It is hard for me to speak of themes. I like the reader to do that. Otherwise it feels like writing a 3rd grade essay on someone else's work.

Surfers are the canaries down the mine. Those of us who surf spend more time than anyone soaking in whatever the sea has become. We're suspended in consequences, you might say.

It's funny, but you never really think much about breathing. Until it's all you ever think about.

In Australia surfing was for the oiks. It was always rebellious. And sadly it was for a long time a bit unreflective and macho and anti-intellectual. Unlike other sports it was essentially a youth cult, like rock and roll. But like rock and roll its people grew up.

It's sadness coming on like the old days, the vast seamless hopeless weight of sadness looking for a place to rest.

Overfishing is an obvious threat to our capacity to feed ourselves.

And you can't help but worry for them, love them, want for them - those who go on down the close, foetid galleries of time and space without you.