Rewind to earlier that day and the desert butcher Paul Nunn was having his first dig at a notoriously fickle and sketchy desert right. Swell direction wasn’t great, we saw one good wave in twenty minutes. Paul was frothing to get it done though so we went for a paddle. We dodged rouge sets for two hours, somehow I picked off one with an exit and Paul snagged a few to get his bearings before we called it quits. Paul was amped, but a little rattled on how his aged red and yellow single fin performed – its rail hold was tentative at best in critical positions.
Shooting from the cliff, four hours passed in a blur of flies, red dirt and some great barrels. The boys cleaned up; Paul in particular who stuck to his plan. Getting in early and setting his line, he threaded his way through the wave of the day, riding out like he was standing on some bizarre magic carpet and not a craft more suited to laid-back arches on long walls. The next week was nothing but a delightful groundhog day, fuelled on goat curry, red dirt rights and fire side beers, the stoke tanks were full.
On his return, sewn back together and with orders to keep land locked, Paul talked of getting back in the water in a few days. Eyebrows are raised. Good sense prevailed and he packed up his gear. Dream run done and desert stint cut short, Paul returned to the big smoke for exams. After he bailed we did what any good friends would do, and kept surfing.