) Copyright ofF-ull Text rests with the ~riginal copyright owner and, except as ~tte? under th~ __ ~.Q£0382~__ Copyright Act 1968, copying thlS copynght matenal J is prohibited without the permission ofthe o~er or its exclusive licensee or agent or by w~y ofa ll.cence from Copyright Agency Limited. ~or Informatton about such licences contact Copynght Agency Limited on (02) 93947600 (ph) or (02) 93947601 (fox) Fiona Capp Returning to the Water MEASURED VOICE on the radio was forecast­ bought cheap land on the outskirts, whacked up some ing storms as I drove west out of Melbourne. fibro shacks and called it Boot Hill. Theywere known A Beyond the flat, scrubby farming land on for their heavy drinking, partying and love of pranks the city's outskirts, an ominous grey fuzz of low _ one particularly memorable joke involved the word cloud blotted out the horizon. On the approach to 'Fuck' being mowed in giant letters into a crop of Geelong, as the dark funnels and flame-lit chimneys oats on a hill facing the town. For surfers from the of the Corio Bay oil refineries loomed in the dis­ early sixties acid was the thing. There was much tance, rain began lashing the car. If it hadn't been for soul-searching among the floating population of surf­ an appointment I had to keep in Torquay, I would ers and bohemians who hung out at a century old have turned around and driven straight home, mildly timber house called Springside near Torquay Point. disappointed but secretly relieved that my return to Anyone who has not been to Torquay buthas seen the water had been delayed. Much as I wanted to the 1991 American action film Point Break, inwhich surf again, I was afraid of what I would learn about the charismatic leader of a gang of Californian surfer­ myself. Ocean-lover James Hamilton-Paterson once bankrobbers is finally tracked down by the FBI at wrote that he was almost as obsessed with the idea Bells Beach, could be excused for thinking that of the sea as with its actuality. Iwas afraid thatwhen Torquay is still a hillbilly, wild west kind of town. In put to the test after all these years, I would be con­ the final scenes, there is a shot ofa sleepy main street fronted with a similar but more unpalatable truth: with wide verandahs and a whistlestop train station that I was more in love with the idea of surfing than with a sign announcing 'Torquay (Bells Beach)'. It's with the surfing itself. all very quaint and countrified, like something out of The town ofTorquay holds a special place in surf­ 'Northern Exposure', but nothing like Torquay. The ing lore because of its proximity to Bells Beach, one real giveaway, for Australians at least, are the scenes of the world's legendary surf breaks. But Bells is a on Bells Beach, particularly the foreshore backdrop hidden jewel reachable only through a bush reserve of firs and the grey shale beach. Not a tea-tree or and a hike down a steepish gully to the beach. What ochre cliff-face in Sight. It was shot, in fact, off the hits you as you enter Torquay is the mercantile side coast of Oregon, in the US. of surfing in the form of a commercial estate on the I hadn't been to Torquay for at least six years and highway into the town: a surreal 'village' of brightly as I drove past the surf showrooms, I felt a pang of coloured surf showrooms emblazoned with giant nostalgia for the mythical Torquay of Point Break billboards of surfers on luridly blue waves. Two of thatwould forever remain unsullied by the forces of the biggest surf companies in the world, Rip Curl big business. Yet even before the appearance of the and Quiksilver, began as cottage industries in surf plaza and the recent Ocean View housing estate Torquay in the late 1960s. Their presence, along with nearby, the real Torquay - a modest mix of suburban the Easter competition at Bells - the longest-running brick veneers, fibro holiday houses, neat weather­ international surf contest - has ensured that the boards and brash townhouses with a shopping strip town's identity is now inseparable from its surfing reminiscent of a suburban mall - had never borne culture. much resemblance to its film counterpart. I was on Those who knew Torquay in the 1950s remem­ my way to meet local surfer Grayme Galbraith, ber it as a frontier town where a notorious group of known as Gaily, who grew up in Bell Street, Torquay. wild boys associated with the Surf Life Saving Club The street was named after the Bell family which 2002.1bb.overland 4: owned much o{the localland, including the farm of ing an impression in the big smoke. If I had paid Martha Bell from whom Bells Beach took its name. more attention to the weather map and the wind When Gally was a boy, the town was a haven for direction I might not have written-off the surf so hippies, surfers and people wanting to escape the rat hastily. But I was out of touch with reading these race. Living two minutes' walk from the beach, he signs and with contemplating what was going on in spent much of his childhood in the water, but didn't the ocean. A hot northerly wind could still have me take up surfing until he was eighteen. He nowlives in hallucinating glassy waves but my grasp of pressure the new Ocean View housing estate that has con­ systems and their impact on the swell had always sumed the rolling farmland where that giant 'Fuck' been rudimentaty. What I did know was that the was once emblazoned. He only has to lift his head off winter months were the best time along the Victo­ his pillow in the mornings to inspect the surf through rian coast for powerful groundswells produced by his bedroom window. Gally has been an Australian lows in the Southern Ocean. The month of May, I champion twice and state champion too many times was told, had been classic. Non-stop six·foot waves to mention. Apart from selling surfboards for Rip and offshore winds. Now it was September and the Curl, he coaches the state surfing squad and gives equinoctial winds had begun to blow. As always in private lessons. Hence our rendezvous. the spring, the weather was unsettled and unsettling. I no longer had friends who surfed and did not IiJust what you want," GaIly announced, casting welcome the prospect of surfing alone (not a wise an expert eye over the water. It is no longer de rigueur thing to do when you're seriously out of practice). for surfers to have the dishevelled, sun-bleached look, So I had asked Gally to give me some lessons. I had but with his shock of sandy hair almost to his shoul­ deliberately chosen the protected break of Torquay ders, freckled tan, laconic manner and playful grin, to save myself the kind of pounding I endured when Gally is unmistakably a surfer. He pointed out the first learning in the unforgiving beach breaks of the various breaks between Point Danger at the far end Mornington Peninsula. Back then, it never occurred of the beach and Torquay Point right in front of us at to me to ask someone to teach me. I didn't believe the creek mouth. The rip that travels out next to the that surfing could be taught. Like writing, it seemed rocky headland - a boon to the surfer but a hazardto too fluid, too unpredictable an activityj too much a swimmers - is known as the escalator. IiWe'Il stay in matter of individual talent and temperament. You the shore break for a while, thengo out the back a bit had to work your way out from the shore break, get further." used to being dumped and spat out; you had to watch After changing into my brand new wetsuit - the more experienced surfers and figure it out for your­ old one was too thin for comfort in 14-degree water­ self. In other words, you had to do it the hard way. I locked up the car. I was wondering what to do with Twenty years later, the hard way had lost its appeal. my keys when I remembered a dream I'd had the Apart from wanting company and advice, some­ week before. Iwas standing out the front of the Doges where in the back of my mind was the memoty of Palace in Venice looking out across the lagoon to­ my swimming instructor with his long shepherd's wards the white dome of th'e Salute when I noticed staff ready to haul me clear of the water when I got some figures on surfboards in the grey, choppy wa­ into trouble. ter. There were no waves, just the wake of vaporetti At Torquay Point, the swell rolled around the head­ and tiny peaks whipped up by the wind. Some peo­ land and peeled off into neat, smallish waves ideal ple, I thought, will do anything for a wave. Then, for novices. Intermittently, the sun broke through without warning, a perfect, glassy wave began ris­ the pewter clouds making the cliff glow like a fresWy ing slowly out of the lagoon like a rare, exotic beast baked loaf of bread. It was a weekday and as I gazed and Iknew Ihad to get out there. As it happened, there out over Bass Strait contemplating the surf, I had a was a nearby kiosk where Jcould hire a board.