Everything we do in this country is still overborne and underwritten by the seething tumult of nature.
I liked books – the respite and privacy of them – books about plants and the formation of ice and the business of world wars. Whenever I sank into them I felt free.
For every moment the sea is peace and relief, there is another when it shivers and stirs to become chaos. It’s just as ready to claim as it is to offer.
The beachcomber goes looking for trouble, everything he finds is a sign of trouble. The writer is the same; without trouble he has nothing to work with, so he picks over the tide line, over the bits and pieces of people’s lives with grim fascination.
People do change – individuals, families, nations – and the pace of transformation need not be geological.
It’s impossible to imagine what Australia would be like without surfing.
The teenager is a fascist and a fool as well as a seer.
It’s dark already and I’m out here again, talking, telling the story to the quiet night.
The ocean is a supreme metaphor for change. I expect the unexpected but am never fully prepared.
When you’re surfing you’re not thinking about where you parked the car or what you’re going to do when you grow up or what you’re going to buy when you’ve got lots of money. You know, you’re just there. You’re in the moment. And I think in a contemporary world, that’s a rare privilege.