"Eat my dust, kids!"
For my thirty-seventh birthday I was afforded a
three-day window to chase a short but powerful south swell
up the NSW east coast.
As promoted across all major forecasting sites. It was
noteworthy only in its abruptness. A teepee rise and fall of the
buoys that for most spots peaked under darkness. An isobaric hard
on that would disappear before it could do much good.
Fitting present for a now middle-aged man. Tracking the surge
was delicate. It was a south-south-west swell. Not the holy
eastern-infused angle that flushes our every nook and cranny.
Four-to-five metres at its peak. V directional. V Windy. Choosing
the wrong spot could mean getting a wind-blown mess, or missing out
completely.
At one point early on I sat on the headland at B___ H___,*
shrill wind in my side, Rorschach clouds zipping overhead, watching
swell lines bend out towards the horizon.
Against my will. The ocean being a cunt, on my birthday.
But there was enough to work with.
It was a well-worn path I was travelling. Plus I had the time. I
was able to wait. This was a solo trip. Slicing through a narrow
geographical window surrounded by covid lockdowns. Greater Sydney
to the south. Queensland border to the north.
I had: Four boards. Bag of warm clothes. Sleeping bag. Esky.
Negative covid test in the back pocket, just to be sure.
Family left to fend for themselves at home. Two thirds of the
country’s population in lockdown. And me, further abusing my one
real vice in a life of already immense privilege. Only in times of
crisis can we truly be gluttonous etc.
Maybe I’m the one being the cunt, I thought as the swell marched
back out to sea. To my family. To society. A lotta turmoil out
there currently. Here I am worrying about waves. Shouldn’t I be
doing something more worthwhile?
But I guess that’s what this thing is all about.
The swell would eventually angle back. It always does.
On day one I left before dawn. Almost all of the major towns
between home and the Gold Coast have been bypassed by new, flat,
featureless highway. Dotted only with roadkill and twin servo/fast
food outlets. Replicas of replicas. Boring as shit. But travel time
is way down. We live in a world of convenience. I was at my first
spot before breakfast.
B____. East facing, but can still handle a southerly wind. Not
too far from home. At the southern extremity of my hit list, so
early in line to get the swell. Despite the greyish skies the water
was an obscene blue. Shimmering.
I was too early. The waves were only a foot, two max. Nobody
out. Cold. But this was my time off. Here to fuck, as they say. It
still had some shape. I suited up anyway and headed out.
I admit. I’m no Wayne Lynch. I don’t like crowds. but I also
don’t wanna surf alone. The water was still unseasonably warm.
Activity everywhere. Big, dumb, lumbering humpbacks were blowing
their tops out to the horizon, telegraphing their position to
prospective diners. More than I’ve ever seen in a season. Drop pins
for a feast. There’d even been a proper fatality in recent months a
few beaches north. (not to mention that time I almost killed myself
surfing solo). I was skittish.
As soon as I paddled out things ramped up. The swell hit. The
wind refracted around the headland, more to the south. The tide
dropped. The take off spot shifted out another thirty metres.
One other guy paddled out to my right, closer into the
protection of the headland. Shadows slid across the surface. Fast
moving clouds. Patches of weed. Or could it be…? My feet tucked up
further under the board. A few quick lefts into the corner before
the swell shut down the channel. Four waves and that was enough.
Better than nothing. I left the other guy to it.
I stopped in at the local eatery for coffee and a smoothie. Lots
of masks. Stern faces, furrowed brows, motioning to QR codes.
“Did ya bloody sign in?”
Maybe it wasn’t the right time to be on the road.
I was at pains to point out I hadn’t come from shut-down Sydney.
I’m no Covid dog. A regional paisan, just like them. My car, sans
hubcaps with gaffa-taped window, hopefully added to the vibe. But I
could tell from their looks they saw right through me.
“Look at this pathetic old guy. Chasing surf in the middle of a
pandemic. Idiot. Superspreader. Cunt.”
Yup.
I checked in at a few more spots along the way. The swell was
either too directional, or just not there yet at all. Bypassed T___
, scene of the recent fatality, altogether.
A quick Facetime into home. The grom’s sick. How long was I
gonna be? I can’t answer that, baby. It’s up to the swell.
Next stop. S___ P___. A long, open angled point that could have
been more. Cruelled by its own bathymetry. Outer bombies break up
the swell and suck out the size. But there’s a lot of headland for
it to wrap into. By the time it hits the inner shelf, lines do
reappear.
Despite being dead flat only a dozen or so kms south, the swell
angle had finally shifted. Windswept runners pushed down the inside
section. It was looking like a poor, poor man’s Lennox. 40 to 50m
of workable wall on a good one. A lot of down time between. Many
wraps, much cut back.
Of most note: one all mighty blow up from a local, directed over
my head to a fulla sitting just behind me.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING DROPPING IN ON ME YOU CUNT?
For a second I thought he was talking to me
YEAH, YOU, he continued, looking directly ahead, as I engaged a
subtle subsurface eggbeater to steer out of the firing line.
I’LL FUCKEN DECK YOU, YA CUNT. I’LL BREAK YOU AND YOUR FUCKING
BOARD AND RAM IT DOWN YOUR FUCKING THROAT.
To be fair, old mate in question had been getting a lot of
waves.
But the tone, the volume, the exquisite imagery, the overall
display. It was a relic from a lost time. Worth the trip alone.
The angry local went in. Old mate held his ground, smiled and
paddled back up the inside. The session continued.
I guess being a cunt is a subjective thing.
I surfed until dark.
I got up to A___ first thing next morning. My primary target.
Greeted at the iconic look out by blue skies and four to six foot
of swell rounding the headland.
The waves were there, yes. Angle not great. It wasn’t
incredible. But it’s still a good wave, even when it’s not.
Out there.
Coffee brown water. Turbid. Plus, a smell in the air like
fresh-wrapped bait.
Mysterious aquatic disturbances only a few metres out from line
up. I’d been buzzed by a white surfing out here solo once before.
Always a lot of activity. But on this day there were 20 or so
others spread across the bowl. Many of them looked taster than me.
I should be ok.
Wave-wise, it wasn’t quite doing it. Sets hitting too wide.
Lacking a little oomph.
But, I made the most of it on the bonzer twin. Here to fuck etc.
A few diamonds in the runners hugging the rock. The ones that grow
and wrap back to you as they round the corner. A good time on the
rail. No need for pumps or transitions between turns.
Still, a wave that stacks up even on an average day, for an
average surfer.
Among the crowd were a few influencers in the truest sense,
picking some good lines.
One swarthy WSL commentator looking fresh on an old single fin.
But also a lot more mediocre talent than usual. Granted it was user
friendly. But way more crab stances and 7S fishes than you’d
expect.
One guy on a Firewire, fit looking,
vaguely intermediate, was making the most of the A___
run around and jump off, which can have you back into pole position
after every wave. Engaging in some very cunt like behaviour.
But he looked to be having a good time.
At least there’s always S_____
I spent the rest of the day gorging on inside runners. Got my
fill. Checked in. The grom still hadn’t improved. It was time to
head home.
Another quick couple of surfs followed on the drive back south
the next day. The S pulse disappeared. Weak undercurrent E trade
all that was left. I still made it home by early afternoon, a few
hours before deadline. A swell well and truly milked.
And now, looking back, it was the perfect strike mission.
I’ve since joined the rest of the state in lockdown. Ten-click
travel limit. No end in sight. I might be a cunt, but at least I
have good timing.
*With respect to Ben Marcus for the idea of poorly hiding
information
