“The surf is good, and there is no one out. When would you like your speedboat out…?”
“Erm…”
“No worries, it's ready and waiting for you whenever you are ready. Just shout…”
“Erm…”
It would be rude not too.
After a three hour surf with four or five out and a speedboat ride back to the island, we are walking back up through the palm-lined walkaways. All the staff seem to know my name.
“Hello, Mr England.
“Welcome back Mr England."
As pleasant as everyone is, and as well as I know a lot of the staff now, I am pretty confident I haven’t met any of these people before, but they all seem to remember me...
A quick change and it is off to the welcome cocktail party. Pleasantries are exchanged between the crew of judges, surf guides, photographers and videographers. I see James Rodd, the drone pilot and resort photographer extraordinaire.
“James, something weird is going on…"
“What do you mean…"
A woman I’ve never met before appears from the tiki torchlight...
“Ah, Mr England I see you have no drink in your hand. Let me change that…"
It’s like being James Bond. Except I go for a San Miguel.
I experience seven days of being treated like royalty. And I’m not the only one. Freddy P, the Kerrs, the Hobgoods, Alejo and his new wife and child, Fuku Areef - the local representative, are properly VIP’d. The sentiment behind this experience was not lost on anyone.
“It’s how people imagine life as a pro surfer to be. Except we never had it this good, nowhere near,” says Josh Kerr
“It's like they know what you want before you have even thought of it," says Cortney Hobgood.
I contemplated these words as I was walking along the lagoon shore a day later in the trip. As I do so, I think “An ice cream would have been nice…"
Randy, the resort manager, appears from nowhere with a tray.
“Homemade ice-cream?"
That's how it was.