People will pay for sex. The question of whether
they will pay for waves has now been answered emphatically in the
affirmative.
The way I see it there’s really only three ways a gal can swing
on the question of wavepools, at this juncture Jan, 2020.
There’s the all-out frothers, the curious (those for whom the
Voltaire saying, “Once a philosopher, twice a pervert” applies) and
the purists who’d like to nuke the tubs out of existence.
My tendency has been towards the latter position, but I left
that guy at home for my one day, fly-in, fly-out mission to
Melbourne Urbnsurf.
Being the last surf writer into the tub is a strange place to
be.
Vision of the last swingers party there did not look inviting. I
thought, yuck! The thought of all that throbbing surf gristle made
me feel self-conscious and claustrophobic. I ain’t a herd animal,
like to do my own thing in my own time.
Nonetheless, when a pal invited me along for a true FIFO punter
experience it had to be done.
Being a regional deadshit, it was a trip of firsts.
First Uber ride, first duck parfait with mustard fruits on
doughnut (velvety mouth feel, slightly bitter). The Chinese driver
wore a face mask to pick us up from our Melbourne renoed terrace
digs. Thick haze carpeted the city, officially the worst air
quality on Earth.
If you cocked your head just the right way you could smell a
million cooked koalas in the bushfire smoke.
Based on advice from others and the desire of my travel
companions to not schlep boards through the city I hired a board
from the facility. A well-manicured youth with impeccable teeth and
a man bun from Toronto Canada aided this process.
Fifteen dollars for two hours. I chose a Hayden Shapes Holy
Grail. My pals: a JS Nitro, Pyzel Astro Pop and Hypto Krypto.
All shortish, with generous asses and epoxy. Also
recommended.
The take-off, wedged into a concrete corner, against the wall is
stressful and hectic, but easily mastered. We started on the right,
one hour. Intermediate mode. The first few waves were frustrating
and weird. You can’t pump for speed, go faster than what the wave
dictates. The power pocket is small.
“I’m going to get hold of you,” I thought, “and give you a good
kicking.”
But I could not get hold of it.
Then I thought, “I’m bored, I’m done.”
I tried to remember what I’d learnt from the surf improvement
and what I was doing wrong. I was trying to keep
Derek Rielly’s recommendations in mind, trying to
maintain my critical faculties when, in the relentless rush of
waves, I was swept away in wavepool froth.
My mind went blank, I started jack-hammering away like an old
priapic billy
goat.
The siren sounded, we swapped sides.
The Holy Grail felt weird on the right, much better on the
left.
Each wave was strangely unsatisfying but taken as a whole: mad,
weird fun.
There was a dozen in our group. A dozen waves per set.
Twenty sets in an hour.
I rode a wave every set, save a set I missed when my legrope
snapped on the right. Three times I rode two waves in a set, for a
total of 42 waves in the two hours.
About what Ricardo Christie rode in an entire year on the
CT.
People will pay for sex.
The question of whether they will pay for waves has now been
answered emphatically in the affirmative.
The joint was packed.
Apart from our young female surf guide? Surf marshall?, I did
not see a female paying customer.
Maybe gals do not want to pay for waves.
According to our marshall, rapid hierarchies form and snakeing
can happen, even in the so-called democratisation of an artificial
line-up where the dollar value of a wave makes everyone equal.
It’s quite easy to kick out early and get to the head of the
line for one of the first three waves, which are cleanest. Gaming
the system will be a common tactic in an eighteen-man lineup with
twelve-wave sets.
The other question: will wavepool skills translate to the ocean,
either via beginners developing proficiency or intermediates
building skill sets is harder to answer.
It’s a helluva work-out.
Much more paddling than I expected and the use of rip and tight
take-off zone is a decent simulacrum of various reefbreaks. There’s
not much room for personal style or prettiness on the wave.
It happens quickly, is over quickly.
No one skill building in a pool is gunna come out looking like
Joel Parkinson.
I guess that’s a qualified yes.
Straight out of Tullamarine on the Jetstar 464 to Ballina. Woken
by the hostie as the wings dip over Lennox Point. The lines are
stacked end to end across the Point. In the ensuing froth I left my
voluminous notebook with thousands of words of detailed notes
onboard.
Fifteen minutes to my pal’s place, on the end of one and then
back out at the Point.
It’s cranking somewhere between intermediate and advanced
setting, double-overhead sets. Dolphins careering through the
line-up, a carnival atmosphere. Nature at its finest etc etc.
Three hours later, I got the fifty up, was so exhausted coming
in I got pinballed through the rock garden and bruised up like a
hanging meat carcass.
The tub and your local firing in a single day.
Might as well call it a fully cooked surf turkey.
Would I do it again?
It’s too damn easy, too anti-depressive and too much damn fun to
rule out.
Resistance seems futile.
Building that thing at the airport was a stroke of genius from
Andrew Ross.
A 24-hour FIFO surf trip to an artificial wave is the future,
right now.
