Stuart Nettle November 20, 2009

Not all surf sessions are equal. There are surf sessions that have occured throughout my life that have more significance than others. Sessions when I pushed my big-wave boundaries, or stared death in the face, or had many other distinguishing outcomes that caused me to commit the experience to memory. It's usually those sessions that I blissfully recollect when I dwell on my surfing life. But when I broke through the bush track at Tallows Creek I knew that this would not be one of those sessions. The day before was four to five feet from the south and the banks were finding that swell direction very agreeable - long rights and punchy lefts were spinning off the flanks of each channel. But the swell had almost halved overnight and shifted more to the north. What I saw now was a languid swell dawdling onto the outside bank, breaking in a closeout and washing through to an inside shorebreak. A fresh nor-easter ripped the lines apart and added a blustery touch to an already dismal scene. But I was hungover like a bastard and needed to surf. The night before a couple of friends were wed on Clarkes Beach and, for reasons now unclear, I chose to drink champagne all night. The result was a thumping headache and a strong desire to get wet. It didn't particularly matter which bank I chose, the quality was the same and there were no surfers to be seen anywhere. So I walked north till I found a shorey that was tossing up a sly right and paddled out alone. Not three waves in I noticed four guys limbering up on the otherwise empty and windswept beach. Five kilometres of beach and they were going to paddle out on my bank! Anger was beyond me though, the effort was too much and the hangover kept my acrimony at bay. Besides, the first fella to paddle out threw a two-fingered peace symbol which is the international symbol for, well...peace. So I smiled, said g'day and he replied with something I couldn't understand. Listening to them I realised they were foreigners. It sounded like French they were speaking. Despite the early interaction they kept to themselves and didn't bother me. In terms of skill they could sit on their boards without falling off, but competent paddling, duckdiving and the standing up bit was still beyond them. Watching the scene I noticed one of the fellas getting slowly sucked out by the rip. I kept an eye on him for a while then paddled over to tell the others, who were all completely oblivious, that their mate was in danger. I pointed and gesticulated but they didn't seem the slightest bit perturbed. I either couldn't get them to understand or they didn't care. So I paddled out to rescue him myself. By the time I spotted him again he was in trouble, each wave knocking him off his board. He had enough energy to keep climbing back on but his body language was betraying his mindset. He knew he was in strife. Just as I reached the bank a set hit. He was still further out but as I went to duckdive he came flying out of the whitewash lying prone on the tail of his board, eyes agog and obviously thankful to be heading toward land. I watched him as he took a couple more waves to shore and then collapse in the shallows. I went back to surfing and thinking. Was I ever that scared in waves this small? Those times when I was a grommet and the ocean had got the better of me seemed like 10 feet. But perhaps they were only this size, and it was my inexperience that caused me to panic and exaggerate the size in my mind? My silent ruminations were interruputed by screaming from the shorebreak. Loud indecipherable screams from someone in a considerable amount of pain. I rushed in to find one of the other fellas limping out of the water clutching at his ankle. There was blood pouring off it. It looked bad. Starting on his ankle and heading up his leg was a six inch long fin chop that was gonna leave a hell of a scar. Old mate wasn't dealing with it very well at all and his mates weren't faring much better. I took the rash vest from the rip survivor and told the laceration victim to hold it against the cut and push. Then I started asking them what they were going to do. Unlike last time they began to respond. They got an act together and two of them chaired the laceration victim up the beach while the rip survivor trailed behind carrying all four boards. Before he left though he turned to me and in broken English said thanks. I smiled and watched them walk away till I was left standing alone on the beach again. I decided against going back out - the surf had got even worse and my hangover was gone. So I headed the other way, back to my rented apartment for Vegemite on toast, and they to the backpackers with tales of pride and glory.