My 26th Birthday, Alone at the Bottom of the World

 On April 10, 2007- my twenty sixth birthday- I wake up inside a Ford Panel Van in the deep countryside of Victoria.  I’m 10,000 kilometers away from sunny San Diego, wrapped in a duck feather sleeping bag, a fleece jacket, and a beanie, and locked inside a Ford Falcon at 7 AM.  My first thought of the day was:

 

What the #%(@! am I doing here?

There better be a good reason for this.

           

            Three fried eggs and one banana later, my mind begins to explain to itself yet again why it has dragged my body to the edge of the most destructive coastline of Terra Australis.  “You’ve come here because you must hurl yourself into the icy and violent depths of the Southern Ocean, at the very moment of the year when she is most likely to explode into a flurry of wavy torment.”  Oh yes, of course.  That makes perfect sense.  At least it does to a surfer conducting a one way dialogue with himself.

 

            In search of morning inspiration, I climb the towering sand dunes nearby.  I catch my breath and grin wide.  This is Johanna Beach, the most swell-bashed beach on Victoria’s most wave-battered coast, the Shipwreck Coast.  Undulating below me is a vast sandy expanse of pristine coast-no rock jetties, no groins, no seawalls.  Relentless foamy swells crash into sandbanks up and down the broad white beach.  Mountains rise steeply from the sea and gather themselves into ranges behind me.

 

                        I am in the middle of nowhere, but I am not alone.

 

            Indeed, the most skilled, strong, and courageous surfers on the planet are with me.  They are right here, right now.  Kelly Slater.  Mick Fanning.  Andy Irons.  Never have such talented wave riders used such refined equipment to perform such mind-altering maneuvers as these forty five Men.  And they’re all here next to me, standing above the dunes, staring out into the abyss of the Bass Strait.  These men have come from all the great surf nations of the world-the United States, Brazil, South Africa, Australia, and France-to do battle.  The cyber-eyes of millions will be on their every move as each man has a thirty minute opportunity to paint powerful lines on these crashing saltwater tapestries.  No more than a thousand lucky few will make it to this remote corner of Victoria on a Tuesday. 

 

            It’s been a month since the last world contest in Queensland, and these athletes are frothing for the coming duels.  Every man has something to prove, even eight-time World Champion Kelly Slater.  The top guys didn’t ascend to the heights of professional surfing by being laid back or passive.  They have had to train, focus, and break boundaries their whole careers.  The desire for victory is total.

           

            Having been lucky enough to spectate at recent contests in California, Hawaii, and Queensland, I’ve figured out how to watch a surf contest.  It’s not an immediately obvious thing.  Surfing isn’t like rugby, where the lines on the field are as clear as the rules of the game.  Surfers are subjectively judged on the power, creativity, and style of their maneuvers by a panel of certified judges.  Scores are often disputed by the crowd and by competitors, as mere tenths of a point can mark the difference between defeat and victory.

 

            The trick to loving a surf contest is to pick a prime vantage point, and to be ever vigilant for the moments when the guys are on their feet.  There’s a lot of downtime between waves, when the contest briefly becomes a relaxing day at the beach.  If not for the booming announcers’ voices reminding the crowd what’s going on, it often is hard to tell that the contest is even happening.  Not so different from Cricket, really.

 

            But then those moments arrive, when time ticks down, the competitors jostle each other and scratch for the horizon, and a looming set of waves promises to deliver glory or defeat to the boldest man.  Suddenly the Aussie announcers, Neil Ridgeway or Reggae Ellis, bellow, “And here we got a crackah of a heat.  Danny Wills and Taj Burrow.  If you’re on the beach right now you’re jumping out of your seat.  There’s no better place then Victoria, the place to be, right Neil?  And look at that, we’ve got a looming set out the back.  Look out those lines.  We’ve got red with priority, and look at this wave line up on the inside, oh he’s gonna have a magnificent opportunity to blow this out, and, OH MY GOD, did you see that aerial, just amazing surfing, ladies and gentleman, you won’t see any better than that!”.  Just as suddenly, the ocean becalms, the announcers taper off, and the crowd eases back into the sand until the next exchange, which could come at any moment, or not for a while.

 

            The rhythm of the ocean dictates the course of the whole event: Wind speed and direction, the pull of the moon on the water, the ferocity of faraway storms.  This contest was never meant to happen at such a remote place, but because Mother Ocean decided not to deliver a burst of swell to preferred Bells Beach, the contest directors had to bow to her will and go mobile.  Anyone who wanted to witness these surfing clashes had to hit the road as well, which meant a caravan of surfers, contest directors, and core fans like me all trucked it together out into the wilderness.  It’s actually quite a wonderful thing.  What other major sporting event demands that everybody suddenly hit the road together in search of a better playing field?  The Yankees and their tens of thousands of fans certainly don’t leave the Bronx for Long Island because of a soggy field and a cold snap.

 

            It was my great fortune to be the unemployed owner of a Ford Falcon at the very moment the call was made to move to Johanna.  What was I to do but answer the call?

Three days and two nights on the edge of the world with my childhood heroes: I surfed a sand bank with Kelly Slater, rapped with Nick Carroll about getting down and dirty in surf journalism, and gave a nod of gratitude to Simon Anderson.  Far from the maddening crowds, the guys were approachable.  It was a dream come true, a sort of grass roots surfing Woodstock.

 

            At dusk on my birthday I pulled on my rubber suit and swam out alone into the rising seas at Castle Point.  A steady wind blew the tops off of towering hills of water and the pink orb of the Southern Sun tossed blazing orange rays into every corner of the sky.  I perched my small board on the edge of a saltwater cliff and plunged steeply to the bottom.  Catching the inside rail of my board I transferred all my speed from heel edge to toe edge and exploded back into the whitewash.  I let out a cry of joy.  Professional surfers are pushing the envelope faster than ever before, as every new contest makes clear.  But the thrill of the ride lures and rewards any who would seek it..