Snapper Rocks and Ancient Rome

Snapper Rocks is a modern day Gladitorium. Rail after slashing rail unleash giant fans of salty liquid that rain sideways towards the spectators, of whom there are many, on each wave’s shoulder.

The real warriors know who they are. They paddle with grim determination, they spin round and propel themselves off the steepest ledges and emerge triumphant from the deepest, darkest caverns. They may not seem to notice you, but they know you are there. It’s part of the extended awareness that these gods possess in their arena.

Mick gouging eyes out – click to enlarge

Sometimes they feign ignorance, sometimes not, when dropping in on mere mortals, destroying someone else’s ride of a lifetime. But being a gladiator grants ownership of destiny – both theirs and yours. Others have no claim until they have been suitably initiated and the right to the inside is a grail kept guard by a vicious elite. Not even the champion can relax, for second best is always closest – directly behind his back, watching and waiting with heated breath. By Jupiter’s cock, it’s a spectacle that makes women bare their breasts and men speak like babies. *

This day I sat further down the line and laughed as a Japanese longboarder dropped in on a young charger before cross-stepping awkwardly through Greenmount and beyond. The young wolf bared his teeth and paddled back to the outskirts of the pack with vengeful, broad strokes.

Four waves out there, for me, eclipsed a month back home. I pretty much exhausted my repertoire on the first – a wide one that caught the pack unaware but for which I was perfectly positioned. Back in the carpark I threw my wet belongings into a boardbag, dried off and did the five minute dash to the Gold Coast airport, glimpsing relentless lines edging towards Kirra around the corner. I arrived at the terminal late but a beautiful blonde airline representative threw a wink and smile and ushered me through.

In ten days I’d worked, played and surfed everywhere from Burleigh to Byron, which is only half an hour away. I’d captured possibly my best dawn photograph ever at Snapper, shocked myself into a new morning routine of hot yoga at sunrise and dabbled in the junk shops lining the Surfers Paradise strip. It’s a wild stretch of beauty and chaos, nature sublime and neon excess.

Ah, the Goldie, I can’t stop smiling.

* At the time of writing this author was mildly obsessed with TV series Spartacus and ancient Roman expletives