Shotguns and Sharks

THE NEXT BEST THING TO ROD CREEK

THE NEXT BEST THING TO ROD CREEK

/ AUGUST 20I2 ISSUE 503

AUG UST 2 0I 2

VOLUME 08 OF 12 AU $9.99 NZ $10.99 INC.GST

D I O N AT K I N S O N , T E R R O R T U N N E L . P H O T O : N AT E S M I T H

KELLY SLATER - THE WIZARD TALKS ABOUT HIS TIME IN OZ GUNS, ARMS AND ENGINES - MARK MATHEWS AND RYAN HIPWOOD ON MODERN, BIG WAVE WARFARE “SOME WAVES AREN’T MEANT TO BE RIDDEN” - THE WAVE THAT NEARLY BURIED PAUL PATTERSON AT SEA

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SHOTGUNS AND SHARKS RUNNING THE GAUNTLET ON AUSTRALIA’S MOST TREACHEROUS STRETCH OF COAST. WORDS BY BEN BUGDEN PHOTOS BY NATHAN SMITH

IT IS SOMETIME AROUND MIDNIGHT WHEN WE BEGIN TO SLOW. THE NOISE OF OUR TWO-CAR CONVOY HITTING THE ROADSIDE GRAVEL PIERCES THE DEAFENINGLY QUIET DESERT NIGHT AS WE PULL OFF THE HIGHWAY. HEADLIGHTS DIMMED, WE ROLL UP TO AN EERIE DRIVEWAY AND CAUTIOUSLY ENTER A LABYRINTH OF RUSTED CAR BODIES AND DILAPIDATED CARAVANS. A VARIETY OF ANIMAL SKULLS IMPALED ON STICKS PEER INTO THE CAR AS WE MOVE, THE OUTLINE OF A CROSS ATOP THE GRAVE OF WHAT WE HOPE IS A DECEASED PET ADDS THE FINISHING TOUCHES TO AN UNNERVING SCENE. EVENTUALLY WE COME TO A STOP SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MAZE, THE MOONLIGHT CASTING INTIMIDATING SHADOWS AMONGST THE HORROR MOVIE-LIKE SETTING. We have arrived at “The Roadhouse”, a sort of multi purpose halfway house for those traversing this stretch of desert coastline. There are really only three types of people who frequent it – hardened locals, surfers looking for waves, and those looking to disappear from society for one reason or another. A servo, bar and general shop line the highway out front, while the freaky assortment of old caravans that sit out back can be rented for a small fee … if you’re on good terms with the owner of the establishment. As we kill the car engines we can only pray we haven’t woken him. We want to surf a nearby wave at first light, and with nothing for hundreds of kilometres in either direction, our only hope is slipping into a caravan unnoticed.

“We seriously have to be quiet,” whispers our filmer, Kane, as he cautiously exits the car. “Otherwise we could end up wearing a round of shotgun pellets!”

South Australian surfer, Dion Atkinson, who is driving the second car, soon joins him in the cold night air. After holding a muted and anxious conversation, the pair begin inching their way toward one of the old caravans hoping for an unlocked door. Kane and Dion have spent a lot of time in the desert, and more than their fair share of nights in the Roadhouse’s vans, but neither have ever attempted an after-hours entry like this and are quietly shitting themselves.

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As they disappear into the night, scenes of horror movie mayhem begin doing laps in my head. The sound of a gunshot, a blood-spattered Kane stumbling hopelessly back toward the car before being gunned down and falling onto the bonnet, his bloody hand sliding down the windscreen, me frantically trying to reverse our way out of the maze as the windows explode around us from buckshot.

A somewhat irrational fear, but one that was in no way helped by Kane’s earlier description of the owner as an unpredictable, Chopper-esque bloke named Mark [funnily enough] who loves bonfires, booze, and has a penchant for unloading his shotgun into the numerous car bodies that now surround us.

Dion and Kane soon reappear and, trying to maintain silence, perform a hilarious half run, half tiptoe, back toward the cars. The bad news is that there is no luck getting into a van. The good news is that they are still in one piece, but make it very clear we should get the fuck out of here as fast as possible. Our surfing plans for tomorrow now in tatters.

We do have accommodation booked further along the coast, but it means another three hours on road and a 3am arrival at best. We’re now into our 14th hour of travel and the crew is getting desperate for sleep. None more so than Davey Cathels and Beau Foster, who

DION ATKINSON, LOCKED INSIDE A DERERT DREAM.

“LOOK, PUT IT THIS WAY, YOU’LL NEVER BE TRULY COMFORTABLE SURFING HERE IF YOU HAVE A FEAR OF SHARKS.” currently occupy their own little hell in the back of Dion’s car after joining the trip straight off the back of Davey’s 21st celebrations the night before. The rest of us however can’t help but secretly feel a little relieved as we pull back onto the highway and leave The Roadhouse behind.

Resigned to our fate, the call is made to perform a moonlight surf check as we’ll soon be passing our ill-fated wave. Once again we turn off the highway and bump our way up a short, pothole-ridden road to the edge of a sheer cliff. We step out of the car into the bone achingly cold night and get our first real taste of the desert. We’re confronted by a giant sky that’s so black and clear it’s almost overwhelming. It’s as though there’s nothing standing between the heavens above and us. The sky so laden with stars it feels as though it might collapse.

Thunder suddenly erupts from beyond the edge of the cliff and it snaps me out of my lunar dreaming. I peer over in time to make-out a line of whitewash emerging from the black ocean, and even in the poor light you can tell it’s a serious wave from the crack and roar as it detonates on the shelf below. Dion calls it a solid five or six footer.

The following wave is even bigger and closes out the bay.

“That one was definitely bigger than this place handles,” observes Dion. “Easily eight, maybe even 10 foot. I don’t think we could’ve surfed here tomorrow even if we wanted to.” He continues to inform us that the swell is set to build even more overnight and if it does there’s a beachie close to our back-up accommodation that might be firing. That’s good enough for us, so we beat a retreat to the warmth of the car to begin the torturous final leg of our journey into no man’s land. All dying for sleep and anxious to find out what our first day in the desert will bring.

A G HO ST TOWN AN D BEAC HB REA K BL ISS The alarm cuts through my warm, comfortable slumber with the subtlety of a chainsaw and I reluctantly open one eye. It takes a moment for my mind to catch up as I try to remember where the hell I am.

Once conscious I realize it was only three hours ago that we collapsed into the house after a graveyard shift run through the desert.

Keen to get my first glimpse of the place in daylight, I get up, stumble to the front door and open it to find a desolate fog strangling a tiny and equally desolate town. The street is exceptionally tidy, and so are the houses, but they are nothing more than demountables

– the kind you see in the permanent resident section of caravan parks. There’s not a single blade of grass anywhere, the lawns, footpaths, and median strips are all lined with white shale and pebbles.

I can’t spot a sign of life anywhere. There’s not a single car on the road or in any driveway. It feels artificial. As if we somehow took a wrong turn and stumbled onto a vacant movie set. Suddenly the door of the house opposite opens and out pops and old bloke. He clocks me, stares for a second, then disappears back inside. I swear I see the curtains in the windows move not long after.

Suitably weirded out, I head back inside where one by one the crew is emerging from their quarters – excitement at the thought of desert barrels outweighing any concerns about lack of sleep.

“I’ve already talked to a couple of blokes and the swell definitely kicked during the night,” reveals Dion.“I think we made the right move motoring on.” He then goes on to say that the beachbreak he mentioned last night should be firing.

Davey and Beau, back from their hungover hell, are in a better place this morning and lead the charge, setting up boards, unpacking wetsuits and amping to get in the water.

A quick bowl of cereal and a brush of the teeth later and we’re on the road. Heading out of town, we drive parallel to a blue bay that stretches into the fog. It looks quite picturesque, but I’m soon informed that you’d be lucky to last five minutes without being picked off by a great white were you foolish enough to swim out. After all, it was not far from here in 1990, that a local fisherman reeled in the biggest shark ever caught using a rod and reel – a 1520kg monstrosity. A fibreglass replica of which hangs proudly from the roof inside a nearby servo. This kicks off the conversation that any visiting surfers can’t help but have when they visit this stretch of coast … just how sharky is it?

“Look, put it this way, you’ll never be truly comfortable surfing here if you have a fear of sharks,” says Dion. Believing that every right-minded surfer has a fear of sharks, no matter how macho their exterior bravado, I take this to mean that no one should ever feel comfortable surfing here.

The paranoia-inducing conversation carries on as we power down dirt road after dirt road, but dies immediately when, reaching the crest of a small hill, we get our first glimpse of the ocean. It’s still quite a distance away but is groomed offshore and alive with the unmistakable swell lines of the southern ocean. Set against the endless desert heath and the pink, purple and blue hues of an early

CLOCKWISE FROM ABOVE: THE SORT OF SUNRISE THAT MAKES A PROUD AUSTRALIAN HEART SWELL. THE DESERT ADDS AND INTERESTING ELEMENT TO THE STEAMER DANCE AS THE BOYS GET READY FOR THEIR FIRST SESSION. DAVEY ENJOYS THE VIEW FROM INSIDE A RIDICULOUSLY FUN WEDGE ON THE BEACHIE.

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“ ... DAVEY REVEALS HE ALSO RECEIVED A SIGN THEY PROBABLY SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN OUT THERE WHEN A DOLPHIN SURFACED NEXT TO HIM WITH A HALF MISSING, CHEWED ON DORSAL FIN ... ” ... ”

morning sky, it’s an awesome sight. Excitement floods my body and I truly appreciate where I am. I’ve never felt more in love with my country than at this moment, but I also feel regret that I haven’t explored this place before. All this and we haven’t even seen the waves yet.

As we get closer to the ocean, the road becomes a trail, the trail becomes a barely recognisable path, and the path eventually becomes a few scattered sets of 4WD tracks. We pick a line through the rock and sand and eventually pull up metres from the water.

As we check the waves we quickly realise Dion’s call was on the money – it is, in no uncertain terms, pumping. The beach sits at an angle that affords it shelter from the brunt of the swell, and as the lines refract in they break up to form perfect wedge after perfect wedge, starting at around one foot toward the protected end and maxing out as eight foot death slabs at the other. It’s simply a matter of picking which peak we want to surf and getting out there.

Dion, Davey and Beau can’t paddle out fast enough, and feast on the peaks for hours. The only other surfers who join them in the line up are a few crusty bodyboarders that pull up in a beat up old

hatchback. They’ve been sleeping rough for the best part of a fortnight and look like they’re feeling every night. We later hear through the desert grapevine that soon after the session, an axel on their car snapped and they were last seen stranded somewhere on a lonely highway.

A swing in the wind eventually puts an end to the session and the boys head in for some well deserved lunch. We end up settling on a small take away / post office / bait and tackle shop / supermarket / toy store for food back in the ghost town. To our surprise however, we find it has exploded into life during our absence, with three old blokes now talking story on a bench out the front of the shop.

While eating our burgers, talk turns to what you could possibly do to keep yourself entertained if you lived here and didn’t surf. Beyond harvesting oysters, fishing and being either permanently drunk or stoned, the answer is quite simply … fuck all. Forty-five minutes is all it takes for boredom to get the best of us, and we decide to return to the beach in the hope of an afternoon session.

We arrive to find a cross-shore wind ruffling the lineup, the tubes of

BEAU’S FOREHAND IS FULL OF FLAIR, HERE HE USES IT TO DODGE THE SUNSET SHARKS.

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ABOVE: RANDOMLY APPEARING FROM NOWHERE, HEATH JOSKE, CAME RUNNING DOWN THE BEACH AND SHARED THE EMPTY PERFECTION WITH THE BOYS. THIS PIC: A LITTLE BORED, DION ADDS SOME CREATIVITY TO HIS 273RD TUBE FOR THE DAY...

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“ ... I’M NOT SURE WHAT IS BLOWING MY MIND MORE, THE WAVE I JUST WATCHED OR THE FACT THAT A CARPARK FULL OF GUYS JUST WALKED AWAY FROM IT ... ” this morning gone, but there are some tasty looking ramps on the rights. It takes a bit of coaxing to get the boys keen but they eventually suit up.

The sun is rapidly sinking and I don’t think the guys are particularly savouring surfing at dusk on this particular stretch of coast. There are a few nervous glances exchanged by the guys as they paddle out, and despite getting some great waves in the fading light it’s not long until the inevitable happens. Beau is paddling back out and about to duckdive a wave when he stops dead, turns around and goes headfirst over the falls lying down. The moment he surfaces he scrambles for the shallows and begins yelling and motioning to Dion and Davey. He’s sure he just spotted a shark in the face of the wave. Whether it was a shark or not, it’s enough to spook the boys and they soon make their way in. Davey reveals he also received a sign they probably shouldn’t have been out there when a dolphin surfaced next to him with a half-missing, chewed-on dorsal fin.

It’s far too early in the trip for a fatality so we take in the remainder of the day from the safety of the shore. “Looks like the swells backing off,” notices Dion. “If it loses a few more feet we could be on for the real waves tomorrow – no more beachbreaks boys!” This gets everyone buzzing and the sharks are soon forgotten. It’s an excited car ride home to the ghost town for a makeshift dinner of frozen pizza, baked beans and whatever other nutritious food we managed to round up from the store earlier. Content, and full of McCain pizza dough, it’s not long before sleep claims us.

M A N DOWN !

It’s four in the morning but the house is already a hive of activity. It’s time to bid the ghost-town adieu and hit the road in the hopes of scoring one of the coast’s real treasures. It’s roughly a two-hour drive and we want to be there at first light. Everyone is present and accounted for apart from Davey, who still hasn’t surfaced from his room. Beau disappears to wake him up and returns with a sad and sorry looking human who somewhat resembles death.

It seems that sometime during the night Davey’s immune system decided to take a holiday, leaving every virus in a 10-kilometre radius free to invade his body, and they’ve done a number on him. Unfortunately we’re in the middle of nowhere and he’s got no choice but to soldier on.

A couple of hours later and we’re close to our destination, but finding our way is proving more difficult than we imagined. We’re negotiating a giant grid network of dirt roads in the dark, and with not many discernible landmarks it’s almost impossible to get our bearings. Road signs are of no use either,

as it’s known that protective locals often switch them around to stop dickheads like us reaching the wave. We pull over to try and work out if we are on the right track, when a beaten up old Land Rover bumps past with the tail of a surfboard poking out the back. We jump back into our two-car tourist cavalcade and sheepishly follow, trying to keep our distance from the poor bloke, wondering what he must be thinking as he looks in the rear view mirror, probably whether it would be worse to lead us to the waves, or do us all in with a shotgun – a tough choice.

We eventually roll up to a makeshift carpark and see about six or seven cars already there. A bad sign for us as this constitutes a crowd akin to a Sunday on the Superbank for this area, and a further three pro-surfers, a couple of cameras and a surf magazine employee would be about as welcome as cancer. The bloke we followed in heads off to check the waves and on his way past gives us a nod that says both g’day and fuck off in equal measures.

We’re milling around trying to decide what to do, while Davey just tries to stay conscious, when we look up the track and see a large group of blokes heading back toward the carpark. It’s too early for anyone to have surfed yet, so we assume that either the surf is shit, or we’re about to cop it from a carpark full of irate locals. Amazingly when they reach us they all head to their respective cars, jump in and start to drive off. Dion spots a bloke he knows among them and asks what’s up. “Nah, it’s not really doing it.” He replies bluntly before taking off.

We’re now left standing alone in the carpark, deflated at the news the waves haven’t come through, when Dion speaks up. “Nah boys, you can’t believe them, they do this all the time. Unless it’s absolutely perfect they don’t want to know about it. It’s definitely still worth checking.” So we unload the cars and start the long walk up the track and over the large sand dunes that guard the wave. I look behind and see Davey struggling to keep up; he’s definitely fallen back into that same hell he started the trip in.

We eventually make it to the edge of a cliff and I scan the fringing reef anxious to spot the setup. Soon a set in the six-foot range arrives and stands up over an abrupt shelf to our right. I stare in awe as the bottom drops out of a right-hander and it thunders along the reef for a good 50 metres, mellows out, offers a playful two-turn section on the inside before running into a friendly channel. At this point in time I’m not sure what is blowing my mind more, the wave I just watched or the fact that a carpark full of guys just walked away from it.

Dion and Beau scramble down the cliffs and paddle out, minus Davey, who is dying a thousand deaths nearby on a rock. They feel the place out

THE FIRST OUT AS USUAL, DION SETS IT UP.

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DAVEY FIGHTS OFF A CASE OF THE EBOLA VIRUS LONG ENOUGH TO SCORE ONE OF THE DEEPEST TUBES OF THE TRIP. SERIOUSLY, HAVE A GOOD LOOK AT HOW PERFECT THIS WAVE IS.

for the first 15 minutes, scoring a few little tubes and finding their feet. It’s not long however before a bomb marches toward the take off spot. Dion is in position, he swings and takes off deep. Instantaneously he’s in the tube as the wave flares and grows around him. He’s enveloped behind the shockwave for a good second, before reappearing and regaining control. The hard work done, he then enjoys the view for a good six seconds longer and gets spat out a very happy man.

It’s all too much for Davey, who croaks a “Fark” from his rock, gets to his feet and gingerly begins to suit up. “There’s no way I’m missing barrels like that,” he states. He eventually joins the other two out the back and the three of them trade dreamy desert tubes for hours, before the midday onshore once again ends the session.

Back on the beach, Davey is somewhat revived by the healing power of a thousand tubes but is definitely not well, and needs to head home as soon as possible. Miraculously he finds some reception on his phone and manages to organise a flight that leaves in roughly five hour’s time. Given that we’re currently sitting five hour’s drive from the airport it’s gonna be tight.

Dion, taking advantage of the rare mobile reception, checks the swell charts. “You know what, this could be a good thing,” he says, concentrating on the screen. “Tomorrow is looking really good for the wave we tried to surf the first day, and we‘re heading that way to drop Davey at the airport.”

“The only thing,” he adds ominously, “is that we’ll be staying at The Roadhouse.”

RE T UR N TO TH E RO AD HO USE As soon as we approach I recognise it, and when we’re once again surrounded by the multitude of scrap metal and caravans, the memory of our sketchy first visit to the Roadhouse a few nights ago comes flooding back. And although this time we’ve arrived during daylight hours, it does little to dull the intimidating atmosphere of the place. In fact, now I can actually see the bullet holes that pepper the car bodies that surround us.

The plan is to quickly acquire a couple of vans for the night, off-load the boards and gear, and then someone will have to continue the two-hour drive to the airport to get Davey on his flight.

Dion and Kane head around front to find the owner, Mark, to see if we can get a couple of caravans. They’re also secretly hoping that he hasn’t recog-

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nised the two cars that just rolled into his backyard as the bastards who woke him the other night. A few minutes later they return, this time successful and brandishing two sets of keys. Kane also carries the car keys and informs us that while organising the accommodation he came off second best in a game of rock, paper, scissors with Dion and will be driving Davey to the airport. Feeling sorry for him, I volunteer to keep Kane company on the drive as, at this point, Davey isn’t much good to anyone. On a subconscious level I also think I’d prefer to be on the highway dodging roo’s and road trains rather than hanging around The Roadhouse for any longer than I have to.

We’ve quickly stopped out front to refuel before leaving, when Kane returns to the car after paying with a bewildered look on his face. “Mark just gave me 60 bucks and he wants me to buy as much KFC as I can with it when we’re in town.” I ask if he realises it’s going to be a four-hour round trip and that there’s a chance it could be a little cold by the time we return. “Hey, Mark wants KFC,” retorts Kane. “And I’m not going to be the one to tell him no.” It’s a good point, and not one I’m going to argue with.

We manage to make it to the airport 20 minutes before Davey’s flight. He says his goodbyes, apologises for the hassle and shuffles inside before being whisked back to civilisation. It’s a good thing too, as we later hear he was diagnosed with severe bronchitis on his return.

Job one done, it’s now off to KFC to acquire enough deep fried chicken to kill a rhinoceros. After spending the last three days in the desert surviving mostly on baked beans, we can’t resist the charms of the Colonel ourselves and feast on our own bucket of artery clogging joy before starting our drive back to the roadhouse.

By the time we arrive it’s well and truly dark. We find the caravans are empty so Kane heads off to give Mark his chicken, while I head around the front and find the rest of the guys enjoying a beer in the bar. I pull up a seat and join them. There’s a distinct Star Wars, Mos Eisley Cantina feel going on, and I’m half tempted to rip out a couple of teeth and break my own nose in an attempt to fit in.

Kane soon walks in with who I can only assume is Mark, and makes his way over. Mark splits off and does the rounds chatting to his patrons, but it’s not long before it’s our turn. “Thanks for the fuckin’ chicken boys,” he says as he arrives. I can only assume he’ll be rationing it out until the next time someone he knows drives into town. We get to chatting and it turns out he’s a good bloke, scary as shit, but a good bloke. He asks us how the waves have been

ABOVE: DION, KILLING TIME ROADHOUSE STYLE WHILE DAVEY GETS FERRIED TO THE AIRPORT. BELOW: MARK’S FAVOURITE PAST TIME, SHOOTING THE CAR.

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and then tells us it’s a bit of a coincidence we’re here as he’s just finished starring in a movie about a bunch of surfers who came looking for waves in the area. “Didn’t end up too good for them though,” he says, his face breaking into a knowing smile.

It turns out a couple of guys from a studio were out this way a while back, scouting locations for a horror movie they were working on when they saw The Roadhouse. They got talking to Mark and cast him as a crazed serial killer on the spot. The basic premise involves a bunch of surfers that head into the desert to make a surfing documentary when, after car troubles, they seek food and shelter with a strange man that owns a roadhouse. From that point on it’s basically unspeakable terror and a fight for survival. It also apparently involves a giant bat, which Mark describes as “A good fuckin’ lookin’ fuckin’ bat, as far as fuckin’ bats go”.

It’s now getting late, and honestly we’re a little rattled by the coincidence, so we bid our host goodnight and, employing safety in numbers, retreat as one to the vans. If we weren’t already a little concerned by our lodgings for the night, Mark’s bedtime story definitely isn’t going to help us achieve a good nights sleep.

Before I even get inside the van Kane and myself will be sharing for the night my foot goes straight through the damp chipboard step leading to the door … not a good sign. We eventually get in and the first thing I notice is an old bird’s nest lying on the middle of the dusty floor. Every corner is covered in cobwebs and there’s a half smoked cigarette in the sink. With no other choice, and exhausted from the day, we zip up tight into our sleeping bags, say our prayers and turn off the light.

It’s about 15 minutes later that a series of strange noises begin emanating from each corner of the van. I’m laying there trying to work out what it could be when I hear, “Ohhhh shhiiiit!” before Kane promptly falls out of bed. Still zipped into his sleeping bag he then jumps out the door and, forgetting about the broken step, falls headfirst into a pile of old tires and sends them flying.

Half shitting myself, and half laughing, I reach up and turn on the light to see a full-grown bat doing laps of the roof. I pull my sleeping bag over my head as quickly as I can and immediately join Kane outside.

We spend a second coming to terms with what just happened, before we

realise if we’re going to get any sleep at all we have to get it out. This time it’s Kane who comes out on top of rock, paper, scissors and it’s left to me to remove the intruder. I cautiously stick my head back inside and see the bat hanging from a vent on the roof. I grab my beach towel and slowly sneak up behind it. I wait an eternity before I eventually pounce and grab it with the towel. I run to the door and throw it outside, screaming like a little girl the whole time.

We head back inside, and as I drift off to sleep I can’t help wondering if the roadhouse has ever featured on Getaway, and how much I’d love to watch Catriona Rowntree deal with this shit.

REDEMP T ION It’s our last day in the desert, and our last shot to score the wave we’ve wanted to surf since we got here. We’re all up early and ready to go, anxious to see if the swell report was on the money and refreshed from what ended up being a deep and satisfying sleep despite last night’s adventures.

It’s not long until we pull up at the edge of the cliff and get our first look at the wave that teased us by moonlight on our first night. The wind is freezing, but it’s dead offshore and feathers what looks to be a four-foot set as it approaches the lineup. Just as it’s about to break, a line of whitewash shoots sideways into the wave, combining with it and creating a side winding vortex that tunnels at a ridiculous speed across the reef. It then spits before closing out metres from the base of the cliff. The only way to describe it would be as a cross between Ours and Iluka breakwall.

Dion is the only one of us who has surfed it before and as we make our way down the precarious cliff he verses everyone on the dos and don’ts of the set up. He begins by pointing out that the only entry and exit is through a narrow current ravaged keyhole about three metres wide, and that if you miss this either coming in or out you’re in big trouble. “Also, whatever you do don’t straighten out,” he adds. “Or you’ll end up getting washed along the reef at the base of the cliff.”

Done with the pep talk, he suits up and paddles out to the take off zone, where he sits patiently and waits. Eventually he sees something he likes,

“ ... STILL ZIPPED INTO HIS SLEEPING BAG HE JUMPS OUT THE DOOR AND, FORGETTING ABOUT THE BROKEN STEP, FALLS HEADFIRST INTO A PILE OF OLD TIRES AND SENDS THEM FLYING. HALF SHITTING MYSELF AND HALF LAUGHING, I REACH UP AND TURN ON THE LIGHT TO SEE A FULL-GROWN BAT DOING LAPS OF THE ROOF ... ”

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ABOVE: DION WASTED NO TIME WHEN WE FINALLY GOT THE CANCE TO SURF THIS WAVE ON OUR LAST DAY. DETERMINED TO REDEEM HIMSELF AFTER GETTING RAGDOLLED ALONG THE LENGTH OF THE REEF ON HIS FIRST WAVE, BEAU STEPPED UP AND CHARGED.

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DION, HIGH SPEED DRIVING THROUGH THE WAVE OF THE TRIP.

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spins and paddles hard. He slides into the wave, negotiating the sidewinder and flying into the tube. The waves may have looked four foot from the top of the cliff, but from the bottom of the cliff the wave is most definitely a solid six-foot slab. Everyone hoots as he stands tall, drags his fingers across the roof and flies into the channel.

Dion has been around for a while now, and despite his hard charging and great surfing, remains a little to the left of the spotlight. He currently sits just inside the 50 on the world rankings, and despite recently losing his major sponsor, still aspires to make it to the big time. He’s also the first to admit it’s a hard slog, especially now that he’s on the wrong side of 25. “It’s all good when you’re 18-20 years old,” he told me earlier. “But after that you’ve really only got a year or two to do something major or you’re in real danger of losing your sponsors. Half the tour is unsponsored guys these days, struggling from event to event on winnings and money they earn working between events.”

He knows he’s got to put something in place in case his dream doesn’t work out but doesn’t think it’s that time yet. “I did try to do uni. I did a year of marketing management but I just don’t want to work full time yet … I still want to qualify.”

Dion is also a good mentor for Beau. The youngest surfer on the trip, it’s invaluable experience for him to surf with Dion in some heavier waves, and will no doubt help develop his surfing. Beau has held back so far this morning, taking his time, observing and taking notes as Dion does his thing in the heaviest waves of the trip so far. But now he suits up and makes his way to the keyhole, negotiating it easily and joining Dion out the back.

A lump appears out the back and you can clearly see Dion motioning that it has Beau’s name written all over it. Beau paddles hard but gets a little caught up, disappearing into the twisting foam ball as he drops in. To his credit he somehow makes the drop but is too late to sneak under the lip and breaks the golden rule by straightening out. He surfaces only metres from the rocks at the base of the cliff and wears the next three waves on the head.

He’s bounced and pushed sideways down the reef past the keyhole into a no man’s land past the break. He looks to the rocks for assistance and we can

do little but tell him how many more he is going to wear before he can attempt to paddle back out. A gap appears in the relentless waves and we scream at him to paddle. Exhausted he struggles back out. Talk about baptism by fire.

From this point on every set seems to get bigger and bigger and we wonder what must be going through Beau’s head as he waits to take off again. It’s not long before he gets his chance to find out however, as he’s soon in position for another wave. This time he nails the drop and pulls straight into the tube and gets spat out down the line. A great confidence builder, he sprints back out to the take-off zone.

Dion meanwhile does his thing time and time again, making it look easy and scoring the biggest and deepest waves of the session. He’s once again in the slot when a wave at least three foot bigger than anything else that’s come through looms out the back. He paddles harder for it than anything he’s ridden all day. Once again side slipping down the face, he drives into a giant bowl and disappears from sight. As the wave nears the inside it doubles up with Dion locked deep inside it. He reappears and negotiates the step while still in the barrel. He comes excruciatingly close to coming out but gets clipped right at the exit and is sent cartwheeling over the falls.

Beau follows his lead and soon drops into the biggest wave of his surf.

He rips off a classic bottom turn and pilots his board through a super thick tube before emerging cleanly. It’s really turning wild out there now and Beau feels he has pushed his luck far enough. He manages to find the keyhole and scrambles up the rocks, smiling from ear to ear and buzzing with adrenaline.

The next few sets verge on being unrideable and after his next wave Dion heads straight for the keyhole. He’s got nothing left to prove after dominating the session.

We hang out on top of the cliff for an hour or so watching the waves, basking in the rapidly warming desert air, and reminiscing about our awesome and somewhat strange few days in this unique part of Australia – all swearing to attend the premiere of Mark’s horror movie on our return to civilisation. X

“ ... HE LOOKS TO THE ROCKS FOR ASSISTANCE BUT WE CAN DO LITTLE EXCEPT TELL HIM HOW MANY MORE HE IS GOING TO WEAR BEFORE HE CAN ATTEMPT TO PADDLE BACK OUT ... ”

HOW’S THE SERENITY?

044

503