There She Is

“There She Is” – greeting card.


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Greeting card – There She Is

“There’s someone special out there for all of us.”

The Card

  • Original illustration hand-drawn then digitally finished
  • Printed locally in Sligo, Ireland
  • Printed on A6 300gsm card stock
  • Supplied with a brown kraft-fleck envelope
  • Packaged in a protective cellophane sleeve
  • Blank inside for your own message
  • No, you don’t get the pen.


Shipped via standard post. Irish orders should arrive through your letterbox within 2-4 business days (Please refer to average shipping times for orders outside of the Republic of Ireland). Sent in a hard backed envelope to ensure it reaches you in prime condition.


There’s a battler up in the back streets of Sunshine Beach in Queensland who has a backyard menagerie of boards like you wouldn’t believe. I think I’d found him through an ad in the local paper. A mate had been looking for a cheap board to get started on and I’d probably started ranting about super thick single-fins with no rocker, vowing that’d I’d find him one for bugger-all. I was in la-la land when I walked down the side of the old salt’s unit and seen the first rack of cobwebbed and dust-caked hunks of foam. They all looked tired – retired on some extended hiatus from the sea for a decade or two or more. Dinged up, onioned, crumbling and cracked single-fins, twinnys, bonzers, two-and-one set-ups, stubbies, mid-lengths and logs all a-jumble back there.

The bloke looked like his pets but while they rested silently against each other he beamed and nattered excitedly about the old days when his belly wasn’t so big and he was out there every day,

“…back then it was different, ay, less people, ay. Loads less houses, more trees. Yeeeah mate, it was good back then, ay.”

He’d run his thumb down the rail of one and then another. You could feel there was some communion with one or two here and there. A lot he must have accumulated from heads here and there over the years. I’d felt my eye drawn to one down the back against the wooden fence under an early nineties McTavish performance log. It looked about seven foot, at least three inches thick, single-fin, nondescript and the burnt-out yolky yellow of a board laid-up for years, cooking in the sun.

“Ahh,” he sighed, “Yeah, there she is. Nah, that one’s not for sale.”