In the liner notes of his 1977 anthology album Decade, Neil Young stated that he wrote "Down by the River" and "Cowgirl in the Sand" while delirious in bed in Topanga Canyon with a 103 °F (39 °C) fever. So I'm making an effort to land some type here despite feeling the same on a cold, wet spring morning.  I can barely click the mouse. Don't know how he did it.
Pic below is our surf guide from last week, Stumpy. He sure could sniff out the perfect take off spot and find the odd Maldivian barrel as well. I can't sniff anything at the moment. Lasted two days on The Commute before succumbing to some sort of energy sapping, nose/throat/head cold bug thing. So grateful it happened AFTER the trip and not during.

HUGE shout out to a couple of fishermen, who also cut a mean arc through the brine.

If I was a better poet, I'd knock out a couple of evocative lines of rhyme about the arc as both a design feature and the way light travels through time, but I have to hitch a ride on the great metal goanna that is The Commute. For those of a performance poetry bent, check out this weekend's festival where my good friend Nathan Shepherdson is collaborating with some other wordcrafters.

Bob Dylan once told me through a set of analogue headphones that I didn't "need a weatherman to tell which way the wind blows". Not sure if the learned folks at BOM (Bureau of Meteorology) would agree but all I need to do is look to Nature to tell me what the weather and surf are up to.

Red clouds in the morning = sailors warning. Cows sitting down in their paddocks = rain today or tomorrow. Ants moving their colonies to higher ground = a lot of rain in two weeks. Storm bird calling all day and night = a solid week of rain. Cows crossing the road = empty surf.

We hardly ever get decent lefts around here, but there's this spot up the road....

It's cold and dark. Why bother hitting it early? Why not snooze in a while longer?