Copyright 2011 By Dr. John Ivan Coby
Chapter One CAPRICORN DANCER 1
From Andromeda, the galaxy looked like just another fuzzy point of light dotting the infinite void of the cosmos. As he approached close enough, he noticed its spiral shape with its arms of higher concentrations of stars. Located about two thirds out from the centre, in one of the spiral arms, was the small solar system that was his destination. Its young star had spawned ten planets and faithfully held them in perfect balance as it gave them its gravity, heat and light. In its life sphere, that is the sphere of space around itself where water existed as liquid, solid and gas, the young star had formed its life planet. Through it, he believed, the star expressed its consciousness and its spirit. How exquisitely beautiful the life planet appeared to him, floating out there with its dead moon for company. He thought that it looked almost like a carbon copy of his home planet, Rama. What a contrast it was to what he had just rendezvoused with on the way there. The fifty miles long, twenty miles wide boulder encrusted ice block he checked out on the way wasn’t streaming a comet tail yet, but it still looked menacing as hell. He knew that the tail would appear when it got close enough to the star; around about the orbit sphere of the sixth planet of the solar system he was visiting. As he approached the life planet, he admired its most striking feature, water. He flew towards the warmer, southern hemisphere where he saw a very large island surrounded by expansive oceans. He slowly began his descent through the atmosphere. On the spur of the moment he chose to aim his intergalactic cruiser towards the most easterly point on the east coast of the island, because he liked the way it jutted out into the great ocean. 2 A metallic blue, 1963 Holden Premier turned right just after passing through the green tunnel formed by the two rows of giant Strangler Figs growing on either side of The Pacific Highway. The sign at the turnoff said Byron Bay, 6 km. On its roof racks the Premier carried the precious cargo that
was meticulously created at the San Juan surfboard factory about twelve months before. In the boot was a two‐man tent, a Lilo inflatable mattress, a sleeping bag, ground sheets, a box of cooking utensils, clothes and a box of food. Behind the wheel, alone, was Adam, driving in his bare feet, wearing his favourite pair of faded Levis and the San Juan t‐shirt that his mates, the San Juan boys, gave him the last time he was up there. It was mid November 1968. The Holden cruised down the north country road towards Byron Bay. Adam wouldn’t stay there though. He knew of a much better place, a place shown to him by the San Juan boys on a previous trip. It was called Broken Head, to him the place where the most perfect waves broke and to this day he is unsure whether the surf sessions he had there, in his youth, were the very best he ever had in his life. Back in ’68, Broken Head was still a well‐kept secret. Travelling surfers, in those days, headed straight for Byron to surf The Pass or Wategos. On a good day, with a solid eight‐foot swell, there might have been fifty surfers out at the Pass. Just ten kays south, in waves so hollow that their curl landed six feet out on the flat and peeled absolutely mechanically, there’d be nobody out, except for the few who were privy to the secret. In those days, all there was at Broken was a small camping area. It was nestled in a clearing, in a tiny valley, surrounded by green hills, covered by lush subtropical ...