Skip to main content

Groyne Riders



‘Before Bells, there was Brighton’ wrote Michael Gordon in his book Bells. The Beach, The Surfers, the Contest. His story of Bells started with a tale of a break that no longer exists, between the Brighton Baths and the pier, where the grommets surfed in rude south westerlies. ‘There were a couple of peaks that broke more or less in the same spot and they were surfed with enthusiasm by a bunch of grommets, some of whom called themselves Storm Riders.’ These young surfers were the blokes who went on to make surf history in Torquay, after chasing waves ‘down the Mornington Peninsula to Phillip Island or along the Great Ocean Road, depending on the weather forecast.’

Bayside Melbourne seems an unlikely place to feature in the history of Australia’s iconic world surf league contest at Bells: the beaches along this suburban coastal strip are not known for their surf. But last weekend, it was Elwood’s chance to turn it on, with a decent southerly wind of fifty km/h which pushed the swell into the groyne, and served up surfable waves. It was the first time our boy had surfed in the city. Two teens out on long boards, chasing waves on a grey day: Groyne Riders.


Noah at Elwood, (c) Anna Sublet, 2018
It’s been done by others before, in Elwood, and down near Kerferd Rd pier, but this was the first time we’d had the board and wetsuit here, and the chance to surf proved too appealing to resist. It was an incongruous sight, the surfboard and wetsuit bucket in the back of the car, but here they were, local boys surfing their home break! Surfing the bay seems to have generated a degree of mirth, piss-taking and outright derision over the decades since the waves have worked at Brighton. On surf website WannaSurf (‘by surfers, for surfers’) the commentary was scathing. Of surfing at Brighton Beach one wrote ‘Do what we did when we were young and find someone older that surfs to take you somewhere with real waves. I'm sure by the time you get a root you will be too embarrassed to mention that you ever surfed the bay. And old blokes saying it's any good are just too bloody lazy, unfit, or pissweak to surf at a real break.’ OK, then. Or there is this: ‘I cannot believe people actually think this is a surf spot ... it may have 3ft slop on an extreme gale force stormy day .... you are all a disgrace to surfing.’ But some surfers are more sanguine, taking the waves on offer for what they are. Back in Time wrote ‘In the 1970s when the baths still existed u could surf inside on a big sou/wester say 30 to 40 knot winds... compared to ocean the wave was crap but hey it is Port Phillip Bay’ and he makes a good point. Those more inclined to the see the spiritual wrote ‘bay waves are the spirit of a surfer - any true surfer would seize the opportunity of a surf at any rideable break, and if u only want to surf high quality waves then good luck mate trying to find a spot after school which works on a southwesterly wind at 40 knots when it gets dark at 8...myself and my mates love baywaves and they are our only salvation.’ Or as another says - ‘bay bashin is the way to go......get down whenever ya can.’ Another surfer dismissed the dissers thus: ‘I don’t care if it’s not an ocean wave. The fact that you can actually ride a lump of chop inside the bay is itself great fun!’ A lump of chop. Beautiful.
Lump of chop  (c) Mark Scolyer, 2018

Perhaps it’s best summed up by the no nonsense attitude of ‘anonymous’: ‘bay waves are sick. coz the real surf is at least one and a half hours away.’ Suburban Melbourne surfers can’t argue with that, and as surfers know, every surf is a good surf, even if it’s a crap surf. Down Elwood way, what the groyne offers up, the grommets will take. On a good day, they’ll take the lump of chop over nothing. And then, when they have the chance, any chance, they’ll chase the waves down the Peninsula, the Island, and the Great Ocean Road, just like the old storm riders of Brighton. And they will probably end up at Bells for Easter.



Bay swell (c) Mark Scolyer, 2018


Bells. The Beach, the Surfers, the Contest. Michael Gordon, Woolamai Publishing, (c) Michael Gordon 2011

Michael lost his life in the ocean he loved in February, 2018.

(c) Anna Sublet, March 2018

Stunning tribute to Michael Gordon by Nick McKenzie and speech at his memorial by Martin Flanagan.

This piece ran in an edited version online and in print Sunday Age, 11 March, 2018

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Widening Crack

The little flame in our forty-year-old wall furnace, the one that was supposed to hold tight, hang on and persist, was being extinguished, again and again. The pilot light had become unanchored, blown away and shut down. We were in lockdown, in a Melbourne winter.  We had been bunkered down in our homes on and off over the last two years. We had sat tight as we amassed days upon days of lockdown. At one stage, the summer came. We had mask-free beaches, we had open cinemas and bars.  But then, another Covid gust gutted us in 2021 and shut us back inside. Here we were, like a little pilot flame, buffeted and blown away but still holding out for better days. I would walk past the heater to find that the fan was blowing cold air into the small home. Each time we re-lit the pilot light, it didn’t last long before it was gone. Still, we kept holding onto hope as we sat through the days of rising case numbers and deaths. The gas technician (essential worker; exemption) was on his hands and kn

The Waiting

Morning walk.  I wake too late to do my nature writing workshop so I decide to get out into nature instead! Head off at about 7 am, sustained on half a cup of hot water with lemon, a banana and a snack KitKat. Make it to the backbeach in time to see the gold coming up from behind the sand dunes, flowering light from the lighthouse. Tiny black and white wren on the rocks, the Plover family just foraging. A heavy gull takes off when I approach. It flies past me, sits and waits, and flies back as it senses I’m no danger. I take photos and slow-mo videos. I can hardly make out the flying birds as they rise into the dark clouds.  I keep stopping to look at things. At one point I lie with my back in the sand on the edge of the dunes. All around the waves continue coming in and the birds call. What would I do without this?  At the lighthouse, Galahs wheel and screech, their pink bellies exposed as they fly above me. A couple fall behind, screeching ‘wait for me, wait for me!’ Further around t

Currawongs Spinning me Home

When the branches of Eucalyptus botryoides fall, as they often do, they root again and continue to grow. The tree is its own ecosystem. Currawongs, sleek black birds with their flash of white at the tail, build their nests, made of sticks and lined with soft material, high up in trees like this.  Some months ago, I stood in shock as arborists began to cut this tree on the next block down, over two days of vicious chain-sawing and woodchipping. I filmed the screaming tree, as it shuddered, shook and then gave way, limbs falling with the ‘thunk’ of a human body.  The tree danced a ballet for its dying and the currawongs lost one of their homes. Many love the currawong for its song, a mix of honey, with a note of uplift, a soaring whip almost, mellifluous on the updraft, ringing from up high. It sounds like an entreaty, a lament and an invitation. The onomatopoeic word, currawong , depicts the sound of their call.  Decades ago, for me these birds were synonymous with NSW, and it was a st