Cinema

The impa ent knock on the door had Bazza opening it to a surly faced teenager with a ta ered schoolbook in hand. Bazza cracked a wide smile.

“Johnny Bodalla…….For what reason do I owe the pleasure?” “Well Bazza……I have to write about this poem for English at school and Mum reckons you are just the bloke to see me right.” Johnny opened his somewhat shabby school text to the poem, passed it to Bazza and began tapping his foot.

“Well, Johnny……. reading it the right way up might be a good start…….anyhow……I reckon we should wander down to the beach to read this poem.” A long stroll of teacher complaint led them to rocks at the base of the headland and they both posi oned themselves to observe a group of body surfers. “I’m pre y busy Bazza….. I was hoping we could knock this poem over in ten minutes.” In moments, a group of body surfers caught their a en on with varying a empts to master the waves. Bazza and Johnny squinted into the blueness and their focus shi ed to a single body surfer. He was equal to the challenge of each wave. His arms moved slower and his body created less splash than the other surfers, yet he moved faster in the frothing breakwater than the other swimmers, as they all posi oned for a building wave. Surfer a er surfer balked at or retreated from the wave’s ominous bulk. This surfer was now alone, and the wave seemed to pause as he effortlessly rose on its lip. Time froze as he glided and sliced, dolphin like, down the bank of the wave in elegant harmony with the ocean. Johnny Bodalla sucked in a deep breath and Bazza began reading the poem; He thrust his joy against the weight of the sea; climbed through, slid under those long banks of foam—- (hawthorn hedges in spring, thorns in the face s nging). How his brown strength drove through the hollow and coil of green-through weirs of water! Muscle of arm thrust down long muscle of water; and swimming so, went out of sight where mortal, masterful, frail, the gulls went wheeling in air as he in water, with delight. Turn home, the sun goes down; swimmer, turn home. Last leaf of gold vanishes from the sea-curve. Take the big roller’s shoulder, speed and serve; come to the long beach home like a gull diving. Johnny followed the surfer all the way to the beach as he morphed back into humanity. Con nues...

Bazza paused at certain points in the poem to capture the poet’s techniques but shied away from explana on. Johnny’s eyes darted along the beach and he blinked repeatedly at key words and phrases. For on the sand the grey-wolf sea lies, snarling, cold twilight wind splits the waves’ hair and shows the bones they worry in their wolf-teeth. O, wind blows and sea crouches on sand, fawning and mouthing; drops there and snatches again, drops and again snatches its broken toys, its whitened pebbles and shells* There was a very long pause and Johnny squinted into the surrendering sun. “Now…..that was a pre y good descrip on of what we just saw, Bazza. You should be a poet……. but I suppose we be er start on this bloody poem, The Surfer, by Judith Wright.” “I wish Johnny……I wish.” *The Surfer by Judith Wright Have a beer with Bazza at john.longhurst59@gmail.com

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HeadLand Writers Fes val is a celebra on of reading, wri ng, sharing stories and indulging the mind. Across three days in October, the spectacular Tathra Headland will serve as a backdrop to an abundance of author inconversa ons, panels, workshops, poetry breakfasts, theatre and music performances.