It's Boxing Day and I'm supposed to be walking off the turkey gut with Sea Nymph and the Nippers. It's chill, crisp and the blue brightness of the sun just seems to amplify the bite of the off-shore wind that's blowing hard.
As usual, I take the camerameramera and - as usual - I get distracted by the waves and not the walk. I tumble down the cliff and precariously position myself as close as I can to the waves without jumping in. A ludicrous thought that - but it still flits across my hungover head. Some local guys are ripping up the waves that seem to build in bigger, steeper sets each cycle.
A "proper" photographer is taking shots too. He's got all the gear and his 300mm lens is (literally) putting me in the shade. He needs a tripod for that tripod I muse. He gets the odd shot published in Carve he says. Good for him. I mean that most sincerely folks, I really do. He knows some of the blokes in the water. Kudos, eh? But like me, he's a spectator and like they say, those who can do...well, anyway (and perhaps to crack an icicle or two) I ask him if that's "Stokesy" out there. "Nah," he says, "he's probably shacked up with a bird somewhere". Then it clicks - that's Matt Johnson out there. That is Matt Johnson. Don't believe me? So he's not cleaning pools anymore but the camerameramera never lies ... right?