Although I'd love to say this photo is me, it's of my best mate, surfing a little hidden break on the surf coast called Pixies. Her Dad was a big wave surfer and shaped his own boards, and she's riding one of his shapes, recognisable to surfing buffs who might know Willy's shapes. I'm sitting up on the cliff taking photos - it's not a break I like to surf on the longboard.

On this day, though, I kinda wish I could have paddled out - bronchitis meant that the last thing I was going to do is jump the fence and clamber down the slippery cliff. There's no proper access to this beach as the cliffs are dangerous and crumbling.

It's a stunning spot though and one of my favourites on the coast. He used to drive his old HOlden on the beach here when he was young, with Mum, for surfing and picnics. Unheard of now. My Dad's ashes will be spread here, when we are ready. All men become ash. It is the way of things.

My mate's Dad used to shout at people who dared to paddle out to 'his' left at Pixies (she's surfing the right off the cliff, but there's another right further on and a left in the middle when the tide's right) - everyone remembers him for it. He was a great man and had a great reputation as a team player and good sportsman at cricket and footy, but if you dared make a crowd of more than one on his left he'd go nuts. Like nuts nuts.

No danger of that anymore - he's got dementia and is frail and meek, unless he's sundowning without medication. All big men become weak. It is the way of things. Still, in some old surf journals and in local memory it's known as 'Willy's Left', named for him. That wasn't even his real name - he was called that because he really loved Weeties, and the mascot for that was King Willy. King Willy, Willy's Weeties, who'd steamroll a field of wheat into cereal in minutes. Where do old cereal mascots go when they retire?

Like her Dad, my mate loves surfing big waves. HAving not surfed for twenty years as she was head deep into vipassana meditation, she's found her ocean mojo in the last few years and is surfing better than ever. She's fitter, stronger and more capable in the ocean than me - I'll stick to micro waves on the longboard, thanks. I'm okay with that.

Still, we are ocean girls, and meet when we can, when the swell and tide suits us both. Sometimes she's on the left, I'm on the right. Sometimes she's two breaks over on the suckier, bigger wave and I'm on the smaller, less threatening one. Sometimes she's in the water and I'm taking photos. Sometimes we're on the couch together when it's onshore and we're watching the WSL women's heats in Margaret River all day, like we did last week.

We've been like that since we were kids, pasting surfing pics from surfing magazines on our school folders and dreaming of being by the sea.

Yesterday I watched an old, old woman paddle out on a SUP. She's an old school legend on this coast. I rarely see her out these days, and think she's fairly frail. I watched her catch two tiny waves and go back in. She was slow and frail and I admired her for even tugging on a wetsuit. All strong woman become weak. It is the way of things.

I hope we can manage that much when we're old.