I said, 'Brrrrr ... it's cold in here'

I saw these waves at Fairhaven and did a happy jig

I’m a big fan of surfari weekend getaways. And a couple of weekends ago had already organised a trip and then struck gold when The Age starting banging on about the biggest swell to come through in years. Total Point Break styles. I’m not even sure frothin’ up can describe my excitement and anticipation. Not to surf in those waves but to just see them. The waves! The waves!

Post-New York holiday I fell into a flu cave that I hadn’t been down in years. Never pleasant. This was mostly due to having pushed myself in working, exercising and socialising over the past few months just a little bit harder than what my body can cope with. I had reverted back to my childish ways of never wanting to miss out so tried to do everything to my own physical detriment.

As I’ve grown up (ie, only in the past couple of years) I have had to try to let go this hate-missing-out-problem. A clear example of this is when I was in year 2. I was living on the Gold Coast and our neighbours a few doors down had a trampoline. One day, the three kids and I were all bouncing around on the trampoline and even though I was busting to do a wee I didn’t want to stop jumping. All the bouncing got the better of my bladder and I ended up spontaneously weeing my pants. I remember all the kids jumping off the tramp one by one as I happily kept on jumping. The mum was so angry she came out of the house and hosed me down in the garden and sent me home. I remember not totally understanding what had just happened. C’mon! I’m jumping here!

So, fast forward to 2011 and after having had the flu and knowing I was heading down the coast with my surfer babes, I was wondering if I would cope sitting on the beach while watching them surf. If so, I would have a face like a slapped arse and be bloody miserable. On the Friday afternoon I headed off in Ducky and when I drove into Fairhaven I pulled over to look at the waves. It was pissing down with rain but I did a little happy jig anyway. They were looking big and intimidating and were hopefully only going to build.

An evening in front of the fire knocking back whiskey and busting out booty moves to mixes such as ‘Spirit Quest’ and ‘Baberaham Lincolns’ sure boosted the frothin’ up mood and the next day when the sun was shining and after we punched through a healthy breakfast of bacon and eggs, we were ready.
I was totally pumped because I love surfing with ladies and I love hanging out with dudes who surf and are willing to listen to the grommet talk. That sunny wintery day the surfer-man-mountain type did what he needed to do and chased the big swell (I was not so secretly pleased to hear that when he reported back that he when he was out there he was shitting himself. A little bit.) and left the grommets to find our spot. And we did.

 This is what frothin' up looks like.

We did the exciting bit of checking out the swell then trotting back to the car to pull on wetsuits and head back to the beach with our boards. I felt like we were all suddenly blessed with giant cajones and we were putting them to use. No wonder wetsuits feel extra supportive in the gusseted area. Only real surfers surf in winter. And yep we were heading straight in. Woop!

 Surfer moles or Baberaham Lincolns? You decide.

It was freakin’ freezing. Oh lordy. But we paddled on and I quickly lamed out and hung about in the whitewater with two of the ladies and waited for the call of the wild. Of course it came. Out we paddled and watched the swell. I felt like a half rabid dog paddling backwards and forwards trying to find a good spot and then allofasudden it happened. A swell then a wave then a furious paddle then I stumbled up and rode it then jumped off it after some seconds passed. I plunged into the water then I think I emerged fist raised shouting ‘Didja see that?! I think that’s what you’re supposed to do!’ Oh, happy day. A sign of things to come.

 Booties are essential. I managed to rip mine as I was excitedly getting dressed to go in. Rookie mistake!

That day the blessed moment only happened once but I saw my girls paddle like demons and lady-body-idol once again set the bar and inspired. Sure-can-sell-a-wetsuit lady and I kept warm by tapping out the rhythm and chorusing: ‘6 foot, 7 foot, 8 foot bunch! Daylight come and we want to go hoooome!’ And it worked for a bit until the hands went too pink and the face felt too numb. It was time for hot chocolates and hi-fives.



Feeling so frothy after the surf we decided to keep our little surfing pod solid and drive out to Bell’s to see the real action. I almost felt like I was going to see Bodhi/Patrick Swayze out there showing the ocean whose boss.

We arrived and it was packed with spectators hungry and as excited as a Masterchef cook-off. The communal enjoyment of the spectacle was palpable and when a dude in his 20s shouted ‘That dude got totally axed!’ when a brave surfer smashed and rolled in a mountain of whitewater I had to shove my hands in my pockets so I didn’t whoop and hi-five with the stranger.

 Waiting for surfers to get 'axed'

There was awe in watching these ordinary men take the 10ft ocean on. I love the romance of it – cold water, cold limbs, big swell and nothing but passion, determination and searching for a moment of selflessness driving you forward. It was a sight to behold and I was in heaven. For realises.

Believe me, this looked freakin' scary.