Those who know, know. Full Stop is the name of the rock that wreaks havoc on all surfers once in their life when they surf the Point - stiches, head wounds, live organ transplants and cracked ribs. And then they retire to the bar - called Full Stop, where a crazed grey mulleted karaoke kunstenaar, leaps around the place, pulling you in to do a number. So it all went pear shaped late that night, and apparently the ghost of Elvis was channeling through my larynx to great effect and Mexican wave wonderment. As the sun rose, and the last obscure pictures behind the words faded to a 60's sepia wash, I paddled out for my next heat of the Champs - feeling the presence of 'The Pelvis' as I cruised through my first turn.
Deon
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