Rain and wind, rain and wind, rain and wind.
100ft and onshore, 100ft and onshore, 100ft and onshore.
Welcome to my life in Margaret River, a life of no surprises. Surfs were had for no other reason than to kill time, we went surfing for the sake of it. Movies were watched, watched again and watched some more just for good measure. We checked the height of the River at every opportunity, hoping and praying it would break its sandy banks and give us an hour or two of icy cold stationary waves. Blankets became sanctuaries, a place to hide from the bitter low-pressure system conveniently parked outside our kitchen window. Hourly checks of buoyweather.com did nothing to change the forecast. Creepy Tim the Prev store oddity preached to us, “The outlook is bleak, very bleak”. Dave returned to work at the Prev shop, leaving me to my thoughts, horrible daytime TV and dial up internet.
Monday was showing a brief glimmer of hope, but it was Wednesday and we had nothing to do but wait.
Monday, Monday, Monday.
I looked at every airline carrier for an avenue home, but the combination of expensive flights and a 5 hour bus ride back to Perth forced me to ride out the storm. There were no waves at home to escape to, meaning I would have to get back on the shovel and hammer for my boss in Geelong if I ended my time in WA prematurely. At least at home I would have broadband.
Monday, Monday, Monday. That was all we had.
Monday, Monday, Monday. Our day of salvation.
Sunday dawned. The ocean was still awash with 12-15ft unorganised swells breaking regardless of water depth. The 40knot onshore was still prevalent. The river was higher than the previous afternoon, but it needed more water and more time if it was to break. Could we dig it out? Other than being illegal, we knew karma would tear through us like a shovel through sand if we were to break the natural cycle. The longer we waited, the more water in the river, meaning we would have a bigger window to ride the stationary waves. We had waited this long, a day or so more wouldn’t kill us. Last year it broke naturally a little too far south on the beach, its stationary waves forming over the uneven rock point separating the sand from the asphalt car park. We agreed to let nature take its course.
Tomorrow we will have waves.
Monday, Monday, Monday.
I woke far too early Monday morning, partially through excitement, but mainly because I had spent the past week sleeping at every opportunity. I cursed the Winter solstice. I cursed the fact that our Monday, our day of salvation had coincided with the coldest overnight temperatures Margaret River had seen in 2009. I put on half the layers of clothing I owned, walked to the kitchen and cursed the fact we had no milk. I threw some stale bread into the toaster and put the kettle on. Then I cursed the fact we had no coffee, we didn’t even have sugar. Today was our day of salvation, but nothing was going right.
It was still dark. We went down to check the ocean conditions, at least the car was warm. We couldn’t see the ocean so we checked the river. Our headlights illuminated the grim scene that lay before us. The river had broken. We returned to our favourite surf checking condition in total silence, each of us pondering what could have been.
Local lady-killer Ben Veitch pulled up next to us and joined our dissection of what lay in front of us. The swell had dropped and somewhat organised itself, but it was till showing its wounds from a week of unrelenting onshore torture. It was offshore, and that was the main thing.
Where to surf? The uneven swell was an in between size, too big for the beach breaks and not quite big enough to light up the reefs. Ordy called us and suggested a few locations outside of town, with nothing really exciting us in Prevelly we went searching.
Down the winding dirt road, we were shown glimpses of our destination and our initial reactions were mixed. Was it too big? How are the banks?
We pulled up to the premier vantage point and watched for a while. In between the wash through sets and the inside closeouts were the occasional gem, but with a lengthy walk in font of us to really check it out, enthusiasm was low. We agreed there wasn’t really anywhere else to surf, so we suited up and gingerly made the cold walk down the beach. It was hit and miss, with the 4-6ft sets lighting up the banks in a totally random manner.
Monday hadn’t really delivered all it promised, but in a biblical style miracle the clouds parted as we made our way into the line up. Our saviour had come through with the goods. Ordy hooted and hollered as we drove through the thumping barrels in front of his fisheye lens.
The light only stayed ideal for short period of time, but we didn’t need long to lock down some worthwhile photos.
We had waited patiently through apocalyptic conditions, and our saviour, the ocean was rewarding us for our good faith.
Its good to be a believer.
A shot from a cloudy moment on Monday, Monday, Monday. 
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