Wave count.

Wave on! Wave goodbye to a good nights sleep.

More nice swell this week means that common sense has gone out the window. Go to work/finish work/get home/get gear, whilst avoiding time-consuming activities like communicating with the family (forgive me for I have sinned)/screech to the beach/surf until limbs fall off & eyes drop out and fingers look like prunes/crawl home/get domestic/attempt Dutiful Dad role in a bleary haze/sleep fitfully/try to undo head from vice when 5am alarm goes/wake up when in the sea again and the cold water hits/surf until brain turns to dessicated putty/go to work.....coda.

Amongst the flurry of activity, the stand-out bits were watching JC going at the little hollow lefts low-tide Bamburgh on Mon. night. Ripping, shredding, tearing, and all other wave-salad making verbage my friends! Verily I say unto thee that he was "Killing It!" And- sunshine coupled with squeaky-clean waves, again at Bamburgh, on Wed. evening. Oh Happy Day! Quite a few of us out, making the most of sets from 2ft up to....oooh...almost head-high on the good 'uns. I'd like to think I mirrored JC's Monday night antics on some mid-beach righthanders as some long peeling (more salad making!) walls were offering up scope for gee-ing up plenty of speed and space for good carving (aha, the meat course!) Good times. Hilarity reigned in the end, at least for DW and I, when tiredness started to turn the conversation a bit surreal and the "Casey Jones Whistling Butt-Plug (pat. pending)" idea materialised. Do the Chattanooga Choo-Choo and lower the tone at any event! DW said he had to leave 'cos he was getting too tired to catch any more waves but choking with laughter can't have helped.