Zetland

The sun was glaring down on him as he paddled back out through the choppy waves. Crowds on the beach were standing up, cheering on his efforts.
The same old crap he thought, arse wiggling and postulating his way across shit waves in bright coloured singlets, for what? A bit of cash and a glimpse at glory, soul draining desperate groupies?
Or just to keep his sponsors happy as they made their millions from exploiting what he loved.
This was not making a living; this was suicide of the soul.

Zetland was born in the late fifties and was brought up in a small, fibro, beach house, by his surfing father and beach loving mum. Along with two brothers and a sister, Zetland spent most of his life in and around the surf.

It wasn't long before riding waves became his obsession.
First body surfing on his father's back and then by himself in the hollow shore break. Always trying to go further and further on each ride. Then he used to borrow a surfaplane from the beach hire and ride it until the sun disappeared.

Sometimes with the help of his older brother, he would drag his father's old toothpick out from under the house and down to the beach to take turns at attempting to ride it. It leaked and his elder brother would get bored with the sinking craft and leave Zetland there in the waves by himself, catching wave after wave in between draining the water out of the board.

Their father ending up buying them a modern surfboard to share.
"Yeah right, have you ever tried sharing anything with an elder brother?" The board was an 8'6" 'Shane custom stringer less' with a psychedelic wax drip pattern. It was a good board, but mostly, Zetlands turn was always after the wind had turned onshore or the tide was too high. So he learnt to turn and manouvre in mostly choppy, challenging conditions.

By the time he could afford his own surfboard he had improved considerably for his age. Zetland sold his beloved purple dragster pushy and bought himself a 7'6" Wayne Lynch 'international dimensional surf design.' A rounded pin (with a fin box and clear orange tinted fin.) His brother traded in his old Shane and bought a new 6'10" Shane 'white kite' by Ted Spencer which, for those days, were radically short.

The lynch got Zetland out in all conditions and sizes as he honed his skills on the perfect sand bottom point breaks where he lived.
Along with his surfing, his boards improved from one to the next as he started shaping his own.
By now he was one of the best at his local break and a friend talked him into doing contests, something he was never really into. He started winning amateur comps and quickly became bored with the restrictive properties of competitive surfing.

When there was no surf he would skate board and started overlapping and refining both to a fine art of self expression, speed and flow.
Experimenting both in and out of the water as well as physically and metaphysically, gaining experience along the way, he pushed all limits, which to his disdain, didn't go un-noticed.

They were holding a major world title surfing contest at his home break and Zetland was excited about seeing and surfing with a lot of local and international surfers that influenced him.
He surfed well enough to inspire Larry Bertleman to give him a couple of pairs of free T&C boardies.

The next couple of years Zetland got sick of being told to stay out of the contest area on some of the best swells of the year. So he started pressuring the contest director to let him in the contest, which was an invitational only.

Eventually they let him compete and he won the damn thing. He only went in it so he could surf the point with only two guys out (like he used to in the early 70's) and maybe get some cash along the way. Zetland won $10,000 cash, a brand new car, a Rolex and an invitation to every contest on the world circuit that year with all travel and accommodation paid for.

He gave the watch away and tried to sell the air tickets and accommodation to some of the local professionals but found out they were non transferable.
Zetland was on the circuit for three years after winning 'rookie of the year' for placing fifth overall in his first year.

He was never really into it or competitive enough, so he slowly grew to hate the circuit lifestyle as his world rating sank out of the top sixteen in the third year.
In his last year on the world circuit, Zetland didn't show for many contests, if any at all. He disappeared off his sponsor's radar as he went AWOL, exploring the countries, cultures and un-crowded wave potential.

His sponsors kept him on the team but only gave him merchandise, no trips, no cash, no accommodation; He soon drifted further out of their realm, away from the profiteers and pretenders. After three years of the 'surf star' existence, Zetland grew bored and jaded so he sought normality away from the egocentric world of professional competition.

Normality was found as a gypsy type existence travelling the east coast endlessly in search of a better, less crowded wave, dosing up on hash and opium to offset the energy of LSD so he could drive.
The search for fulfillment found enlightenment in his conscience and wisdom grew out of the shadows. Zetland knew he could never go back, he also knew he didn't want to, he had found himself, his reason for being, his passions.

Western civilization rarely accommodates for alternative drop outs or recreational drug users (unless they are prescribed) and the cost of his gypsy lifestyle and drug consummation soon overtook his lack of alternative income, leaving Zetland homeless and carless and arguably hopeless.

He spent most of his time hanging around the point, bumming off friends and strangers.
His lonely figure wandered around the park going from bin to bin, searching for nothing in particular, but finding his own existence. Sometimes prowling the restaurants down by the pool.

Zetland stumbled and fell, taking the tables and chairs that were set awaiting their alfresco diners with him.
He climbed back to his feet, pulling the tablecloths and cutlery down around him, pissing his pants all over the sidewalk. Waiters scrambled to remove him, retreating away from his snarling and incontinence. People just stared in disbelief and disgust as he crawled though his own chaos and down onto the beach where he fell asleep.

He woke up face down in the sand, scratched his arse and rolled onto his back squinting into the glare of the sun, oblivious to his surroundings.
Surfers walked by, ignorant of the balding old man in the sand encrusted jeans mumbling at the wind; "you clones have taken over."
Some of them laughed nervously as they passed, others just walked by like he wasn't there.

Slowly he sat up and looked around to get his bearings. It was well into the afternoon; hunger was setting in to his baked mind and body.
Barefoot and barely there, Zetland shuffled through the sand up to the kiosk, looking for any leftovers on the tables and in the bins. With an empty stomach and a starving soul he toiled his way through the remains of other people's lives in an attempt to keep his own.

Some of his old friends used to try and help, but he assured them he was fine, like this lifestyle was his choice.
The new wave of professional surfers had heard of his legend and most of them wrote him off as just another drug casualty.
There was more to the man than what his friends or foes could ever understand.

Zetland had lived the so called dream and found it a nightmare; he had climbed the mountain and jumped and he held the world in his hands to let it go.