One perk of this media caper is that over the years I've had the opportunity to meet all sorts - from supermodels to statesmen, Oscar winners to rock stars, prime ministers to premiers and ratbags to royalty (if you count Prince Leonard of Hutt).

That doesn't mean I don't occasionally get star-struck. It's odd, though, that my most memorable encounter with greatness had nothing to do with work. It happened in the surf one winter's morning in 2011. Odder still is I had no idea who the person was.

I'd met my mate Huck at my old break, Dee Why, in Sydney. Confronted by a bursting-at-the seams car park at 6.30am we realised something was afoot. Then we saw marquees and tents set up on the sand and sponsors' banners fluttering in the offshore breeze: the Layne Beachley Classic was in town, bringing with it the greatest female surfers on the planet.

Some were mooching about in beanies and Ugg boots; hip-hop was chugging out of a speaker deep inside the surf club. Dee Why was abuzz. The surf was pumping. We were stoked.

A quick inquiry revealed heats were starting at 8am. "Better get out there quick if you wanna get some waves boys," pro-tour dude advised.

Huck, who at the time was a big kahuna at the surfer's bible, Tracks magazine, kept dropping helpful hints like "bring yer A-game", "we're gonna look pathetic" and "try not to kook it" in front of the world's best.

A minute or so later as I scrambled to make it over an approaching set wave, I looked up to see a diminutive lass elegantly glide into the solid left-hander.

Surfing on her backhand, this young lady swung off the bottom with surgical skill, rocketed back up the face and gouged a textbook roundhouse cut-back in the emerald lip about 2 metres from my head.

Her flashing fins shot a bucketful of brine straight into my face. It was perfectly poised, precise and powerful surfing; I'd never been that close to so much sporting ability in all my life. It was mesmerising.

When I finally dragged my middle-aged arse out into the line-up to rejoin Huck I breathlessly regaled him with the tale of Hendo and the Goddess of Surf.

"You shoulda seen this chick!" I gushed, sounding like I'd just clocked a mermaid. "She's RIPPING! She absolutely unloaded right near my head! The grace! The control!"

"Yep, saw it. Sally Fitz," Huck replied with a knowing nod and smile.

"Sally Fitz?"

"Sally Fitzgibbons. South Coast girl. Could be world-champ one day."

Although she was only 20, Sally had already chalked up multiple titles and serious credentials as a junior and on the ASP world tour. It was the first time I'd heard of the Gerroa youngster. To my great regret, I hadn't paid much attention to the women's tour and I didn't buy Tracks too often either (sorry Huck).

All that changed on that chilly morning as I sat in the water at Dee Why, not bothering to even try to catch any waves and stared transfixed for an hour as some of the best surfers in history went through their paces. It was like being in the ring watching Ali spa, or sitting in a V8 Commodore next to Peter Brock as he hit 296km/h during a practice lap at Bathurst*. Only this was better.

Nowadays I watch as much women's surfing as I do men's - and I'm a glassed-in Sally Fitz fan. Anyone who saw her hurling herself into massive barrels at Cloudbreak to take out the Fiji Pro in May would applaud not only her talent and athletic ability, but her courage.

The danger at Cloudbreak is very real; fellow Aussie Nikki Van Dijk ended up with a zig-zag of stitches across her lips and inside her mouth after she smashed face-first on to the reef - and that was on a smaller wave. All the women were charging that week of course, but Sal was definitely The Gal.

Last week my sporting heroine took another step closer to clinching the world surfing crown that Huck insists is almost inevitable after she took over the No 1 ASP ranking from Hawaii's Carissa Moore. I honestly believe 2014 could be Sally's year but no matter what her future holds, I'm grateful to have had my very own, personalised Fitzgibbons encounter. Go Sal!

* I actually got to do that in 1995 but it was for work and Huck wasn't there to witness it.