The man looked up at Louie from his position on the floor, cross-legged on a woven mat, a cobra at his feet. He sized him up, taking in the curly blonde locks, the vaguely sunburnt face, the seemingly relaxed posture. A smirk spread across his face. “Just little poison. Only kidney failure.”
Two weeks ago, Luke Hynd was lounging on his balcony on the Gold Coast quite literally twiddling his thumbs. His feet rested on the salt-rusted railing, his eyes shut. The northerlies were blowing, the swell was pushing straight past the points, the blue bottles were invading and going for a surf was the farthest thing from plausible.
“It was flat and shit and I was going mental,” Louie said. His voice agitated just from the memory. “But then Darcy (Ward) came ‘round one day and I started telling him stories of a trip I’d taken a few years back – I’m not sure how it came up – but I was saying how I got really fun beach-break-ey reefs, heaps of lefts, good winds and it was a beautiful place.”
And then the duo realised that, hell, they weren’t doing anything else.
So three days later Louie had roped in his good friend and Rip Curl teammate, Kipp Caddy, locked in photographer Ted Grambeau, and hopped on a plane.
“I had just returned from a long stint travelling through Indonesia,” Kipp said, when asked how he got involved. “I’d only been home for a few days when I got a call from Louie. He said he might have a Search trip for me, and that he’d found a cool little stretch of coast that had fun waves. Before I had a chance to think about it, I was en route to a new archipelago.”
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