HE copped the board cover’s security tag full in the face, but I was just trying to mess around while unrolling it. The surf shop dude walked past and said ‘Shit, that was harsh’ then chuckled and walked off. Explanation: I’d obviously brought my board in a bag, but it was a cheap piece of crap, despite my mum’s best garage sale intentions, which looked upon arrival at the airport like it had been in a drunken Mexican knife fight after its journey through the airline baggage logistics. I wouldn’t normally need a board cover, especially once it had left the plane, but I was also carrying in it no less than, ahem: my tent, my sleeping bag, my towel, my wetsuit, wetsuit booties, detached fins, and my board, of course. It was one hell of a heavy bastard. So I bought another one. Also some board resin. And also a kettle bought specifically for the road trip we’d leave on the next day. Buying that cheap and nasty boiler seemed worse, ironically, than being boiled alive. We were savagely hungover after our visit to ‘England’ (read part three) and I was also sleep deprived. So we got lost in Target. I wanted to check the price of a notepad on one of the scattered self-serve scanners and got stuck behind this chick taking a million years to check the price of her countless dodgy-bogan-clothes. Then, the check-out chick seemed to be taking so much sweet time to serve that Ross, his senses rubbed raw, freaked out and had to leave while I unhappily waited to make the purchase. It was like Target was in a time-warp. Totally expected it’d be about 2050 when we finally stumbled out of its horrifying depths (it was an underground store). A bird shat on Ross outside after we’d been to a fancy French-esque bakery where you select the food yourself but there are no sneeze-screens. He was in for worse, of course, but didn’t know it yet (read part one). We went out that night, watched the Dandy Warhols, got much drunker than planned and went home minus any female contact . . . of course.