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I got that title through an online Russian translator, given how rusty my never better than mediocre Russian is. It is supposed to be a translation of The Case of the Weakling Waverider. Running it back through in reverse - Russian to English - it spits out Event of the rider of the Wave of the Weakling. Online translators... always good for a chuckle.
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So... surfing. Yeah, it's a lark. Easy as pie. Can't say I've ever baked a pie either.
Small waves = mucho confidenco.
Large waves = mucho pussy-o.
Got my ass handed to me in a sling the other day. Went out to catch some waves (nice how I'm picking up the lingo, no?) early the other morning... Rented a board at a reasonable price. Put on ass-kicking face, and made grand entrance into water. (Note: I'm writing in truncated sentences because there was nothing fluid or graceful about my performance.) It took me fifteen bloody minutes to paddle out to the break in the 2-3 meter swells: translates to 6-10 foot waves, I'm told. Once there, I plunged into the first set that came my way, and promptly received a thorough laundering by my now arch nemesis the Ocean. Repeat cycle: paddle through crashing surf; make it to break; attempt to ride; trouncing. Forty five minutes of this and I was dead tired, had a lung and sinus cavity full of sea water, had the piss scared out of me, and was soundly defeated.
Retiring to the safety of the beach, I consulted with one of the local lifeguards. He graciously explained the prevailing current patterns, the location of breaklines and paddle channels, tide times and swell variations: all with fabulous visual aides drawn in the sand, and in quite good english. In one ear and out the other. Went out again at high tide, upon his advise, when the waves were smaller, only to realize that my shoulders were spent, and my courage was waning. Nonetheless, I gave it a go, or no-go rather. Never made it up once, except on the bunny slopes of the nearest nancy waves. So, I turned in my board, thanked the lifeguards with utmost politesse, and directly for home.
Or not directly. I managed to lose my room and motor bike keys while washing my sandals in the f'in surf. So it was back to the losman on foot - quite a distance - to beg for a spare key whilst offering vociferous apologies; back to the beach; onto the bike; off to find a key duplication shop - none open; back to losman with tail between legs. Spent rest of day healing wounds with Bintang and books.

GROAN! Ah... the woes of being a traveller, nestlequickpas?