I close the back door, I reverse my old car out of the open garage, my surfboard already strapped to the roof rack and my bag in the back seat. My knuckles grip the wheel as I back down the drive, my mind driving back through long drawn out summers of amplified Janis Joplin and Captain Beefheart over the valley, and afternoons watching droplets of water bubble on the lumps of boardwax after the swell died down. This old visionary, this tired charmer, the husband of the wife whose lying unaware in the front bedroom of a London grey semi, this tider of great waves in Whitianga and Hawaii, is finally out of here.