Still, y'gotta do what y'gotta do…
The Interloper arrived at the Rock on a
Thursday. It was a quiet session. Three-to-four-foot of
ESE swell, not the perfect direction. But a tide that was high
enough to gloss over most faults.
Fun rights with the odd hollow section hugged the curve of the
limestone outcrop, before shutting down on the inside.
There was me, Jade, Tom, and Beug – all locals – plus a handful
of irregulars who knew enough to keep lineup order in check. A
capacity crowd for these conditions.
I’d already been out a few hours when the Interloper first
appeared.
Between sets it was easy to keep track of incoming crew. The
take off spot at the Rock sat off the back of an almost exposed
shelf, which itself jutted out from a deep channel below the main
kunji-covered rock platform. Hidden deep inside a National Park, it
was a popular spot for the local fishos, who would make the 45
minute walk in to hit the schools of whiting and yellow tail that
pooled around the hidey spots. Sometimes, when the warm currents
bent right into the coast, they’d even jag some bigger game.
But the fishos knew not to go overboard with their catch. There
was a delicate ecosystem to be maintained. Perfected over time.
Balance and order. It was what kept us in the game.
There were a few fishos on the hunt this day, with their uniform
yellow jackets and white buckets. I watched as the mysterious
figure with board under arm bounced between them along the
platform, looking for a way in.
Even from the water I could make out his shock of curly white
hair. The excitable gait. A staccato rhythm as he leapt from one
rock to the next.
Enthusiasm. It was unmistakable.
I shuddered from a sudden chill.
The Interloper jumped off a weird part of the platform. Not
where us locals would jump. But still not the wrong spot, either.
Something about this act bothered me, though I couldn’t say
what.
He made his way around the far side of the shelf. Right to the
top of the queue.
He had a newish looking board. Handshaped, with a logo I didn’t
recognise. Yellow with green rails. A bright blue short arm
steamer. Booties. A statement in colourways.
The Interloper surveyed the crew. For some reason singled me
out.
“Hey mate, how’s it going?” he asked excitedly.
It was a greeting like you’d get in one of those trendy clothing
retailers. So over-friendly you’d have to second guess if you
actually knew the person or not.
He couldn’t have been older than 18. A cherubic face. Bright,
keen eyes. Dusting of pubescent fluff on the chin. The kid carried
himself. Suggested he could surf, without actually saying it.
“Yeah alright,” I replied gruffly as I stared at the
horizon.
“Looks like a couple of fun ones.”
I wasn’t sure if this is a question or a statement. I said
nothing. Nor did anyone else.
“Yeah I’ve just moved here for uni from down the coast,” he
continued unabated, looking straight at me. “Keen to get some waves
but?”
Again he left his sentence on an upwards inflection. Intentions
unknown.
“Cool.” I still had no idea what the cunt was on about. I let my
eyes trail off, like I was tracking a school of baitfish just below
the surface.
I caught a subtle grin from Jade.
Thankfully the awkward silence didn’t last long.
“Oh, here’s one,” said the Interloper. He swung and paddled for
the first wave that came his way. Not quite a set, but probably
something one of the irregulars would have gone.
“Who’s that guy?” asked Tom as we watched him race down the line
and tag the end section.
“No idea. “
“Fucken lippy cunt. “
Tom was one of the middle tier locals out here. A few decades
under the belt, but not quite good enough for alpha status. Still,
he held enough sway. Not one to get on your bad side.
He prized his silence out here. We all did.
Like the fishos, we all came to the Rock for the hunt. Jade the
former ‘Quey warrior who now ran the little cafe near the entrance
to the Park and was out here most swells. Beug with his performance
minimal that he still sunk to his chest, and the tattoos on his
knuckles that told you all you needed to know about his past. Tom,
who had no other home than here.
Each of us tied to the Rock. The better part of our lives was
spent tracking it. Learning it. Best wind, best swell, best ride.
How the variations of each all interplayed. Which ones would pinch.
Which ones would stay open. Which ones would go dry on the inside.
It wasn’t the most perfect wave in the world, or the most
consistent. Only on a very particular angle and tide did it
actually barrel properly. It was a hard place to get to. Required
time and commitment. Mostly the Rock was frustration. Missed
appointments. Broken promises. Unrealised dreams.
But every now and then, when it all came together on the right
one? Sheesh, it could still be special. And most importantly, it
was ours.
The Interloper paddled back out and quickly weaved his way into
the queue. Beug grunted at the disruption. But before anybody can
say anything another set stood up on the Indicator. This one looked
good.
Tom and I nodded a silent agreement. He’d be up first and I’d
take the second, which would hopefully be my last.
But the Interloper started putting himself into position
too.
“Who’s up?” he asked as he paddled to the spot.
Tom shouldered in. Caught the Interloper’s leash as he was
paddling.
“Farrk,” Tom crowed as he got to his feet. The wave surged. For
a second he was caught in free fall. But a couple of decade’s worth
of muscle memory and wave knowledge kicked in. He leaned into it,
engaged the rail just at the right moment, and flew off down the
line.
It was a one wave set. I was left back on point.
Unfazed, the Interloper paddled back next to me.
“Wow, that was a hell one!” he said as he watched Tom fly over
the back of the end section.
I shook my head and paddled in. Did he not understand?
***********************************
By Thursday night the social networks were already
firing.
I got a text from Jade. She was nice enough to not say anything
in the water. Plus she wasn’t really one for all our macho
Darwinian bullshit. But even she knew a transgression had been
committed. An upheaval in the order of things.
“If this was ten years ago he would have been sent in,” she
wrote.
“Right?” I respond. “Fucken guy. You can’t do that sort of thing
now though.”
“Yeah, nah.”
***********************************
On Friday the waves had improved. Bigger.
Better direction. The crew was solid too. Beug, Danny, Jade, Bill,
Tom, Benny, Sam, myself. More than a dozen boardriders all up. No
weak spots in the food chain.
On this size and tide the take off spot shifted over to a
roll-in, deeper on the platform. Everybody schooled onto the one
spot, concentrating the hierarchy even more. The thick knit of
black wetsuits and white boards floated over waves like a bed of
kelp.
The Interloper appeared again amongst the fishos. We watched as
he jumped off at that same weird spot, and snaked around the
inside, under the pack.
“Hey guys!” he said to nobody in particular.
A few grunts, but mostly silence.
“Wow, looking pretty good again!”
Just like the day before, another small one popped up right in
front of him. He took it without question.
We all watched the rooster tails as he made his way down the
line. He could surf.
“Is that little cunt?” asked Noah, a wild-eyed veteran from the
pre-gentrification days.
Word was already out.
“If this was fifteen years ago I would have slashed his
tyres.”
Heads nodded furiously in agreement.
“Can’t do that sort of thing now but,” said Beug.
“Yeah, nah.”
The Interloper made his way out and darted back into the queue,
oblivious to the eyes on him. Silly grin on his face.
“Fuck I love this wave!” he yells.
Tom looks at me, aghast. “Loves it?” he says.
I shrug my shoulders. Another cardinal sin to add to his
list.
A serious set appeared off the Indicator. The wall of water
slowed almost to a standstill as it surged off the back of the
Rock. This was it. The type of wave this place made its name from.
The infinitely scarce resource that sustained the whole
ecosystem.
The pack bristled in anticipation.
Noah was up. But again the Interloper moved into the spot.
“No you dont, cunt,” hissed Noah.
He paddled directly into the Interloper, pushing him too deep.
So deep that even Noah was out of position. They both missed the
roll-in and were forced to duck dive under the next one as the wave
reeled off unridden.
“What was that for?” asked the Interloper as they paddled back
to the spot.
“Wasn’t your turn,” said Noah.
“Yeah but you fucked it. Now no one gets it.”
Silence fell over the crowd. Noah was not the sort of person to
talk back to.
“Doesn’t matter. Wasn’t your turn.”
Noah’s nostrils flared. For a second the only noise was his
heavy breathing and the far off chatter of the fishos up on the
platform.
The Interloper looked like he was about to say something.
Formulating a comeback. Who knew what might happen next. It was the
type of moment that could make or break a lifetime at a place like
this.
From the channel came a violent splash. A flash of white and
silver broke through the surface then disappeared, leaving a trail
of foam in its wake. There’d been reports of marlin straying into
the coast in the last few days. Hitting the balls of trevally that
had been popping up around the place.
The commotion attracted a rush of fishos to the edge of the
platform, yelling and pointing and flinging their reels.
The Interloper looked over to the channel before slinking back
to his spot underneath the rest of the pack, his decision made.
He might have been young, but he knew enough.
***********************************
That night I got a call from Bruno. One of the
elders of the Rock who pioneered it back in the ‘70s. He hardly
surfed now but his counsel still held as much clout as anyone still
out there.
“Heard there’s been some strife out,” he said in his gruff
voice. He didn’t mince his words.
“Yep. The kid looks nice enough. But he’s really getting under
people’s skin. He just doesn’t know the rules.”
Bruno didn’t say anything. For a moment I thought I might have
lost him.
“What we do about it?” I asked.
Finally he spoke.
“Look, if this was twenty years ago we’d have knifed his tyres
and beat the shit out of him so bad he’d never make the trek back
in. Problem is, you can’t do that sort of thing anymore.”
“Nah.” I sighed. “Yeah nah Bruno, I know.”
“Let’s see what happens tomorrow. But listen.” He pauses again
for emphasis. “I think you know what you need to do.”
The phone line clicked.
***********************************
Saturday morning. The sun blazed. Light
offshore breezes lit up the Rock. The surf was pumping. A red
letter day. The full crew was out. All the alphas. The line up was
abuzz with the swell. But also news of the Interloper.
“I heard he called Noah a cunt.”
“I heard he burned Tom three sets in a row.”
“I heard he knocked off one of the fishos reels on the way
in.”
“He even said he loved the place!”
“It wasn’t quite that bad,” I said. “But I spoke to Bruno last
night about it. The kid still needs to be taught a lesson.”
“If this was thirty years ago we would have shoved him in the
tinny and skull dragged him out to the continental shelf,” offered
Benny the kneelo, a living relic from a bygone era.
“You can’t do that now though,” replied Tom. “Remember what
happened to Pooly. You even put a hand on a kid and you’re looking
at charges from the parents.
“So fucken what? Who out here is going to rat?”
“Yeah but he’s still only young, you gotta give him a
chance…”
The conversation became so involved, so furious, that many of
the smaller sets went through unridden. Noah even blew the takeoff
on a set. First time I’d ever seen him do it.
The irregulars were having a field day a little further down the
line.
It was undeniable. There was a funk running through the pack. A
schism. Order has been upended.
By mid morning, just as the tide was reaching its peak, the
Interloper appeared again on the shelf like a midnight spectre.
“Here he is.”
“Where’s he jumping off?” said Benny incredulously. “What the
fuck’s he think he’s doing?”
The Interloper made his way around to the pack. A pod of
dolphins darted past, shooting up specks of diamonds on the sun-lit
sea.
“Fuck it, I’ll take the cunt myself,” said Noah, just as the
Interloper came to within earshot. “To hell with the coppers.”
But something stirred up inside me.
Maybe it was the fact the kid could surf. The fact he was young,
and still had time to learn the ropes. Maybe it was the fact half
the crew out here didn’t want any business with filing police
reports. Myself included.
Maybe it was that stupid smile.
“Noah,” I said forcefully. “Not today.”
I paddled over to meet the Interloper before he could reach the
pack. For his own safety as much as anything else.
“Hey buddy, come here.”
“Oh, hey bro!” he said enthusiastically. “Looks pumping today,
but?”
I shook my head at the non sequitur.
“Look kid, I need to have a word with you.”
Sat up on my board so I was right alongside him.
“You seem nice enough. You can obviously surf. But you gotta
understand there’s rules out here.”
The Interloper started to respond, a confused look on his
face.
“I…”
“Let me finish. You can’t just traipse into the Rock like you
own it. This is a special place.”
I motioned to the line up, to the surge, to the rock platform
and the fishos beyond.
“You come out here with your smiles and your bright wetty and
your jumping at every wave. It makes the crew nervous.”
“Yeah, but-”
“Hey. I’m still going. If you want to surf out here. If you want
to really get to know the place.You need to put in time. You need
to respect the law. You gotta be more like us.”
I pointed to the crew.
“See these guys? We’ve all been out here for decades. We’re not
lairy. We’re not colourful. We don’t disrupt.”
A swell line passed under us, bringing us nearer again.
“We’re cool, kid. Real cool. Like barnacles. Only one part
removed from the kunji back up on that platform.”
I saddled up real close to him. So close I could smell whatever
cheap shampoo it was that he ran through that mop of white
hair.
“Out here,” I said, almost in a whisper. “We don’t like change.
There’s a place for everything, and everything in its place.”
His cherubic face melted. His brow furrowed. He looked like he’d
just been told he’d never surf again.
“But –
I shook my head and pointed to the end of the pack. Down past
the irregulars.
He followed the path of my hand, his whole body shaking at
realisation. Processing what it all meant. The end of the line. The
Interloper turned back to me. Looked like he might cry.
But I stared him down, with a dozen identical pairs of eyes
behind me.
The Interloper got the message. He paddled to the back of the
queue.
***********************************
It’s five years later now. I’m still at the
Rock. The surf is firing. Another red letter day. And we’re all
out. Ronnie, Jade, Noah, the kneelo, Tom.
Even the Interloper. He’s sitting in the middle of the queue.
Above the irregulars but still behind the alphas. His enthusiasm
has disappeared. The spark in his eye is gone. You wouldn’t
recognise him if you didn’t already know. There’s no hint of a grin
now on his weathered face. Black wetsuit. White board. Shaved head.
He’s waiting his turn patiently.
Assimilated into the pack.
The fishoes are out, chasing a school of tailor. One of them has
just jagged something decent when we see a figure appear on the
platform. Bright wetsuit. Loud board. Unidentified.
We watch as the figure makes its way across the rocks. Heads to
that same weird part of the platform to jump off.
I turn to the Interloper. He knows what’s expected.
He nods back at me with his dead eyes.
Looks to the unknown figure now he says: “Who’s this cunt think
he is,”
Though it’s so quiet I can barely hear it. I turn back to the
horizon with a smile on my face.
A place for everything and everything in its place.
