Tales From King Island

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If another wave barrels and spits with no one on it, I’m gonna fucking lose my mind.

To both our left and right, the only bit of life that can be seen are the Wallabies and seabirds. Not a house, person or car anywhere to be seen on the entire strip of beach. Littered for miles is perfect three-to-five-foot wedges piping off their head, and between the five of us all you can hear is, “How’s that one… left… right… fuck me… SPIT!”

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Board bags, wetties and the boys are scattered all over the dunes in a rush to taste perfection. The stories of this wave didn’t disappoint—while fickle and sometimes hard to surf the moment you lock one in, time freezes and it feels like you’re in a George Greenough clip. You don’t know whether to scream, pinch yourself or just soak it all up. I don’t think I’ve ever paddled back out fast enough, it’s truly a magical place.

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After a full day of waves, and with bodies sore and broken, the first taste of a cold VB by the fire watching yet another wave fully regurgitate itself feels all too like a dream. Who would’ve thought that on the north side of such an isolated island we’d be greeted with light offshore winds for the full day? With the wind expected to swing and go onshore the next day, we do what any other human would after a day full of surf stoke—hit the pub, and what a belter of a pub it is.

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With expectations low and some very sore heads the next day, we head back to the scene thinking it will be fun onshore wedges. As we pull over the first dune we see smooth seas for miles. Within seconds that same surf stoke from the first day hits everyone like a slap in the face. The lads are losing it. It’s a touch smaller, but every drop of water is right where it needs to be.

Words by Cam Stynes, photos by Hayden O’Neill. Story via Monster Children.