The Woman On The Bus

I don’t really want to be here. I’m not a huge fan of the atmosphere on public buses. People are constantly trying to sneak glances at those around him, passing judgments and fitting their fellow travellers into basic stereotypes. On a bus, everyone feels and acts like they are better than each other, more important, more popular, more successful.

It doesn’t matter who you are or what you “do”. You could be a brain surgeon, you could be unemployed and homeless, but at this very moment in time, sitting in the same uncomfortable seats on the same bus, everyone is on a level playing field.

I boarded this reality check on wheels at Margaret River, my final destination being Perth. Usually this would be a three-hour journey, but in the spirit of public transport the bus takes the longest possible route, stopping everywhere possible, resulting in a five-hour travel time. I am not complaining. I paid my $35.70 completely aware of what I was getting myself into.

This brings me tell you about “the woman on the bus”. For the purpose of this discussion, I will call her Mary. According to the graffiti riddled sign, the seating capacity of the vehicle is 57 people. We had made our way through Cowaramup, Yallingup and Dunsborough, picking up a few people along the way, bringing the total number of passengers to 15 including myself. That means there are 32 spare seats, including at least 8 window seats on either side of the bus. We pull up at Busselton and Mary boards the bus. Mary had prepaid her ticket online and had been allocated a seat number, the same way you would with an airline ticket.

I love to observe the movements and actions of people, and I was especially focussed on Mary because she was wearing dark sunglasses despite the fact it was a dull and rainy day. The next thing that drew my attention was her perfume. It must have been industrial strength. I could smell her coming up the aisle from the back of the bus. She was wearing a purple top accentuated by shiny silver stitching and her large leopard skin handbag was overflowing with a wide assortment of unusual objects. Mary certainly looked to be in a hurry. Her eyes were darting rapidly between her bus ticket and the seat numbers. She was on a mission and I was getting more entertainment than I had anticipated. Mid way up the bus Mary found her destination, it was window seat 39 and there was a young girl asleep in it. All around Mary was empty window seats, but she had to wake up this innocent young girl because she was sleeping in her seat.

I could not believe my eyes. The bus was virtually empty, yet Mary was so important, so caught up in her own world to make a change to mission and sit in one of the 32 empty seats around her.

The reality here is, we are all riding the same bus. We may get on and off at different stops, but when we step into the confines of public transport, lets try to be civil.

No one wants to be on a bus. Why make the experience more unpleasant than it already is?

Monday, Monday, Monday.

Rain and wind, rain and wind, rain and wind.

100ft and onshore, 100ft and onshore, 100ft and onshore.

Welcome to my life in Margaret River, a life of no surprises. Surfs were had for no other reason than to kill time, we went surfing for the sake of it. Movies were watched, watched again and watched some more just for good measure. We checked the height of the River at every opportunity, hoping and praying it would break its sandy banks and give us an hour or two of icy cold stationary waves. Blankets became sanctuaries, a place to hide from the bitter low-pressure system conveniently parked outside our kitchen window. Hourly checks of buoyweather.com did nothing to change the forecast. Creepy Tim the Prev store oddity preached to us, “The outlook is bleak, very bleak”. Dave returned to work at the Prev shop, leaving me to my thoughts, horrible daytime TV and dial up internet.

Monday was showing a brief glimmer of hope, but it was Wednesday and we had nothing to do but wait.

Monday, Monday, Monday.

I looked at every airline carrier for an avenue home, but the combination of expensive flights and a 5 hour bus ride back to Perth forced me to ride out the storm. There were no waves at home to escape to, meaning I would have to get back on the shovel and hammer for my boss in Geelong if I ended my time in WA prematurely. At least at home I would have broadband.

Monday, Monday, Monday. That was all we had.

Monday, Monday, Monday. Our day of salvation.

Sunday dawned. The ocean was still awash with 12-15ft unorganised swells breaking regardless of water depth. The 40knot onshore was still prevalent. The river was higher than the previous afternoon, but it needed more water and more time if it was to break. Could we dig it out? Other than being illegal, we knew karma would tear through us like a shovel through sand if we were to break the natural cycle. The longer we waited, the more water in the river, meaning we would have a bigger window to ride the stationary waves. We had waited this long, a day or so more wouldn’t kill us. Last year it broke naturally a little too far south on the beach, its stationary waves forming over the uneven rock point separating the sand from the asphalt car park. We agreed to let nature take its course.

Tomorrow we will have waves.

Monday, Monday, Monday.

I woke far too early Monday morning, partially through excitement, but mainly because I had spent the past week sleeping at every opportunity. I cursed the Winter solstice. I cursed the fact that our Monday, our day of salvation had coincided with the coldest overnight temperatures Margaret River had seen in 2009. I put on half the layers of clothing I owned, walked to the kitchen and cursed the fact we had no milk. I threw some stale bread into the toaster and put the kettle on. Then I cursed the fact we had no coffee, we didn’t even have sugar. Today was our day of salvation, but nothing was going right.

It was still dark. We went down to check the ocean conditions, at least the car was warm. We couldn’t see the ocean so we checked the river. Our headlights illuminated the grim scene that lay before us. The river had broken. We returned to our favourite surf checking condition in total silence, each of us pondering what could have been.

Local lady-killer Ben Veitch pulled up next to us and joined our dissection of what lay in front of us. The swell had dropped and somewhat organised itself, but it was till showing its wounds from a week of unrelenting onshore torture. It was offshore, and that was the main thing.

Where to surf? The uneven swell was an in between size, too big for the beach breaks and not quite big enough to light up the reefs. Ordy called us and suggested a few locations outside of town, with nothing really exciting us in Prevelly we went searching.

Down the winding dirt road, we were shown glimpses of our destination and our initial reactions were mixed. Was it too big? How are the banks?

We pulled up to the premier vantage point and watched for a while. In between the wash through sets and the inside closeouts were the occasional gem, but with a lengthy walk in font of us to really check it out, enthusiasm was low. We agreed there wasn’t really anywhere else to surf, so we suited up and gingerly made the cold walk down the beach. It was hit and miss, with the 4-6ft sets lighting up the banks in a totally random manner.

Monday hadn’t really delivered all it promised, but in a biblical style miracle the clouds parted as we made our way into the line up. Our saviour had come through with the goods. Ordy hooted and hollered as we drove through the thumping barrels in front of his fisheye lens.

The light only stayed ideal for short period of time, but we didn’t need long to lock down some worthwhile photos.

We had waited patiently through apocalyptic conditions, and our saviour, the ocean was rewarding us for our good faith.

Its good to be a believer.

A shot from a cloudy moment on Monday, Monday, Monday.

Photo by Russell Ord.

You can see more of his work at russellord.com

First Day In Margs

Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you look at it, my WA host Dave Delroy-Carr is borderline suicidal when it comes to where he chooses to surf. If there is even the slightest opportunity to get barrelled, Dave is keen no matter what the risks. Along with Mandurah lad Jerome Forrest, Dave led us on a death mission for my first surf in the Margaret River region in 2009.

Suiting up in pouring rain definitely set the tone for the next few hours. The 20 minute walk in to our destination was freezing, with the light cross / onshore wind freezing our rain soaked wetsuits. The wave itself is borderline unsurfable, so much water draws off the incredibly shallow reef that the section you paddle into is almost stationary and waist high, it then grows and warps into a think barrel section before blowing out into a super deep water channel. The heaviest part about surfing the “****** Slab” is your surroundings, especially when we surfed it. The water surrounding the reef is super deep, with seals and all sorts of marine life doing their best shark impersonations. We tried not to think what could and was most likely lurking in the dark water below us, but when Delroy rode a wave in and left me in the lineup on my lonesome I genuinely shat myself. A rogue set destroyed me when I made my way to the inside in a desperate attempt to snag a smaller one in. When I finally managed to beach a frothy burger, I had never been so happy to ride a wave.

Once on the beach all I could think about was my pure stoke on life.

In a true example of his well established insanity, Delroy was already making plans for our next near death experience that he calls surfing.

Why do I always end up coming back for more?
Because I love it.

Rottnest Redemption

Rottnest had been fun, but in my two trips to the island I was far from convinced with its capacity to produce quality waves. The swell forecasts were looking prime on the Monday, so we extended our accommodation and waited for the swell. We snagged a lift to the beach with the Surfing WA crew, and were greeted with perfectly groomed 6 to 8ft lines stacked to the horizon. We joined Felicity and her dad in the frantic race to get suited up and out into the lineup.

With one other guy on the peak and a few stragglers on the inside, Delroy, Felicity and I traded set wave after set wave. The lefts were long and bowling, offering up big barrels from start to finish. The rights were short, intense and ended up closing out on the same section of reef the contest was focusing on in the previous days.

One thing that blew me away was Felicity’s performance. I have never witnessed a woman attack such intimidating surf conditions with confidence. I had heard she had a crack in solid waves, but seeing her throw herself into some of the biggest waves of the day without hesitation was super impressive. Her stellar run was temporarily stopped when she once again attacked the lip of the outside section, snapping her 5’10 in the process. Seemingly unphased by the whole drama, she returned to peak on my 6’1 and proceeded to throw herself into serious walls of water with reckless abandon.

We had two hours of mind blowing waves before the lineup became a circus. With the first bus from town combining the flotilla of boats and jetskis assembling in the channel, we decided to call it a day.

Rottnest has got the drinking establishments and laidback atmosphere to make it a desirable location for the average non surfer, but I had serious doubts in regards to its wave producing capabilities.

Now I love the place.

Its funny what a few hours in the ocean can do to change ones mind.

Rottnest Island

Free Wahoo Premium Ale at the event “meeting” held at the pub the previous night was definitely not the best preparation for the 700m walk required to get from the bus stop to the contest site. With the forecast looking average, we were pleasantly surprised to see 2-3ft peaks making their way across the reef at Strickland Bay.

The standard of surfing in WA was higher than I had remembered, with blistering performance being thrown down throughout the day. Day two saw a drop in wave heights and consistency, but with state titles on the line there was still plenty of quality surfing. Fresh from winning the Chill Pro Junior, Felicty Palmateer was unstoppable in the Open Womens division, taking down the ever smiling Ellie Macaulay in the process. The U/21’s final went down to the wire, with Jake Fawcett only needing to place 3rd or better to take the state title. With Fawcett starved of waves, it became a battle between Delroy and Jerome Forrest. Mitch Taylor’s fly boy antics kept him in striking distance, but Delroy was handed the win and the state title when Jerome faded him on a left hander in the dying stages of the final.

The Open Mens final was also an epic affair, with all four competitors finding scoring waves in the final minute. Everyone bailed to catch the bus and left it to the judges to sort out. Jake Malloy ended up taking victory, Delroy finished second, Dave Macaulay third and Jerome fourth. Macaulay’s third was just enough to secure the prestigious open state title, an incredible result when you consider the fact that Dave is almost as old as his fellow finalists combined. Not really, but he also took out the over 45’s division at this event which gives you an indication of his vintage.

The presentations went down smoother than a chilled beverage from the event sponsor, and everyone bailed back to the mainland to get back to their everyday lives.

Not everyone though, Dave and I had extended our accomodation in anticipation of a new swell forecast to hit the following day. That however, is a story for another day...

Peak Wetsuits New Website

Peak Wetsuits have launched their new website. 

Check out the Peak Wetsuit range, team rider profiles and all the latest Peak news at http://www.peak.com.au/

From Nowhere To Somewhere

Its tough to sit in a car for 13 hours, especially when your destination is Perth. Compared to our trip up (see Road To Nowhere),  it was a relatively uneventful experience. We once again blew a tyre on the camper when we went through Wolf Creek and we changed it with the precision of a formula one pit crew. Dave nearly destroyed a Kangaroo, JB ran out of weed and we all spent ludicrous amounts of money on service station food. 

Perth is a shit place to end up. 

Our Time In Nowhere

Nowhere is a good place to be. 

No water, no electricity and definately no mobile phone reception. 

The perfect ingredients for a detox from everyday life. It was so good to be surrounded by nothing, nothing to distract us from what we love, surfing. Fortunately for us, nowhere is home to some world class reefs. We didn't get any massive swells, but we couldn't complain with what we recieved. A wave with no name gave us our greatest pleasure, 3-4ft lefts running for longer than our legs could handle with hardly anyone out. It is little wonder why the "locals" kicked up such a fuss when Rip Curl announced they wanted to run their Search World Tour Event here. When I am at home all I do is go right, so I was relishing the opportunity to get my shit sorted on my backhand. JB was flaring on his forehand, B-Rad was hitting way too many lips for a man of his vintage and Delroy was making up for not coming to nowhere last year. 

Long days in the ocean, cold beers in the afternoon, a few hands of cards and an early bedtime quickly became our daily routine. We were in paradise, surfing in crystal clear water over perfectly groomed coral reefs with noone around to hassle us.

With the swell direction getting a little too south, and forecasts showing potential rain, we made a tough decision to bail from nowhere early. 

I cant wait to go back to nowhere next year.

Road To Nowhere

With the Chill Pro Junior out of the way, I thought I would make the most of me being in WA and take time to explore more of the coastline. I have done the whole Margaret River scene before, spending 5 weeks there both in 07 and 08, so I jumped into a packed Toyota Prado 4wd and headed north. With the swell forecasts looking good for Monday, a decision was made to tackle the 12 drive through the night. Battling the hangover from hell (see chill pro junior), I was in no state to drive, so B-Rad, Margaret River firefighter and experienced desert rat, took the wheel and charged it.

We had to stop several times to check a dodgy wheel bearing on the camper, meaning that a deep sleep was impossible to achieve, my already shit sleep ended with the sound of a blown out tyre on our '77 camper. We pulled over and were in true Wolf Creek territory, literally. The low budget Australian film was actually filmed in the area. With Delroy distracted by his new torch and me being too tired to think, it was up to stoner in denial JB and B-Rad to get shit done. It was a learning experience for us all, and a perfect opportunity for a driver change. Dave took the wheel and I took the front seat position to try keep him awake. It wasn't even really driving. It could have been the worlds straightest road, not even the slightest bends came our way. Trees made way for low shubbery, and roadkill littered the road. With steering negligable, and cruise control taking care of our speed, all that was left was to avoid the ridiculous numbers of Kangaroos grazing on the roadside. Having the road to ourselves was a godsend, meaning were able to utilise both lanes when swerving to avoid yet another errant Roo. 

Arriving at Carnarvon at 3.30am was a good feeling, we once again took the salmonella lottery and spent exuberant amounts of money on nutrition free service station food. Filling the Prado with LPG and Unleaded at bank busting prices, B-Rad noticed that the water tank in the camper was leaking, we had split a hose. As this was our last opportunity to get water, we had to take action. Using the cover of darkness, we removed a section of fire hose from down the side of the servo and went to work to fix the leak. JB was in his 'I'm a chippy' prime as he used the few tools we had to get shit back together. An hour or so passed and we were leak free. 

Then the next dilemma reared its ugly head, we had to get a new tyre for the camper before undertaking the next leg of our journey.  We were so close to our destination, but between us lay one hour of bitumen and two hours of horrendous dirt road, to tackle this dirt road without a spare tyre could have put us in a near fatal situation. It was now 4.30am on the Queens Birthday public holiday, and we were fucked. For some unknown reason, an angel in the form of a Beaurepairs ute pulled into the servo. Our angel was a disheveled looking 40 year old man, clearly pissed on his way home from the pub and not too happy to see us. B-Rad spoke some words of desperation and the drunken angel agrred to help us. He would meet us at the workshop at 9.30am. Elation turned to despair when JB reminded us that it was only 4.30am, we had to kill 5 hours in a town where even one hour is enough to kill you. 

What could we have done? We had no options, so we drove to the Beaurepairs workshop, parked out the front, pulled our pillows from the back and slept. Dave tried miserably to sleep on the ground outside and had to retreat back to the sweaty cave that was the Prado. We woke with the sun, talked shit and waited. Amazingly, as the clocked ticked over to 9.30, our now hungover looking angel rocked up, fixed our tyre and we were on our way. The wheel bearing on the camper was looking ratshit, but we forged on anyway.

They say to focus on the journey, not just the destination. Fuck that. 

Chill Pro Junior

The Chill Pro Junior recently went down at the very controversial location of Trigg Point, just a stones throw from the city of Perth, at the far west end of the Australian continent. Sandbanks are not a common in this area, either is swell. Rottnest island sits several kilometers out from the mainland, and combining this popular tourist destination with a myriad of outer reefs, only the bare minimum of swell ever gets through to Trigg and the surrounding closeouts. But with the Stirling Shire getting behind the event we have no chance of moving it to the wave rich areas to the north and south of Perth. 

I stayed with a good friend of mine Dave Delroy-Carr at his parents mansion 2o minutes south of the comp site. We had a pretty amazing crew here this year: Werri Beach madman Tom Salvesen, Kingscliffs Brad King, the pretty boy of Sydney surfing Perth Standlick and the self proclaimed man behind the music, Mitch Crews from Currumbin.

With the waist high, backwash riddled, semi closeouts giving spectators little to get excited about, this event was more about survival than quality surfing. Owen Wright was as usual the event standout, but there were some pretty epic performances from names like Jack Freestone, Dean Bowen and Noah Lane. If the shit waves didn't kill the event, the commentary definatelydid. Aside from contest direction Justin Majeks, the commentary was shithouse. At one stage during my round 4 heat James Catto was handed a microphone, and what followed was incredible. It seemed as though he didn't even know where he was, let alone how to answer the below average questions fielded to him from the commentary team. 

With the girls event being downgraded to a lower rating before kick off, the field was smaller than seen at other events. The chicks tend to get the lower quality waves at the Pro Junior events, so when deciding whether to come all the way to WA to the already fucked location of Trigg Point, I don't blame some of them for not coming. On day one, the girls were finally rewarded for their efforts and round one went down in some of the best waves I saw during the entirety of the event. Beachley Classic winner Tyler Wright went down early and Laura Macaulay was a standout. Local girl Felicity Palmateer was the eventual winner,  with Ange Keighran (or Kerrigan as the commentators called her the whole event) coming in a commendable second place. 

The mens event finished on the Sunday, and to be honest I didn't even go down and watch. Saturday night at the Trigg Event always seems to be a big one, and with myself and all my housemates getting knocked that afternoon the bottelo was our first stop on the way home. Don't go thinking the Junior Series is all about getting pissed, that is only half of it, but having spent a week in the most fucked and isolated city in the world with nothing to do, a little Saturday night session with the boys was very justified. From what I have heard, Sunday had the best surf, however is was still shit. Owen made it four wins from four events in 2009 and took down Noah in a high scoring final. 

Event over, everyone bails. 

Thanks to Chill milk for hooking us up with some room temperature product and also for sponsoring the event, with the financial crisis swinging the axe on half of the Junior Series events in 09, any event we get is a good event, even if it is at Trigg. 

Footnote: Take a look at a section of the contest poster I put up. First up, it shows that Trigg Point isn't actually a point, more a scattered assortment of rocks. Secondly, they had to draw pumping cartoon waves because noone has ever photographed a good wave here.

For event photos and a comprehensive list of results, check www.chillprojunior.com

That is all.

The Token Victorian

Dropping my first text on this fresh blog, an overwhelming feeling of despair surrounds me. This is the beginning of the end, as I have given birth to the blog monster within me, stay tuned as this grows through its infancy into a mega blog, with rapid fire updates of all that is going on around me. Im looking at having guest contributers, meaning you the reader will be bombarded with all things life.