We’re in a shipping container, its door opened towards the sea. There’s barely a breath of wind, a gorgeous day, and the container offers us respite from the summer heat, despite the smell of dust and two-stroke.
Friday means an extended smoko, so our legs are stretched out along the floor while Blake, who’s sitting on his esky—looking down on us as usual—rambles on about the surf again.
“You don’t wanna get caught inside, put it that way,” he says, gazing dramatically towards the bay.
Jake Dean 