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
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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 f...
Post a Comment
Read more

Not smiling, wanking

The bricks were always cold underneath my bum. Cold and hard. I could feel their sharp edges. In the nights we sat and talked. The smells of sour smoke and saliva on one, body odour on another, and menace on the other. The fluorescent globes hummed from the station platform, and the street lights pooled at the corner. Inside was out of bounds to these boys, so we met on our side stairs. The frosted glass door between us and our home. Outside; offside: the limits to friendships. These were the kids we didn’t trust, the boys from the wrong side of the tracks. Where were their parents? Absent fathers, unsighted mothers, these boys roamed the streets and set me on edge. The attraction to the dirt, to the smell of one’s mouth...I can still feel it now. It was an urge, but not an infatuation.  The hearts of these boys remained hidden. It was as if they walked in costumes, played their parts, and kept their distance. We weren’t allowed to welcome them in. One day, my m...
4 comments
Read more

Coming of Age

The bricks were always cold underneath my bum. Cold and hard. I could feel their sharp edges. In the nights we sat and talked, my brother and I and the neighbourhood boys. The smells of sour smoke and saliva on one, body odour on another, and menace on the other. The fluorescent globes hummed from the train station platform across the road, and the street lights pooled at the corner. Inside was out of bounds to these boys, so we met on our side stairs. The frosted glass door between us and our home. These were the kids we didn’t trust, the boys from the wrong side of the tracks. Where were their parents? Absent fathers, unsighted mothers, these boys roamed the streets and set me on edge. The attraction to the dirt, to the smell of one’s mouth...I can still feel it now. It was an urge, but not an infatuation.  The hearts of these boys remained hidden. It was as if they walked in costumes, played their parts, and kept their distance. One day, my mum greeted me at...
4 comments
Read more