I recently decided my inability to surf was un-Australian. After all, in the minds of many, surfing is an Australian pastime. It wasn’t invented here, but like pavlova, cricket, and Russell Crowe, we Australians like to claim it as our own.
And it’s easy to do.
Thousands of tourists travel to Australia each year to soak up the famous sand and sunshine, and the current world surf champions, Mick Fanning and Stephanie Gilmore, both hail from the warm waters of the spectacular southern Queensland coast. No wonder so many foreigners expect all Aussies to be freckle faced and sun-bleached blondes with perfect tans and an innate ability to surf!
When I travel overseas, all fair skin and dark hair, people often express their surprise at my being Australian, despite the dinky-di accent and spattering of freckles. What shocks them the most is that I cannot surf, and in fact have never even been on a surfboard before.
Touted by his colleagues as the next big thing to hit the Australian surf scene, my 17-year-old instructor Shane fits the surf stereotype perfectly. He is blonde and tanned, his teeth a glaring white against his skin as he squints at us, his pasty-skinned group of beginner surfers, and instructs us to draw surfboards in the sand.
“Now stand at one end and draw giant circles around each foot,” he says seriously. I step back to realise I have inadvertently drawn giant genitalia in the sand. Lesson one: Surfing is definitely a male dominated sport!
Photo - NELLA SCOTT
One-and-a-half hours drive south of Sydney; the tiny town of Gerroa sits at one end of a spectacular stretch of sand known as Seven Mile Beach. Quiet during the winter months except for a few die-hard surfers shivering in full-body wetsuits, the Northern end of the beach spends its summer as one of the most popular learn-to-surf spots on the New South Wales south coast. And as host to Surf Camp Australia’s headquarters, the quiet stretch of sand attracts visitors from all over the world, and is witness to the tentative triumphs of hundreds of beginner surfers every year.
Lined up along the shore with a seven-foot surfboard tucked awkwardly beneath my arm, I marvel at being one of only two Australians in our 23-strong crowd of beginner surfers, but my two day surf camp is off to a disappointing start. There are no waves!
I’ve been to Seven Mile Beach before and been frightened, but today the waves roll glossy-faced toward the shore crashing in lazy ripples in the shallows. The sea sits almost still, and our camp coordinator and professional surf photographer Adam tells me it has something to do with the currents from the Pacific Ocean flowing in the wrong direction.
We make the most of the few sets of waves that come rolling in, and as the waves churn beneath my board, pushing me toward the shore, they don’t seem so little any more. After a few wobbly attempts I manage to stand, my body rigid with concentration as I ride my very first wave.
From the shore, Nathan raises his sun-weathered face from behind the lens of his camera and gives me a thumbs-up. For a moment I feel like I’ve just conquered Everest, then my self-adulation is crushed as I lose my balance and splash face-first into the water, my surfboard continuing the journey to shore dragging me along behind.
Photo - NELLA SCOTT
The entire humiliating scene is caught by the all-seeing eye of the camera, but later that evening as we view the photos on the big screen, analyse our stance and laugh at each other in turn, the Everest feeling returns again when one of my rides is awarded ‘Wave of the Day’.
Day two of my surf camp experience is even quieter than the first, with sets of waves even fewer and far between, and a slight wind threatening to take away the warming touch of the summer sun.
As we enter the water, a large woman starts to scream at us from the shore. Our school of surfers have invaded her family’s isolated stretch of beach and she sits on a towel screaming angry expletives to the wind.
We ignore her.
This kind of selfishness is uncharacteristic of surfers, known for their easy-going and generous nature, but the search for the best waves on the beach undermines all other sentiments, and we charge into the water regardless.
An uneventful hour passes, the screaming woman leaves the beach, and the lessons turn to games as we frolic in the calm waist deep water. Lining our surfboards up side-by-side like piano keys, the group takes turns to run across the entire row without falling in. A couple of times we are caught unaware by a set of rogue waves, and people and surfboards fly everywhere as they are picked up and dumped on to the sand.
Later that afternoon as the bus speeds back along the highway toward Sydney, its passengers melting into a sleepy silence, I sense that despite the stillness of the sea, the weekend has been a success. Across the aisle from me a group of Englishmen quietly discuss plans to purchase their own surfboards, and although my arms ache and my legs are severely sunburnt, I am also eager to practice my newly acquired surf skills on some real waves.
I don’t know that my surf experience has made me feel more Australian, and I still can’t say with confidence that I can surf. But the feeling you get when you catch a wave and ride the top of it before it breaks is unbelievable, and I can now understand how passionate surfers can spend their entire lives travelling the globe in search of the perfect wave.
Photo - NELLA SCOTT
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