By Chas Smith
Nate Tyler is such a good and great guy. He loves to surf. And he surfs so well so greatly. I witnessed him, recently, paddling out in Western Australia to face windblown hell. A smile spread wide across his face and the sun reflected off his sun-bleached curls. He didn’t care that it was windblown hell. He said, “I pretty much grew up surfing shit waves.” And he went out and somehow found ramps and somehow punted gloriously.
He loves to be stylish. He wears a wetsuit top and he wears it unzipped. I have never seen anyone do that. Panache. It flaps loosely at his side when he spins in the air.
He loves to live off the grid. In a Central Cal yurt that is off the grid. No city sewage lines. No power lines. All solar. All wells. All awesome.
He hates curry. The smell makes his almost always smiling face frown. I asked him why, as I spooned yellow curry with beef into my mouth at a Coolangatta Thai restaurant.
Nate said, “The smell of curry reminds me of finger-painted boobs. My dad is a hippie and when I was young we would regularly travel to festivals and fairs in Oregon. There was everything that you’d expect from hippie fairs. Music, arts and crafts, expressions of free love and finger-painted boobs. Topless women would wander around with saggy boobs and swirls of paint, rushing and whirling toward unattractive nipples. And everyone was eating curry. I loathed the sight of those finger-painted boobs and now I loathe anything to do with curry.”
I finished my last bite, so fiery and flavorful, and understood exactly what he meant.