We’d driven in convoy, deep in the night, on the highway headed north from Perth: three rented four-wheel-drives full of surfers and gear, aiming for something that might generally be called ‘the northwest”. By coincidence or design, it’s not clear which, the cars were filled with goofyfooters and we were headed for the richest array of barrelling lefthanders on the continent.
Beside me as I drove, curled in feline repose in the passenger seat, was Matt Meola, the man who had just weeks earlier struck a milestone in the history of aerial surfing, landing a thing called a “540 spindle”, (hey, if you land it you get to name it). It’s a spinning, screwing contortion that defies understanding, as elusive as the man himself. But that night, fogged by jetlag,…
