Big swell claims two lives near National Surfing Reserve Angourie

"As soon as I got in the water, I felt myself being ripped out into the churning shorebreak. By the time I struggled to shore, I had decided not to go surfing today."

(Editor’s note: A man and a woman drowned after their vessel capsized near the Yamba Breakwall at the Yamba Bar, northern NSW, just after 6:30 this morn. A third man was rescued conscious and breathing by a passing boat, then taken to hospital under paramedic care. Mont wrote this story as the choppers buzzed and ambulances and police cars flew to the scene.)

Well, that’s the first time that’s ever happened. After a six-month period of little surf, I saw the swell was up, wettied up, and headed out. As I walked down the bush track to my local, I saw a set raging through that was closer to ten feet than eight.

The guy we call the YouTube surfer came at me frothing, “It’s high tide, eleven second periods, three and a half meters, how many litres is your board?” 

A massive set swept around the point and tore down through the bay, sweeping a surfer onto the rocks up north and keeping him there. He realised he couldn’t come in at Green Point and, wisely, let himself be carried all the way around the headland to be washed in at the Cove, or further down at Dump beach.

​I saw a couple of helicopters hovering low over different patches of water out of Yamba to the north. Helicopters using thermal cameras to detect drowned people submerged in murky water have a very distinct look to them.

​I decided to watch for a while longer, but walked away from the YouTube surfer to decide whether to paddle out. Sitting in the shade of a Pandanus palm, I saw the tide start to turn and tear the debris on the beach out through the channel that runs along the rocks.

​Overheated, I decided to have a swim to cool off. As soon as I got in the water, I felt myself being ripped out into the churning shorebreak. By the time I struggled to shore, I had decided not to go surfing today.

​Back in the car park, everyone asked me what the surf had been like. I answered honestly, “I don’t feel fit enough, I’ve been sitting down writing too many fucking BeachGrit articles.”

​This scene reminded me of the first time we surfed Padang in ‘83. Ulu was so big and washed out that a few of us walked down the coast to see what the surf was like there. One of us, the one who least liked big waves, uncharacteristically rushed ahead.

By the time we arrived on the sand at the beach, he was walking back up the beach with wet hair. “It’s warfare out there,” he warned us. The old Balo, who was selling soft drinks, looked shocked.

I asked him what was wrong. He told us that our friend had bought a bottle of water and poured it on his own head.

“Gila,” which means crazy. Which, as you might imagine, became his nickname.

​I consoled him later, over a nasi campur and warm Sprite after one of the best surfs of our short lives, with a favourite Clint Eastwood quote: “A man’s gotta know his limitations.”

​When I got home just now, I checked online to see what had gone down in Yamba.

Still no news. But no news isn’t always good news.