COLD COMFORT

Monday 14th

Somewhere over the Indian Ocean

I’m still flying. After 24-hours in the air and transit, I’m no longer sure if it’s midnight or midday, or somewhere in-between. The miles count down as the jet reverses time between Melbourne and my final destination, Scotland. Unable to find sleep, I bury my head and hack into the plane’s tortoise-speed internet, where a message from photographer Al Mackinnon pops up: “Report is looking good. Hope you packed your sleeping bag and an extra jacket or two.”

My unrelated response: “I hope you don’t expect me to charge those gnarly slabs I keep finding photos of?”

I haven’t met Al before, but we have many mutual friends and colleagues. It’s always a gamble planning a journey with someone you don’t know, but I guess hunting for friendly waves in a land