How To Get Laid, Part 2

_CW07325-2Lay days are best spent with a lay-day. Photographer Corey Wilson spent his afternoon shooting her, Charley Watson, for VNDA. You can ask him if he was heart-wrenched to not be shooting Round 2 at waist-high Duranbah here.

Note: Like Part 1, this is also not a story on the sociology of sex. But since you’ve asked, wine usually helps, candles typically don’t, and a Spotify playlist can either work for you (Van Morrison) or against you (Lil Wayne).

What if Salvador Dali only painted a few gaudy portraits of prominent individuals and a banal landscape every other Sunday — maybe a sunset into the Spanish countryside? That’s what staring at the Superbank feels like right now. It has the potential to twist and bend and reshape reality into a tangible dose of heaven. The talent exists, in the form of sand, but the inspiration of swell is absent. And so I sit on floor 8 of the Rainbow Place Apartments and watch guady portraits of less than prominent individuals ride longboards on one-foot waves into the too-picturesque-to-be-interesting sunset towards Kirra. I look over my shoulder, back into the room. The clock on the wall is fully intact and my memory persists.

It was another lay day at the 2015 Quiksilver Pro Gold Coast, another day to sit and think about the things that could have been. Another day to surf impossibly crowded D-Bah or to drink coffees until cardiac arrest or eat meat pies until hypertension or take black and white photos of pretty almost naked girls or to gnaw though $8.50 worth of Australian internet or to do anything besides be in the sun’s eyesight between the hours of 10-4 unless melanoma is for sure your thing. Even a Rolex would melt in the heat of that unfiltered ultraviolet.

Yet here we are. Floor 8, Rainbow Place Apartments, overpriced Italian wine in a glass on the balcony’s plastic table, staring at a swell forecast that looks like rain and wondering if this bay will live up to its colorful name. I guess the only thing left to do is…


Sorry, lost my train of thought. I got sucked into a RVCA party. There were pretty girls there and some of them wore floppy hats. There were pretty guys there too and most of them wore floppy hats. I cursed myself with the “just one beer” adage and hoped to get some dinner on the way back. One beer became two and two became oh fuck I better get out of here and oh fuck I better get out of here became a lonely walk home past ghostly windows of restaurants that closed unfortunately early. For a place with as much nightlife as Coolangatta, there’s a shocking lack of late night food options so if you’re a restaurant owner here, stop doing that asshole. For now, I suppose another glass of wine will suffice for dinner. And for tomorrow, I suppose another lay day will warrant more observation from the eighth floor. Where’s Sal when you need him? —Brendan Buckley