Emerald In The Sand: Paul Richardson On Buying And Selling Gnaraloo Station

It’s not the accent you expect to hear when you make a phone call to this isolated corner of Australia.

“Hello Stu,” says Paul Richardson, owner of Gnaraloo Station, in his thick Northern Irish brogue. "Nice to catch up wit' you."

The accent may be unexpected yet Paul is also laconic, self-deprecating, and often rough as guts - a fine raconteur in other words.

Gnaraloo Station, located in Western Australia's dry north-west, is home to a number of good waves. However, it's Tombstones - the long, hollow and picturesque left - that elevates this stretch of coastline to sacred ground for surfers.

Yet Gnaraloo now faces an uncertain future as Paul, who's owned it for twenty years, prepares to sell.

When I ask what initially drew him to Australia, Paul laughs. "I can't tell you, you'll laugh," he warns, before confessing: "Crocodile Dundee."

It was 1990 when Paul first arrived as a backpacker, having completed university in Northern Ireland then worked in London. "After uni, you go to London because the streets are paved with gold," he explains. "Earn some money, pay off your student overdraft, and then go travelling.

"I saw 'Crocodile Dundee' and thought, 'I've got to go there.'"

After nine months in Sydney, the standard backpacker stopover, Paul bought an old FJ40 Land Cruiser and pointed it north-west. "No tent, nothing," says Paul. "Slept on the ground, couldn't even afford a proper swag, it was just a piece of canvas and a mattress...and I loved it."

His trip took him through the Simpson and Tanami Deserts. "That's what I came to see," says Paul, "the deserts."

That said, his path to Gnaraloo was far from direct. There were stints working at other stations, plans to live in Ibiza - from asceticism in the desert to the end of a three-day bender, he loves his extremes - and then a chance phone call that would change everything.

In 2004, while showing his parents around Western Australia, Paul contacted Gnaraloo Station with the practical intention of offering to fix their roof in exchange for accommodation. Instead, he learned the Japanese owners had just put the property on the market.

"We were the first ones to know it was on the market," Paul recalls. "So it was a case of make an offer and see what happens. So we made an offer and they accepted it."

His mother's response proved prophetic: "She said, 'Don't do it, son, you'll never stop working.'"

"And she was 100% right," says Paul, "so if I've got some advice for you it's always listen to your mother."

What Paul found when he took over Gnaraloo was far from the tourism destination it is today. "There was no infrastructure," he explains. "It had one generator that had been here twenty years. There was no power. There was no fresh water. There were no sewage systems, there was nothing."

Paul had a business degree and a building background, but what he didn't have was hospitality experience. Figuring two out of three ain't bad he dived right in. "I'm sure from the reports on Swellnet you'd know I'm not a hospitality guy," he laughs. "But the challenge was to build this stuff."

Over the next two decades, Paul walked the fine line between updating Gnaraloo's infrastructure while maintaining its rustic character. He built modern amenities without over-commercialising the experience. "The campsite's still unpowered," he notes. "If I wanted to sell it, I could've put powered sites in and then the pampered city people, they would've come. But they don't appreciate what's here and they're also too hard to work with."

Paul mimics a camper complaining about the sand and the flies - elements intrinsic to Gnaraloo's desert environment - before switching to his famous hospitality. "Fucking not my problem. That's the desert, mate."

The improvements Paul has made, though substantial, were designed to enhance rather than change the experience. "All the systems are in, the toilet blocks are probably the best toilet blocks on the west coast with the way they're kitted out inside," he explains.

"The shop is a super little shop: never runs out of ice, always has ice creams, has beer, has everything. We try and keep it stocked which is difficult whenever you're three hours from town."

While Swellnet readers might consider Gnaraloo primarily as a surfing destination, Paul is quick to point out that surfers are just one of several passionate user groups.

"There's guys who've come here every year for the last thirty years and never surfed," he explains. "It's a fisherman's pilgrimage. And there's guys who've come here for the last thirty years who windsurf. So it's a windsurfer's pilgrimage too."

Indeed, each group claims Gnaraloo as their own. "Obviously the surfers form the biggest fraternity, but the fishing is close behind," says Paul. "Though if you want to talk about hardcore, then it's the windsurfers."

"The surfers come when it's absolutely idyllic," says Paul with gentle derision at the 'soft' surfers. "Do you want to be sitting down there in a tent when it's 40 degrees and blowing 35 knots with enough flies to carry you away?"

"To me, the windsurfers are the hardcore ones."

Over Paul's two decades of ownership, the demographics of Gnaraloo's visitors have evolved significantly. "What I think has happened since I took over is that clientele base has completely broadened," he observes. 

Today, he estimates about half of the visitors don't do any of the traditional activities like surfing, fishing, or windsurfing. "Oh, they might surf if it's not very big," says Paul, "or they might take the kids down to the beach for a fish, rather than being the guys that are just here to fish."

These visitors who come "just to be here" are often the easiest to please. "They just like the desert ocean vibe and they enjoy every single bit of it," Paul explains, contrasting them with activity-focused visitors who become frustrated when conditions aren't ideal.

"When the surfers are here and there's no swell, they're fucking hard to work with. When the fishermen are here and it's windy, they're hard to work with. And when the windsurfers are here and there's no wind, they're hard to work with."

Paul's decision to sell wasn't made lightly. "It was a decision I never thought I'd make," he says, but his father's declining health and an unsolicited offer planted the seed.

"My dad's not getting any better and I'm a bit trapped here with work," says Paul "If you're working for someone else you can just go, 'I'm not going to work.' Whereas, here you can't do that because there's so many people who have booked their holidays and depend on me being here so things are working."

The remoteness of Gnaraloo makes family emergencies particularly difficult to manage. "If I get a phone call...what can I do?" he asks "If I get in my car as soon as I put the phone down, I've got two and a half hours to get to Carnarvon. I have to wait till the next day probably to get a flight down to Perth and then wait till that night to get a flight to Dublin, which is 21 hours alone."

Paul doesn't plan to return to Northern Ireland, however. "I couldn't go back to Ireland, it's too cold and there's too many Irish people."

Instead, he'll likely stay in Western Australia, possibly Perth, where he "can be on the plane within four, five hours to go home" if needed.

Throughout our talk, Paul's frustration with government agencies becomes apparent. He describes being, "absolutely shafted by the Western Australian government," and singles out the environmental agency as, "just so hostile and bullying. It is insane."

He points to a ten-year turtle conservation program as an example of his environmental stewardship. "$3.6 million went into it, and around $1.1 million of that was grant funding, but the rest all came from Gnaraloo guests paying the rent," he explains. The program established that, "Gnaraloo Loggerhead rookeries are the largest mainland rookeries in WA." They even discovered a link between the west coast turtles and the turtles on the east coast.

Yet when government agencies took over the program, their commitment waned quickly. "They took it over and the first year they came twice for five days, the next year they came once for five days, and they've never been back since. That was 2020," he says with evident disappointment.

Paul also recounts how his efforts to protect the environment and manage Gnaraloo responsibly were often misinterpreted. "As the Gnaraloo Wilderness Foundation, we'd put out requests for help but they'd just get slated as, 'Oh, he's just lining his own nest', when it wasn't actually the case."

A fair chorus of that criticism came from the surfers. While Paul acknowledges that the vast majority of surfers who visit Gnaraloo are great, they've also been the most challenging group to manage.

"Yeah, the surfers are probably the hardest to work with," he states. "Only 5% of them, the other 95% of them are great."

The tension, Paul explains, stems from a sense of entitlement. "Especially the ones that have been coming a long time," Paul explains. "They come for two or three weeks in July and they know much better than me how to run the whole place."

The Rip Curl Search controversy exemplifies this misunderstanding and friction. When in 2017 Rip Curl approached Paul about potentially hosting the Search event at Gnaraloo, he was initially receptive but insisted on an environmental impact assessment. "I was the only station in Australia that's not owned by a major corporation yet employed full-time environmental scientists," he explains.

Paul's team conducted a thorough assessment, determining the event could be held if certain aspects were managed carefully. However, says Paul, "we cancelled the event when Rip Curl refused to pay for the assessment."

This decision led to misunderstandings in the surfing community. "Everybody thinks North West Surfers Alliance stopped it. They say they spoke to this person and did that thing."

"No, they did not stop it," Paul says definitively. "We stopped it because we could see that Rip Curl's interest was purely as a big multinational marketer and they didn't give a shit about Gnaraloo."

Perhaps the most surprising revelation is that Paul's barely experienced the waves himself. "I've been here twenty years, Stu, I've been in the water 26 times," he confesses. "I take no interest."

"For one, I smoke too much, and secondly, I'm too skinny so it's too cold."

This detachment from the surf has perhaps been beneficial to his management of the station. "Let's face it, if you're a water person, there'd be no time to work," he explains. "If the waves are good and it's an easterly, it's perfect for surfing. If it's a south-westerly, the windsurfing is on. If the wind's down, you go kitesurfing. If there's no wind, you pick up the rod and go fishing."

"And if all those aren't good, then there's the snorkelling."

Even the breathtaking scenery doesn't capture Paul's attention the way it might for visitors. When looking out over the sand dunes to the ocean, he admits, "I never see the ocean, because when I'm looking out I go, 'Oh, the roof on cabin three needs to be fixed.'"

He doesn't see what's 'out there' only what needs to be done.

As for who might buy Gnaraloo, Paul indicates the estate agent "would like to see it kept in West Australian hands, if possible." While Paul doesn't express a strong personal preference, he acknowledges that whoever takes over will likely manage it differently.

"I'm a bottom level guy; I'm your homegrown worker. I think it'll step up a league and whoever takes it will manage it completely differently," he predicts.

"Hopefully it's somebody from the groups of people that enjoy it and not someone who plans to develop it to the teeth."

"But, again, once I sell it, that's not my call."

When asked if he'll ever return to Gnaraloo as a visitor, Paul is uncertain. "Honestly, I really don't know." He reflects on the contrast between experiencing Gnaraloo as a carefree backpacker versus being the person responsible for everything.

"People come here and say, 'Oh, what a beautiful place'...and it is the most fantastic place to come on a holiday. But when you're the sole manager, responsible for running everything, you never get a chance to enjoy that."

Perhaps someday he'll return simply as a guest; maybe square the ledger a bit. "Oh yeah, I can be a pain then too."

For now, Paul continues working his long days while waiting for the right buyer. What happens next will be watched closely by the surfers, fishers, windsurfers, and even the nature lovers who don't want to see Gnaraloo change.

Paul, meanwhile, will finally get the freedom to respond quickly when his father needs him, and perhaps even experience the novelty of boredom.

"Boredom!" Paul exclaims. "Now wouldn't that be great."

// STU NETTLE

(all photos Gnaraloo Station)