Wendyl Nissen: Chairmen of the board

The Beach Boys generation isn't ready to hang up its longboards yet. Photo / Thinkstock

I woke up this week to a man standing in my caravan awning. He was wearing gumboots and had frizzy blonde hair. "Good morning," I said, to be polite.

He was staring out to sea with intense concentration but tilted his head in my direction for the briefest moment to acknowledge my presence, in my awning, on my territory, in my space.

"Hi," he proffered, before focusing again on the sea, ignoring me and my barking dog.

I knew not to expect much more, such as a "do you mind if I stand in your awning and stare at the sea for an hour" or "thank you for letting me invade your privacy".

Because he's an old surfer. Not a keen young thing like the ones I see trotting past my caravan in all weathers, just for the chance to catch a wave or two.

This guy is one of three old surfers who live near the caravan and spend more time in my awning, where the best views are to be had of the bar, and chewing the fat.

"That righty doesn't look too good," they mumble before launching into war stories about waves they've known intimately in the past. These tales are so repetitive and boring even I've heard them all before - and I'm an occasional visitor to these parts.

According to themselves, they are the Kiwi equivalent of Kelly Slater but they're in retirement because the surfing world just couldn't cope with their awesome abilities. And if some young buck should have the nerve to actually get on a surfboard and go for a surf, the old surfers taunt them from my awning.

"You're wasting your time, mate!" they yell. "Nothing worth having out there."

Realising that I was standing in my awning in my nightie being ignored by an old surfer, I made myself decent and sorted out a cup of tea before he took more liberties, such as helping himself to my food or taking the car for a spin.

"Are you going out?" I asked, because someone had to make an attempt at conversation.

He glanced at me as if I was an annoying fly who had just landed on his nose, and grunted.

"It's just that I noticed you and your friends spend a lot of time talking about surfing but I've never actually seen you surf," I continued boldly, sipping my tea.

"Not once. Never seen any of you actually get a board and surf."

He continued to silently stand in my awning, which was not the response I was hoping for.

"That short guy with the dreads, now he's out there all the time. Doesn't need to talk about it, just gets out there. Even in cyclones he's catching some awesome waves and what ability! He must be a pro-surfer, surely?"

Gumboot Man cast me a look of pure loathing and sauntered off. I kept an eye out. He never went out.

The next day he turned up with his two old surfer mates, The Bald One and The Pot-Bellied One. Once again they stood in my awning, centimetres away from me as I sat knitting.

"Oh, you're back," I taunted. "Make yourself at home. But don't hurry out there, for goodness sake. Wouldn't want you to stretch a tendon."

They glared at me. I glared back.

They told their war stories, assessed the righty and the bar and the outgoing current meeting the onshore winds and sauntered off, cutting short their usual hour-long dissertation.

And then it happened. As I watched the usual procession of young surfers trotting past, zipping up wetsuits on the run, they appeared. They were almost trotting, but really it was more of a fast walk.

"Have fun!" I waved enthusiastically.

They didn't even look at me.

"Hey Mum," called my daughter half an hour later as she scanned the horizon with the binoculars looking for dolphins or sharks. "That old surfer guy you are rude to is actually quite good."

I grabbed the binoculars off her and sought out Gumboot Man.

She was right. He rode the waves with the grace of a ballet dancer and was a joy to watch. I could barely take my binoculars off him.

The next morning the dog announced he was back in the awning gazing at the sea.

I took him a cup of tea.