Illustrations and words by Curl.
Since he first showed promise among the waves as a three-year-old, this golden haired prodigy had been pushed like a broken down Kingswood in a bottleshop drive-thru.
The lure of the professional surfing juggernaut drove his parents and siblings to forgo any ambitions and aspirations they might have held for themselves in order to see this dream come to fruition. (Sure this caused a build up of well concealed resentment and a robust cycle of passive-aggression within the family, but hey, sometimes you just gotta take one for the team!)
The regimen of training, contests and public speaking courses was relentless but over time reaped many sweet and lucrative fruits. Results and accolades piled almost as high as the expectations placed on his sinewy shoulders, and the much-lauded pro tour lured him like an Eastern Grey kangaroo into the headlights of a passing road train.
Everything came to a head in a Parisian hotel room when cleaning staff discovered this semi-famous athlete comatose in a steaming tub full of lavender essential oils and assorted complimentary bath salts. It seems the young chap was in the midst of an absinth, champagne and freshly baked croissant bender when he came to sad and lonely realisation that his love of surfing had been vacuumed from his soul. He has since moved inland and now raises prize-winning Shetland ponies.