Teenage Trauma in the 80’s, Addiction to Surfing, Escapism from Authority, from Grommets to Heroes, to Worship at the Church of all Creation… The Caves at Koeël Bay.
Adam.
This beautiful man died. Social media said so. I am staring at my screen.
The photo shows these three men in their youthful prime, sharing a laugh, sharing a local beer, sharing their much loved addiction… to surfing.
On the left is Niko von Broembson, my best childhood friend for a brief period before our parents decided to betray us both and betroth each other’s partners… my Dad married his Mum and all too suddenly we were brothers. Niko survived a shark attack with Adam at his side on a South Coast surf trip. Niko, still uses his wounds and scars to his best advantage… between the little left of his fingers fused by surgery after the ferocious shark attack, he holds his joints. Niko, now in the Bay area of San Francisco lives a life of snowboarding, growing and fishing.
On the right is Trevor Brown, a VW Combi camper driving, hard surfing role model with a couple more of years experience, aloof and inaccessible to many us as younger surfing grommets. Yet to certain select, their skill and commitment earned his camaraderie.
In the centre is the deceased.
Adam Harding.
This beautiful man alive.
So alive. And laughing. So alive.
“What is life?. Life is a spell.
What is life?. No one can tell.
What is life?. I try to see.
What is life?. It’s looking bleak.” ^ * ^ * ^
So many hours searching for waves. Hitchhiking as driverless license-less youth. We got lifts often with the older surfers, sometimes to secret surf spots seldom shared, and sworn to silence.
Happiness as licensed drivers of our own independent first cars, what a joy, pale sky-blue Austins, shit-brown Fiats, puke-green Volkswagen Beatles, what a joll.
Paddling out into the surf at dawn in the pale sky-blue.
Skins tanned shit-brown from years of surfing daily, now with our lengthening limbs steering us into hollow tubes of waves, and scraping over closing out waves, and scratching out to the peaks of swells on the horizon.
Young punks puking our lungs out from fear, or from an unbalanced diet of slap-chips and hollowed out white bread, or from last nights indulgence in red wine, or from green smoky intoxicants, or a little white pill.
Screaming our young lungs out in excitement after surfing each wave right in to the shore.
Adam.
Howling and hollering out in our horny young lust to the young ladies with their fast developing and swell of lungs, lying topless abreast the silky white sand dunes from The Strand to Suikerbossie to Silversands.
Eve.
Echoing the joy of the thunderous crash of the surf against the rocky shores and the cliff faces from Nun’s Pool to The Caves at Koeël Bay.
Creation.
We were saints in prayer to the lay of the land and the rise and fall of the ocean and all his creation. We were sinners in worship of “Lay Lady Lay”* * * on our first voyages away from the mothership and the fatherland which sure beats jerking off. We were young white boys fast becoming old white men. Red blood pumping in our veins. Black Uhuru pumping in our beat up old vans. Sponji Reggae * * pomping in the backseat and on sponge mattresses of a surfers Fuck-Truck at Lovers Lane. Searching for our own freedom in the turmoil of this land. Surfing for our freedom at the “Coloureds and Blacks ONLY” beaches in the terror of this land.
The Beat * * * and The Clash* * * * and The Cure, * * * * *and The Specials, * * * * * * Bob Marley and The Wailers * * * * * * * and Pink Floyd ^ our mixed-tape soundtrack for every weekend and each week day stolen from school. Mirror in the Bathroom , London Calling, Boys Don’t Cry, (Free) Nelson Mandela, A Message to You Rudy, Easy Skanking… but
“We don’t need no Education…” ^
What did we learn at school anyway? We learned individually to rebel at standing in line to wait our turn, we learned with impatience that we could not stand to stand in straight lines, we learned that as hard as the rules hit against us we would never lose our individuality, and we learned with all our hearts to disrespect our elders. We learned our Tides Tables better than their Multiplication Times Tables… and couldn’t wait to get away from the claustrophobia of the classroom. We couldn’t get away from the Class System… or away from Corporal Punishment… or out of Conscription forever… but we would always find a way to get a wave!
In the surf we learned to have patience, we learned to wait for those straight lines, we learned to wait our turn, we learned to act individually and seize each moment, we learned to respect our elders. In the surf we clashed, in competitions we beat each other, and hated each other, and forgave each other, and loved each other back, and were brothers again and again.
K.B.L.A. Rules!
Scrawled in graffiti of a faded khaki canvas school backpack… Koeël Bay Liberation Army!
When the surf got big and gnarly we wailed and took it like men on the lip. In the ocean we learned to survive each wipe-out, to struggle upwards to the light for a breath of life giving fresh air.
In the elements we learned patience, and tolerance, and that sometimes all that is essential is to take a breath of fresh air.
Out in the weather we learned that every thing has its season, and every one has their “seasons in the sun”. ^ ^ ^
In the ocean we learned to respect our own limitations, to respect the order of the lineup, to respect the elder and the experienced, to accept the unpredictable weather despite the definitive report of the authorities, to respect the power of the ocean, to respect the beauty of this Planet Earth.
“Can you hear me now?
This is Planet Earth. You’re looking at Planet Earth…” ^ ^
Then there were weeks without waves. There were days of relentless wind. There were nights of broken hearts we felt would never mend. There were months of skateboard skinned knees we believed and prayed would heal. The seasons changed. The years passed by. The tears weathered our souls. Some went to get a real job. Some left straight to University. Some fought as soldiers in another man’s war. Some immigrated and went “Down Under”. ^ ^ ^ ^ Some went down on their knees.
“Jesus Christ!”
What changed?
Who do we blame?
What stayed the same?
What help did we never get?
What lessons do we never learn?
How do I live with my pain, live with my shame?
How many times do I have to start all over again?
“They control the treasure of our birthright.
And to survive, we have to struggle and fight.
The present confrontation of our mind.
The flexibility, of our vision.” ^ * ^ * ^
These tortured teenage years of relentless testosterone and newspaper headlines that tactlessly reinforce terror to your front door and your frontal lobe. Attacking our family identity and our personal individuality if you just did not fit the mould. Attacked by the Holy Bible and billboards of misinformation. Attacking our intelligence with scientific proof of white supremacy and Broederbond brainwashing. Attacking black Terrorists on the borders of far away places we only knew from the colourful A to Z Geography class lesson of the South West of Africa, Angola, Botswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Malawi, Mozambique. Attacked by red Communists in the back row of our Christian Nationalist Educationalist classrooms. Bordering on insanity.
Satan himself was hiding in the lyrics of each song, back-tracking messages of a new world order underground.
Sex was hidden under the covers, and hidden by little white censorship men, and hidden by the little black stars covering over nipples pasted over pasty white breasts spread over the back page.
Anything to get high. Sucking in packets of air Spayed to Cook our brains. Drying out the strings from Banana peels to smoke in the sun. What drove this? What logic? My broer, ek sê, we must have been spoek-geroek…!
Schweeet… my brah! Sweet paradise. Roll up. Skin up. Light up. Paddle out! Blown out? Hold it in. Blow it out… out… out… out to sea…
So many dreams up in smoke. “Smoke on the Water”. ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ Smokie ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ Staring at the Sea… ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ This is the Sea… ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
“What is life?. I try to see.
What is life?. It’s unity.
What is life?. I try to feel.
What is life?. It’s really real.” **
The winter storm swell from the Atlantic Ocean was smashing against the Dolosse at in Gordons Bay and crashing and cascading over the Harbour Wall to rock the fishing boats and pleasure yachts against their moorings. The quirky creak of the boats timber construction and the deep bass thudding of the boats moving up against the rubber tractor tyres fastened to the concrete wall. The water surface like a churning stomach , reflecting green… red… green….
It was winter. It was dark. It was raining. Their house in Gordon’s Bay had a downstairs room we all hung out in. “Night Nurse” ^ * was dubbing and drumming and basing in the base of my brain. Then then the booming bass baritone of dub poet LKJ…
“The room was dark… Dusk howling softly 6 o’clock.
Charcoal light… The fine sight… Was moving black…
The sound was music mellow steady flow
And man son mind just mystic red, green, red, green…
Your scene…”
I left their house and the girls and the music. Just ducked. No appropriate farewell. No kiff brah, Stafford, no lekker, Adam, no kieeeeef, David, no cool boet, no skud die pitte, Pete, no fully my bro… no nothing… I just walked away. Alone. It was darker… and there was something going down that I was not a part of. Was I not cool enough. For the Guys? Was I not hot enough? For the Girls? Was I not enough of a dedicated Surfer? Was my eclectic Urban Zulu crossover British New Wave style not as stylised as theirs. Californian surf hoodies and blanket jackets and township “kaffir takkies” and attitude of…
“Live to Surf. Surf to Live.”
Seeking understanding I left seeking solitude.
Surf… was crashing soundlessly up against those cliffs. Surf… silently swimming across that beach. Surf… swirling around that lonely yacht in the bay. Surf… swallowing a breath deep in before beating dead into the “Dol-Osse”. Spray… swishing up onto the Harbour wall and over into the safety beyond.
Juslaaik, and I don’t even smoke and the dark moon is tuning me… “On your left is the wild side of all The Father’s creation… On your right is the safety in The Mother’s arms of the Harbour. But to stay in that safety is the slavery of the day job that locks me behind doors… and the cities lights always alluring like diamonds always promising me the cash to buy my freedom. Freedom to set sail. Freedom to travel. Freedom to fly.”
Juslaaik, man, I…
“Only came outside to watch the nightfall with the rain
I heard you making patterns rhyme
Like some new romantic looking for the TV sound
You’ll see I’m right some other time…
“My head is stuck on something precious, let me know
If you’re coming down to land
Is there anybody out there trying to get through?
My eyes are so cloudy I can’t see you…
Look now, look all around
There’s no sign of life
Voices, another sound
Can you hear me now?
This is Planet Earth, you’re looking at Planet Earth…” ^ ^
Defending the borders with the red blood of our conscripted older brothers and our surfing elders.
Returning their brown uniforms and giving back their weapons of mass destruction. Returning home but never getting a debriefing in return.
Returning home, but not free of the three month military camps for the following three years, recruited to patrol in the black townships and parade our military might to the black faces of workers with no right to vote.
Returning home, but not always returning to the surf.
Returning home, but not always with both legs!
Maybe they had lost their nerve, despite it being over a very small wave.
Maybe a violent outburst over some small incident.
Returning home, but not always returning to sanity.
Some never returned to home turf and were never seen again. Ever.
Some returned but we never saw them again in their home surf break, no smile, no wave, no friendly casual chat.
“My bru, whatever happened to that goofy footer bro with the blue twin-fin…?”
Gone. No questions asked. Forever.
Driven to war. Driven to extremes. Driven home in brown armoured vehicles named after wild animals. Driven to drink alcohol and behave like wild animals and take risks to extremes. Life-threatening extremes.
What did we have to live for?
She said she would love me until I die. I got a letter… “Letters to Dickie…” ^ * ^
“Troep! Jou laë vet dik gemors. Hier is jou eie “Dear Johnny”.
Present Arms!!! ^ * ^ *
Promises. Promises. Promises.
Take it on the chin. Or you can take your own life.
What did we have to live for?
We were searching for meaning. We were searching for the truth. And truth be told if we as civilians were stopped and searched we were guilty without trial. After all we were living evidence of the sins of our forefathers, and who they did with their foreskins, and what they did with no foresight.
“Lies. Lies. Lies. Yeah…”
Take it like a man. Or you’ll never find a wife.
What did we have to live for?
Did we learn our lessons?
All we ever got was a book of rules.
Stand in line. Wait your turn. Cut your hair. Straighten your tie. Pull up your socks. Get a job. Say thank you, Sir.
Yes, Sir. No, Sir. Three “Bankies” full, Sir.
What did we have to live for?
Finance a surfers lifestyle? Find a holiday job? Get a job? For fuck sake, get real…!
We emptied our father’s pockets. We emptied our brother’s petrol tanks. We emptied our mother’s fridges for food. We emptied our sister’s address book for girlfriends.
We emptied out of school and entered straight into the surf…
“They control the treasure of our birthright.
And to survive, we have to struggle and fight.
The present confrontation of our mind.
The flexibility, of our vision.” ^ * ^ * ^
Safe suburban life.
“The ‘Girl’ is late again with the same damn excuses. So who is going to do the damn dishes?”
“The ‘Garden Boy’ is hung-over again so who’s going to green wash the front lawn out front, and blue rinse the swimming pool on the right, and white-wash the old farm wall on the left, and account for the coloured skinned children growing steadily from illegal premarital business in the back room? It’s enough to drive a man to lose his sanity! It’s enough to drive a man around the bend! It’s enough to drive a man to drink!”
Van Riebeeck Hotel, Gordons Bay 1971. Photo-Mike Wannenburg
And drink we did!
Jolling at the Windjammer. Happy Hour at Van Riebeek Hotel. A sunset beer at Bertie’s. Soek ’n move at The Cylnor. Hunting the wild one’s at The Huntsman. Hanging out at the Hangklip Hotel. All night long at the Hole in the Wall.
Next day hangover… Bikini Beach was a sight for sore eyes in the sunlight with sun kissed lasses being lusted after by young lads like us. White ladies licking white ice cream and lollipops. Laatjies and their Oupa’s practicing their Cricket score throughout the summer, and their kicking their odd shaped balls of Rugby longing for the winter. Us lads longing to be kissed but kicking ourselves that we never popped the question or popped any cherries, and never “scored”… ending up lonely nursing the pain of “lover’s balls.”
Ja, drink we did!
But we also drove.
We drove around the coast. We drove around the corner and then we drove around those curves. We lost sight of the city limits.
We gained our freedom. We found our paradise.
From Gordons Bay there is a road. Cut into the sheer rock-face. Carved into the cliffs that hang over the waters of False Bay.
Clarence Drive.
Conceived by Clarence. Construction driven by prisoners of war, from far away lands, risking their lives without freedom no choice. Gift from our enemies. That we may celebrate victory. The key from our prisoners that we may open the doorway to sweet paradise.
How many times do I have to start all over again?
This journey of life. The same journey every week day after school… The same journey every weekend even before we had recovered from the night before…
How many times did we start the same journey over again?
Then came the younger guys we never noticed, who were like, suddenly, tearing it up, Mitchell Heath, Adrain Nois, Dirkie Lombard…
The next generation, and the next generation, and the next generation… travelling the same road.
We were not alone… on the road were other men.
The older brothers we never had, our immediate elders, leaders of our tribe, with tact to step in and stop a fight, with transport to take us to safely immediately if we suffered any injury in the surf.
These men were our heroes in the 1970’s and ’80s!
They still are. And they are still just men. It was such inspiration when one would occasionally pick us up when we were Hitch-hiking.
John Mellish! Paving the road map for us to succeed in our growth and in small business!
Sergio Capri! We had hit the jackpot! We had not enough pocket money and were under the age limit to be hitting the bar with him. But hitting the surf with him at our side was the ultimate intoxicant!
Neil Marwick, one would marvel at his being able to manage to find the best waves, and find the time to also manage his shop! Was it his engineering brain or just his Natural Energy?
Trevor Brown and his brother Ant… weird that like bent back leg knee signature surf style… but both wizards to inspire young guys to develop their own unique individual style.
Tut… Tut… Tut… listen, it’s Tat Botha! It’s that ou toppie with his ou tjorrie, with his gracious style and his gracious smile.
Mickey Duffus! Setting the bar so so so high with big wave surfing records! Yet his humble smile of acknowledgement levels the playing field to remind us we are also all players in the game.
Steve Middleton! When he pulled over, and said pull in, bra, we felt like we had hit the “Rio” Festival…!
We see that the same sun will rise over the Helderberg Mountain.
We trust we will see the same sun set over False Bay.
We trust that Lovers Lane and The Pipe at The Strand will always be sloppy seconds, but will always be our gauge to measure that things will be better at some distance, at sometime, perhaps soon, around the corner.
We trust that the communion we all share, as lovers of nature, and as lovers in nature, will always be at the whispering waters edge and in the crashing cathedrals of sound of the surf, at the church where we all do worship, the Church of all Creation… The Caves at Koeël Bay.
Amen.
Adam Harding
R.I.P.
You ripped, brother!
AUTHOR:
Geoffrey Wright
© March 2024
Glenora Redemption,
Cape Town, South Africa
DEDICATION TO:
This work is dedicated to:
Stafford Harding, and the Harding family, loved ones and friends.
To Niko von Broembson. check out: Niko von Broembson and Adam Harding, Shark Attack
https://www.sharkattackfile.net/spreadsheets/pdf_directory/1989.08.22.a-vonBroembsen.pdf
To the men and women, parents and children, who surf, who love and protect our oceans and our shores, especially from Elands Bay to East London.
The Fishermen and Fisherfolk who have sustained their lives from prehistory onwards in Gordons Bay.
To The men who built and maintain the road from Gordon’s Bay to Bettie’s Bay, Cape Town, South Africa.
Clarence Drive. The men who built and maintain the road from Gordon’s Bay to Bettie’s Bay, Cape Town South Africa.
What a gift it will be If the families of the 1940 Prisoners Of War during World War II could make the journey of a lifetime to see with their own eyes what their deceased ancestors built.
Gary Branquinho, Geoffrey Wright (author), Leith Steele, Kit Beaton, Desmond Duke
REFERENCES & QUOTES:
Niko von Broembson and Adam Harding, Shark Attack
https://www.sharkattackfile.net/spreadsheets/pdf_directory/1989.08.22.a-vonBroembsen.pdf
Locations :
Cape Town :
False Bay :
Koeël Bay
Kogel Berg :
Dappats Gat :
Cultural references :
to Songs and Literature which in South Africa, Globalisation, or a least in a Western Commercialised mindset has become part of our vocabulary and thinking.
Language :
Words derivative from Afrikaans or Slang:
Koeël = bullet, therefore Koeël Bay refers to the bullet shaped long white sandy beach between the foot of the mountain Kogel Berg and with False Bay.
Juslaaik = Jesus.
Kiff, Kief, Kieeeeef, = very good.
Ek sê = I say
Spoek-geroek = spook smoked, meaning high on marijuana
Suikerbossie = is the name a road, “Little Sugar Bush”, is the literal translation, but the immediate association is to the song lyrics “Suikerbos ek will you hê…” “ translated as “Sugarbush I want to have you” a nickname to entice the desired lass to the dance floor, has become synonymous with inspiration to dance to the traditional two step of people of Afrikaans heritage and to many South Africans.
Bro, Brah, Bra, Boet = brother
Lekker = Tasty, very nice
Kaffir = derogative, is the South African word equated to the North American derogatory racial slur “nigger” for a black person of African origin. The word originally meant “non-believer” from a word used by Muslim Slaves.
Takkies = South African slang for sports or casual shoes,Trainers/Sneakers, cheap rubber soled shoes with a canvas upper, similar in style today is most known as the ankle covering Converse Trainer. Origin unknown.
Kaffir Takkies were worn initially by poor black Africans. Hence the nickname “Af-Taks”. The style was then copied by white middle to upper class youth. There were those whose fashion sense was dressing down to not appear privileged, or senselessly in an attempt of identifying with “The Sufferer”at the injustice of “The Babylon System”. Af-Taks were especially adopted by surfers and skateboarders for more practical reasons of removing them easily when rushing to get out into the surf lineup, and when skateboarding for comfort and style manoeuvring.
“Troep! Jou laë vet dik gemors. Hier is jou eie “Dear Johnny”. = “Soldier! You low fat stupid mess. Here is you own “Dear Johnny” (letter from girlfriend to end the romantic relationship)
Bankie = plastic bank bag, used for portioning a specific amount of marijuana for resale, used as a measure and for price comparison.
Soek ’n move = literally : seek a move, or looking for a manoeuvre. This is gutter slang for an equity to if you wanted to buy marijuana or then join the seller and smoke your purchase with them. The diatribe would begin with asking the question what you are doing, phrased as “Niks maak nie?,” and if you are doing nothing the answer is the same words but in double negative of the confirmation (huh?) “Nee, niks mark nice,” and if you are looking to “score” drugs you answer “Soek ’n move.”
Dolosse : a large concrete shape to dissipate the force of ocean waves crashing against shoreline or harbour, reducing soil erosion and damage. Each massive Dolos can weigh to 8 tons. They are not arranged in a specific layout but thrown randomly. The unique shape design resembles the knuckle-joint bones of the ox or lamb. The name Dolos derives from either ‘dobbel osse’, translated as ‘gambling’ in Afrikaans and ‘bones’ in Latin respectively, or ‘dollen os’, a’ contraction of ‘play’ in Old Dutch and oxen’ (Afrikaans) respectively, or an ancient African children’s game called knucklebones, or the traditional healers of Southern African, The Sangoma’s practice of divination… throwing and reading the bones! The Dolos is a Proudly South African product.
SONGS QUOTED:
- Lay Lady Lay
Written & Performed by Bob Dylan
https://open.spotify.com/track/4uYwlMp841PLJmj1gJJwIq?si=49dde023173f43c9 - *
Sponji Reggae
Written by Michael Rose, Produced by Sly & Robbie
Performed by Black Uhuru
https://open.spotify.com/track/47xiNPXTejYCbgdyjfm08m?si=0f496d308fd44a91
Mirror in the Bathroom
Written & Performed by The Beat
https://open.spotify.com/track/1oZwlEugnLJqgwj9fUp7gf?si=37db804bec1e4a2b
London Calling
Written & Performed by The Clash
https://open.spotify.com/track/5jzma6gCzYtKB1DbEwFZKH?si=87ca3790f87a4fba
Boys Don’t Cry
Performed by The Cure
https://open.spotify.com/track/1QFh8OH1e78dGd3VyJZCAC?si=27d0ce6f50544f30
(Free) Nelson Mandela
Performed by The Specials
Written by Jerry Dammers, Rhoda Dakar
https://open.spotify.com/track/4XDR3NurtMgjmrZhyBvbUR?si=beac4622c5d04337
A Message to You Rudy
Performed by The Specials
https://open.spotify.com/track/14RoojgPRvdD9zhITsYvXW?si=0871b68b7eaf4bdb
Easy Skanking
Written & Performed by Bob Marley and the Wailers
https://open.spotify.com/track/0NeWTUrXVRdJ9GHEVtrAGB?si=e45124a6808a44e7
^
We Don’t Need No Education
Written by Roger Waters
Performed by Pink Floyd
https://open.spotify.com/track/4gMgiXfqyzZLMhsksGmbQV?si=b19caa4522ca46a8
^ ^
Planet Earth
Written by
Performed by Duran Duran
https://open.spotify.com/track/4PlEBjN3ntjMWDF5gvGDSF?si=7d019675492b41eb
^ ^ ^
Seasons In The Sun
Written by Jacques Brel, Rod McKuen
Performed by Terry Jacks
https://open.spotify.com/track/7pGMRy91RcQT9oHdPgYz3A?si=a18e544d894d4f95
^ ^ ^ ^
Down Under
Written & Performed by Men at Work
https://open.spotify.com/track/3ZZq9396zv8pcn5GYVhxUi?si=8acb04b5a0144789
^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Smoke on the Water
Written & Performed by Deep Purple
https://open.spotify.com/track/2gm06yP65PhcYpazF6odgz?si=6f07e953d0954050
https://open.spotify.com/track/5MMnwYs0hIxkENRsbkWJ2G?si=143cdcaf7a964963
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Living Next-door to Alice
Written by Michael Chapman, Nicky Chinn
Performed by Smokie
https://open.spotify.com/track/57TaM8GozkJBz90xvQ1xME?si=e15df74b8dd14219
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Staring at the Sea
Album Written & Performed by The Cure
https://open.spotify.com/album/5JLKZcOSNXcm6xaX1vI7nB?si=_nVR0J5ZT9CP6yKm8cf0zQ
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
This is the Sea
Written by Mike Scott
Performed by The Waterboys
https://open.spotify.com/track/1TrdJHOZLote4UQQVBBQGH?si=dd530a5f8b624672
^ *
Night Nurse
Written by Gregory Isaacs, Sylvester Weise
Performed by Gregory Isaacs
https://open.spotify.com/track/4DQttwipnILl88cru3BRZx?si=a4dd32e34567439c
^ * ^
Letters to Dickie
Written & Performed by Jennifer Fergusson
https://open.spotify.com/track/2RmXz0quEnoLuNRPMQStYD?si=1070e74c837a49ac
^ * ^ *
Present Arms
Written & Performed by UB40
https://open.spotify.com/track/5UnHZC30uKDRKvB7fDEABn?si=974797fd0a6b4459
^ * ^ * ^
What is Life
Written by Derrick Simpson
Performed by Black Uhuru
https://open.spotify.com/track/2voVV5JklV830kg8kWT3vj?si=98cedb4951c6492d