Sweet and bitter fruit

 Laurie McGinness picture
Laurie McGinness (blindboy)
The Rearview Mirror

Recently, while flicking through a book of John Witzig's photos, blindboy encountered an image that was identical to a memory he'd stored many years ago. Angourie, 1970. A place he'd visited though he wasn't there the day the photo was taken. In this short piece blindboy questions the reliability of memory and recalls in words his version of the image.

I flicked through the book looking at the old photos, some familiar, some previously unseen, until I came to this image and it tore through me like a gust of wind across a well ordered desk, scattering pages carelessly. For there on the page was my memory, duplicated from the pale morning colours in which I had stored it, into silver and grey. And now it was no longer my memory. It was a photograph from a long forgotten magazine that had, in the way time twists such things, replaced the reality. I shuddered and recalled the moment, or at least my unreliable reconstruction of it.

angourie_1b.jpg

My parents were unusually libertarian or perhaps more commonly careless. Whatever the cause they exercised little supervision over me from an early age and made no protest when, in the middle of a school term at the age of 15, I proposed going to the north coast with an 18 year old acquaintance of mine, totally unknown to them. Billy, as I will call him, was not really my friend in any meaningful way. Our relationship was based on the circumstance that, though it is now one of Sydney's more popular beaches, at that time very often we were the only two surfers in the water.

By that stage I suppose I was a competent surfer, but Billy, to my eyes, was exceptional. He never fell off. He glided through even the most difficult sections with an easy flowing motion and his surfing was a perfect match not only to his personality, but to the moment. He was so much a man of his times, with his long hair, beard and the faraway look in his eyes that he might have walked out of the country soul edition of my favourite surfing magazine. 

He had some sort of inside contact and from time to time would have the latest magazine before it appeared in the newsagents. So it was that one afternoon, as I was walking across the dry dirt of the old car park after a surf, he called me over and showed me the latest edition. There was a photo spread of Angourie. I expressed a desire to surf it. He paused for a moment before telling me he was going there next week and asking if I wanted to come.

If at that moment a fortune teller had cast our accurate futures from the innards of a fowl, a collection of short sticks, or the leaves in our cups, I wouldn't have believed her. Billy seemed to exist in some stratum of surfing's hierarchy forever inaccessible to such as me. He was not only a surfer of great ability but also a shaper at a major factory and as we drove the dark highway towards a dawn I could barely imagine, he chatted easily about characters, familiar to him, but known to me only as the god-like images in the magazines.  

There are few more dangerous positions in life than to be utterly of the moment, to reflect the ethos perfectly and to be the epitome of the style. For time and fashion move on more rapidly than any man. To move too swiftly is to expose a weakness of will, a hypocrisy.Times may change overnight, our momentum does not so easily shift. So I remember that morning, waking up in the passenger seat in the old camping area at the Blue Pools just as Billy, board under arm, disappeared down the track. And I remember the slow struggle to consciousness, so deeply lulled by the motion of the EH station wagon that, just as the sailor staggers at the first step onto dry ground, I still felt the shudders and bumps of the highway.

It was a few minutes before I fully awoke, changed and followed him down the path.  Swinging around a curve, Angourie came into view and I saw the image that I believed had stayed with me for all those years. There, suspended on a high line under the lip of a wave as perfect as any I had ever yet seen, was Billy. There was no-one else in the water. I ran the rest of the way to the beach and we surfed for several hours, each taking a wave in every set. If other surfers turned up they have been totally erased from my memory. I can't claim to recall what I actually thought when we eventually came in and drove exhausted and hungry into Yamba but I know my surfing was never the same again. I crossed some barrier that morning that moved me beyond competence. 

We stayed a week camping at the Blue Pools and surfing so many hours there was little time left for anything except eating and sleeping. But I remember Billy speaking of Zen. I understood little at the time but years later I realised that he had consciously taken the role of master and transmitted some of his surfing skills to me. I remembered the way he would encourage me to take the first wave of a set so I would see him surf the second or third.  And I remember the absolute calmness with which he approached the water, always right in the moment with no thought but simply to be.

I saw less of him after we returned and even when we happened to be in the water at the same time it was likely to be amongst an ever growing crowd. And country soul was dead, replaced, at least in the city, by something much harder, a competitive ethos that pitted each against the rest for the best waves. It suited my character. Empathy was never my strong suit. If that was the game I was more than willing to play. But it wasn't Billy's style and in time he seemed to simply disappear from the surf.

He still lived locally so I would see him from time to time at the shopping centre but we never had much to say. At some point he gave up shaping and did a variety of other work. The last time I saw him was probably twenty years after the morning at Angourie. He came out of the supermarket with a bag of groceries and waved. I stopped and we chatted for a few moments. He was covered in dust and looked like he had been working on a building site. I had just returned from Indonesia. I asked him if he still surfed.  He shook his head.

"No" he said, then smiled a smile tinted with bitterness "...but wasn't it great before everyone wanted to do it!"

I never saw him again. He died a few years later and I didn't even hear of his death until he had been buried. //blindboy

Visit John Witzig's website to see more photos from his collection.

Comments

green0's picture
green0's picture
green0 Friday, 4 Apr 2014 at 9:01am

This story has made my morning, beautiful, and truthful.

As surfers we all have memories of such moments. Even though Billy had moved on from the physical activity of surfing, just maybe those memories were enough to sustain him, I don't doubt it.

Thanks blindoy

simo66's picture
simo66's picture
simo66 Friday, 4 Apr 2014 at 9:46am

Great memory!
Who cares if it is not exact, as long as you remember the good bits and the bits that matter.

zenagain's picture
zenagain's picture
zenagain Friday, 4 Apr 2014 at 11:24am

This is a great piece BB.

Happiness tinged with a little sadness. A reminder of what it's like to be human.

neville-beats-buddha's picture
neville-beats-buddha's picture
neville-beats-buddha Friday, 4 Apr 2014 at 11:32am

I concur with all of the above. That was a fabulous piece of writing that exemplifies much of what it means to be human, how we fill in the blanks with an idealised version of reality. I'd also like to add that you're waaaaaay older than I thought you were.

freeride76's picture
freeride76's picture
freeride76 Friday, 4 Apr 2014 at 11:39am

What a shame Billy and BB didn't move out of the city and ride that beautiful country soul wave for as long as they could........

Great piece of writing BB.

Blowin's picture
Blowin's picture
Blowin Friday, 4 Apr 2014 at 12:17pm

Nice work Blindboy. You just got my day off to a great start, thanks.

Craig's picture
Craig's picture
Craig Friday, 4 Apr 2014 at 12:41pm

I concur, great piece and brings back similar memories for all of us I imagine.

memlasurf's picture
memlasurf's picture
memlasurf Friday, 4 Apr 2014 at 2:10pm

Yep, you nailed it (I am always jealous of those who can write as well as you do). When is the book coming out? Put me down for one.

benski's picture
benski's picture
benski Friday, 4 Apr 2014 at 3:17pm

Nice one. I often wonder if you guys knew how good you had it at the time.

I also wonder if we do today! I reckon I'll be done when the beachies along my stretch are as crowded as snapper or noosa.

blindboy's picture
blindboy's picture
blindboy Friday, 4 Apr 2014 at 3:57pm

Thanks for the kind words. They are really appreciated.

gregmaina1's picture
gregmaina1's picture
gregmaina1 Friday, 4 Apr 2014 at 8:42pm

Thinking of a good friend long gone and a trip down to Sandon near Maclean in 1975 and memories not unlike these.....thanks.

Blowin's picture
Blowin's picture
Blowin Friday, 4 Apr 2014 at 8:56pm

Gotta love a surfing mentor as well. Had my own, over a decade older and as radical an anti - establishment role model as any parent would prefer their kids avoid.
Still freshly recall my " uncle " Brad grabbing me from the middle of a school class due to a pressing family issue.... Namely Brad wanting someone to shoot down the coast with to address the pressing issue of pumping waves.
Last I heard he was living in a church at Byron. Least religious man I ever met , shudder to imagine the yarn he spun those god botherers to let that smiling demon into their place of worship.

theinsider's picture
theinsider's picture
theinsider Saturday, 5 Apr 2014 at 9:44am

glorious stuff blindboy, I finally verified my account, just so I could tell you that. thanks for the memory.

mk1's picture
mk1's picture
mk1 Wednesday, 9 Apr 2014 at 9:21am

A great read!

Matt

aldosanta's picture
aldosanta's picture
aldosanta Thursday, 10 Apr 2014 at 9:53am

Angourie is the spiritual home of so many surfers.
My own experience was 1973 not camping, living in Yamba, watching people killing themselves with heroin and knowing that surfing made heroin look very ordinary. The addicts are long gone, I am still surfing. One thing is for sure if something good happens you want to scream it from the rooftops. And so it is with surfing everyone would love to experience the pure joy that surfing brings but only a few stay with it their whole life. So many good surfers fell by the wayside. Crowds, drugs or just the pressure of life, it seems to get so many surfers. I have seem them come and go in the water for 50 years. Some of us come and go but as long as you keep coming back your life is fulfilled.Beautiful story of the reality of life blind boy.

surfing-cronulla's picture
surfing-cronulla's picture
surfing-cronulla Wednesday, 7 May 2014 at 9:44am

By '74 it had hit plague proportions and 15 years of scratching our way to the top of our game wasted in a few short weeks of stupidity. Vile, putrid thing it was, so many fell. A semblance of composure and determination got outta Dodge and now happily surfing as much as possible since.

BB ... Ha the EH station wagon (surely had curtains and an 8 Track?) brings back memories, yep even at Angourie with two mates.

aldosanta wrote:

Angourie is the spiritual home of so many surfers.
My own experience was 1973 not camping, living in Yamba, watching people killing themselves with heroin and knowing that surfing made heroin look very ordinary. The addicts are long gone, I am still surfing. One thing is for sure if something good happens you want to scream it from the rooftops. And so it is with surfing everyone would love to experience the pure joy that surfing brings but only a few stay with it their whole life. So many good surfers fell by the wayside. Crowds, drugs or just the pressure of life, it seems to get so many surfers. I have seem them come and go in the water for 50 years. Some of us come and go but as long as you keep coming back your life is fulfilled.Beautiful story of the reality of life blind boy.

wellymon's picture
wellymon's picture
wellymon Saturday, 17 May 2014 at 6:12pm

Quote BB "Billy, as I will call him, was not really my friend in any meaningful way."

Is Billy still around BB...?

blindboy's picture
blindboy's picture
blindboy Saturday, 17 May 2014 at 6:14pm

Read the last line welly. Sadly departed.

wellymon's picture
wellymon's picture
wellymon Saturday, 17 May 2014 at 7:14pm

Shit sorry mate,

I missed the last couple of lines.

My apologies :(

I should slow down and read everything BB, great story champ, I think I started reading this article and looked at your comment of not really a friend, which sparked my thought, sorry.

wellymon's picture
wellymon's picture
wellymon Saturday, 17 May 2014 at 7:26pm

A good memory BB....!