One hundred years ago today, Duke Kahanamoku demonstrated surfboard riding Hawaiian style at Freshwater Beach. Following a dispute with the NSW Swimming Association, a planned public demonstration the previous day was called off, and only a small number of pressmen and officials (and maybe a couple of local teenagers) witnessed the spectacle.

For the second time in a week, Isabel found herself hugging a tussocky dune, cheek to cheek with Claude West, as the two teenagers watched proceedings on the beach below. The low line of sand hills behind the newly extended surf club would scarcely conceal a human—not even one as slender as Isabel—but the scrub on the ridge line disguised them somewhat, and they both knew that no one would be scanning the hills anyway, not when history was about to be made in the water. 

They were under strict instructions from Mr McIntyre. Yes, they may come to Boomerang and help with the service of lunch once the demonstration was completed. No, they may not, under any circumstances, come to the beach to watch the Duke shoot the surf. It was a private exhibition, only for the eyes of invited members of the press and swimming and surf lifesaving officials.

This was disappointment heaped upon disappointment. Claude and Isabel had been among the first to arrive at the beach the previous morning, and they had waited in vain with a huge crowd that only began to disperse when Cecil Healy stood on the verandah of the surf club with a megaphone and made his brief, sad announcement. There would be no demonstration of surf shooting this day, they would not see the
Duke.

Today, Christmas Eve, there was no crowd, just a small contingent of men—not a woman among them—in dark suits, many of them carrying cameras and tripods. They had gathered on the flat sand in front of the surf club while a man addressed them. Isabel couldn’t hear what he said, but some of the men began to take off their shoes and roll up their trousers. It was a sign that it was about to start.

Another man appeared on the verandah and within moments a cheer went up (this from the normally cynical press men!). Duke Paoa Kahanamoku descended the surf club stairs, the heavy board he had made just days ago hoisted upon his muscular shoulder as he moved sure-footedly through the group, shaking hands with his free left hand and smiling a greeting to those beyond his touch.

The sea was a wind-whipped grey and large breakers crashed at jaunty angles upon the sand while scudding clouds blocked the sun from time to time. It was by no means an ideal day for surf shooting, but Duke seemed not to care or notice. As he moved towards the water’s edge he was obscured from view by a handful of men in bathing suits who took their cue from a thickset man holding a thin, short board of the type that the surfers in Manly referred to as a ‘Samoan’. Alongside the stout fellow was champion swimmer Harry Hay from the Manly club. As the procession entered the water, Don McIntyre, clad, as always, in cream suit and bow tie, skirted around them like a cattle dog, fussing and cursing and telling curious fishermen and beach strollers to be on their way.

There being little chance of detection now, Claude and Isabel stood on the dune and watched as Duke pushed himself onto the board and paddled through the break while his company fell away. Even Harry Hay dropped off the pace as the Hawaiian sliced through the rough water to eventually sit, way beyond the breakers, astride his board, waiting for a roller. Soon enough a wave of consequence presented itself, pushing into the bay at an angle from the wind, with a clean green face pointing to the south corner. Duke needed no invitation. He stroked forcefully down the face of the wave, then slowly, deliberately, rose on one knee, sphinx-like, as he set course, then stood upright and proud atop the board, arms folded across his chest.

Isabel and Claude were electrified, barely aware that they were now jumping up and down on the sand, squealing with excitement as the bronzed god streaked towards the shore, defying gravity.

A mere few hours later, as they scrambled out of factories and offices to do last-minute Christmas shopping or made their way home on the electric tram, through the modern marvel of telephonic communication—in this case the phone at Randell’s Camp City—Sydneysiders were able to read in the late edition Sun Bill Corbett’s gobsmacked account, headed: ‘Wonderful Surf Riding—Kahanamoku on the Board—A Thrilling Spectacle.’

One could hear in the imagination, the roars of applause with which thousands of Australians might have greeted Kahanamoku’s display at Freshwater this morning, had the fact that it was to take place been made public. As it was there were only a few pressmen, some members of the New South Wales Amateur Swimming Association, and the casual Freshwater bathers present.

Unfortunately the water was not favourable. Kahanamoku would have preferred a long roll. He had to face a very short one. ‘I’ll do my best, anyhow,’ said he, and despite that the board was new to him, and he had never before essayed the task in Australian waters, our visitor gave an exhibition which won the admiration of spectators who thoroughly understood the skill of it. It was a thrilling spectacle at times. This finely built Hawaiian, with his powerful frame showing elastic muscles, as better and more enduring than those of a knotty nature, caught the breaker he wanted, and paddling along for a while rose to one knee first, then became gradually erect and reached the crest to shoot foreword [sic] with astonishing speed and marvellous balance considering the troubled condition of the motive power.

From That Summer At Boomerang, by Phil Jarratt (Hardie Grant, $29.95)