why the two jet-skis, isn't one enough?" queried Man.
"It's backup -- just in case the other ski fails," answered Dude.
"And they say kitesurfing is an extreme sport," chuckled Man.
Apart from the heavily pregnant similies and the disjointed plot, this gives Tim Winton a run for his money. 3 out of 10... Slave
"Days of Dude and Man..." or
"Dude and Man and Away"?
or for adults only... "Dude and Man do Dallas"
