I’m so glad that I can’t surf

Moving from the Costa Del Creeping Mud, a seaside resort on the Lancashire coast, to living in squats in Camden town next to the drama school that I attended, I had the last remnants of my fishing tackle nicked, or ‘liberated for the people’s cause’; by some capitalist hippy or other low life. Probably to buy a fix, or a lump of hashish. No doubt justifying this robbery of a fellow squatter and struggler, by quoting that convenient justification ; “All property is theft, man”… and then an hour or two later reverting to .. “Hey, get your hands off my stash!”

I hate capitalist hippies to this day and Camden town was, and is, full of them! (buying knock down prices off deprived artisans in Asia while helping keep them in poverty and destitution , then selling on these ill-gotten-gains, as top price hand crafted luxury to us mugs looking for some ethnicity. They really are the scum.)

Like on cold squatters evenings, finding cheap ready warmth, mesmerized while watching (my) clothes drying in the coin operated Laundry Mat next door. In my tumbling drum of the years flying by, life’s options like those T shirts and jeans flopped over, and flipped around, through the months and the years. Drama school; picture frame maker; drama therapist; labourer; landscaper; Horticultural college; all tossed and turned as options. While in the background a wonderful inspiring Australian lady, was patiently putting up with my shit and steadied my ship. Life found me in a top floor council flat, with pot plants, and a cat; baking bread and making wild fruit wines looking over rare green views of Hamstead Heath. With an inspiring lady to cherish and the potential of a long blissful clear passage of a happy life ahead, I selfishly rocked the boat and she headed for the life rafts, leaving me to sink or swim, very much to my own vices and devices. I couldn’t blame her. I was a complete shit! 

Fishing found me again near the sea, while drifting aimlessly by a surf beach on the Queensland border. And the bug bit deep this time.

Feeling terribly mature now and yet still utterly feckless, my first foray into the waves with a board was greeted by the local stoned surf boys with a rather aggressive, “Fuck off, yer Grommit!” and some close shaves with boards being steered at me. I was smart enough to realise that, that was realistically, the only kind of advice I would get from them. Until, or if ever, I could hold my own on a surf board, that was likely to be my level of acceptance in this community, especially when they realized I was a pom.

The weird winter in London I had just left hit -14c some days out working, shaping rock with hand tools so cold that they froze to your hands and pulled skin off, my body was beginning to feel crushed, broken from the weight of the slabs, and supervising sites by the example of how far I would push myself. If it wasn’t freezing it was wet, icy cold wet. Here, in Fingal, the sun shone every day and every night the tropical storms out over the ocean above the distant Cook island were magical, big billowing clouds that silently pulsed with sheet lightening, it at first amazed and then happened virtually every night on cue, the warmth was consistent, day and night, and the blue skies without end.

I wasn’t planning on leaving this paradise of a town anytime soon, so I bought a fishing rod and left surfing for another lifetime.. 

I had that North beach option, beloved of the surfing community, that stretched a mile or more to the bar of the river mouth; the Tweed heads. I also had the headland option, a rocky outcrop of black basalt pillars called Fingal’s head with a treacherous slippy causeway to run across. A mercydash timed between waves that seemed intent on wiping you off your feet and delivering you into a roaring cauldron of jagged black basalt rocks and turbulent white water that looked impossible to escape, especially it seemed, when it found out that you were a pom.

The worst thing about this sometimes treacherous crossing; sorry… amongst the worst things about this crossing; was as you stood with your rod and bait bucket trying to time your run between the surf, and wondering if it may be more sensible to fish elsewhere today. You were however also for that moment the main stage; the entertaining distraction for the many stoned locals spread out on the beach, sunning themselves between surfing sessions and willing some drama to unravel, especially to the town pom. The biggest cheers would no doubt come from a slip up, not a successful crossing, which was met with disappointment to the gathered throng of disappointed  sadists. Prudently walking away was therefore a walk of shame and terrible ammunition to weaponize the banter wars, it was not a viable option for a happy and peaceful life.

Once on there, the next problem was the trip back, hopefully with the addition of fish to carry too, and chances are that conditions may be better, or often, much, much, worse, so your time on the rocks was never too relaxed knowing what you still faced. It was however never a blank session out therefore always worth it.

Another problem was the occasional local surfers, who would come and join me fishing and have a chin wag. They made a piece of paraphernalia with a milk bottle two pieces of ‘acquired’ hose pipes (not that they personally had gardens), sealed into the neck with a huge wodge of toilet roll  and a cone cut from a coke can for a pipe bowl. Called a bottle Bong (and they never changed the water, it stank!).

Inexplicably they’d do the run across the causeway with this, fishing tackle and a bag of weed, and then attempt to get the pom completely wasted ready for the trip back. Make the dash first out, and then goad me about how slippy it just was, and how I’d just missed the best gap in the breakers.

It got terribly predictable, I’d have just a few polite tokes on the pipe knowing they’d really loaded mine, and then take the hounding of “Hey, the pom cant take his weed”. I’d let them get really ripped, smugly showing off, it kept them quiet at last. I guess this was just a custom of the town and everyone that came in afresh, who then progressed from victim to perpetrator eventually.

One day out there, when fishing close around the rocks for bream,  the surface of the water went wild back out along the beach; bait fish going crazy and heading towards us. We fumbled to change the end tackle wondering what was driving that shoal. By the time we turned around and were ready, those fish had past us and swept round the head, then we saw the dark shadows driving them, gliding close by over the reef, what looked like really sizable Hammer Head sharks, we scrambled along the rocks and watched them round the point , then they seemed to settle in by the turbulent waters tumbling out at the back of the causeway. Paranoid from the weed, we could imagine them waiting for the human food, nicely tenderized from the crushing white water on the jagged black rocks, of anyone that slipped on that crossing back. Stoned surfers do not like sharks and the talk became ridiculous, there was no goading or horseplay on the way back. My fear of these fish came from the surfers who occasionally saw them with feet dangling, waiting to catch a wave and shoot back to shore on the first available ride, I caught my fear and dread from their tales, and I was unaware that attacks from hammer heads are so very rare and never fatal.

Despite the surfers attempts, the sight of those crashing waves and the waiting maelstrom and murderous black rocks had a wonderful effect of instantly straightening me up and focusing my attention. One of the surf bums, slipped on the way back one day and was heading into the crusher when I caught him by the back of the shorts. Well maybe I imagined he was about to slip  completely in to it, it was a reaction thing, he swore afterwards that he was able to save himself, still in control, and didn’t need my help.  

He got the help anyway. That was a most memorable and satisfying wedgy to deliver, and with two hands I yanked back with reserves of strength way beyond necessary to save him. The sound he made was so loud and strange as his wedding tackle was crushed into a fold of material and was threatening to slice him up between the buttocks. As gravity pulled him one way and me tugging back and up with all my laborers might from the other direction, the noises he was making become more primordial, he was obviously connecting with something deep and ancient.

There was no thanks forthcoming, some feeble whimpering complaint about unnecessary force and accusations of me enjoying myself too much. But I protested that I had never touched another man’s shorts in my life before, I reminded him I’d just saved his skin and he could try being grateful instead of blubbering about imagined injustice (while thinking that gainfully, I may have saved Australia from suffering the unnecessary burden of his offspring in the future).

I also had a south beach to fish on, this was usually Blue Fin Trevally, you’d spot the shoal in the wall of a rising surf break, like a turquoise aquarium tank, and just fire in to the wall in that general direction. It was fun, as the wall broke and shattered on the shoreline, then finding in all that chaos, a fish had managed to target your bait. But they were not great eating and too be honest what they were doing in that surf looked more fun, than my fishing for them.

The breakers on the south beach were a high shore break but a really short ride in for the surf guys so it was usually deserted. I spent one afternoon down there with a local girl who liked to just get at the back of them and then get churned around randomly in the currents, it was like some form of acrobatics, she was like a mermaid. And mesmerizing to watch close by, I loved it. For a guy who always needs to feel his feet on the sand, never venturing too deep, this was liberating, and I answered the sirens call, joined her playing around in the swell, but without her grace and physical eloquence.  It became a habit over a few weeks even without the mermaid.

Gradually, I’d look for a bit more of excitement in the experience of feeling the force and speed of these waters, I’d  drop the rod back on the sand, if I brought it. Get into the surf and put myself in a position to get swamped by breakers at the front. With a big breath held in, and then tumbled and turned over powerless to resist or have any control, never knowing quite how long you’d be under before being spat out on the shoreline somewhere, anywhere, breathless and totally exhilarated. Safe from the rocks  the worst you got was a stinging rash from the sands, and so much adrenalin! It was a bit rough for mermaids, but I couldn’t understand why more people didn’t just surrender, feeling the force, it was only water after all.

I was back in the laundry matt tumble drier again, this timeplaying the role of a T shirt being flipped randomly. One day my chest and chin got smashed down into the shore first, knocking the breath out of me, and the force and weight of a driving, crashing wave took my legs over my back in an arch, thankfully, my body twisted away and the loop didn’t get to complete. Dumped on the shoreline, coughing out water, the excruciating pain in my back told me I had just had a very lucky escape on a deserted beach, with no one to miss me or realise that I had gone, there would have been no help, no searchers.

It was about the same time I heard of a young sports teacher and Ironman competitor who’d been body surfing the north beach a few weeks later and had a similar accident, he was now in a wheelchair for life. My relationship with the surf became more respectful, and remote. The south beach became a chilling memory of stupidity and mortality, and I was never quite as happy there again… and the mermaid had moved on.

Then for alternative fishing we had the river mouth near the bar this was tidal, brackish and had moving shoals as the tide came in and out.

So there were many options available, and I soon was getting a better handle on the best place for the day. There was a small group of pacific islanders who’d been here for many generations and whom pretty much kept themselves apart from the locals; and then fished in force, when there were migratory runs on like Mullet and Tailor. These guys took me catching Mud crab in the mangrove like swaps, up the muddy river; and asked me to join their crew for the Mullet run, their yearly bonanza. Now christened the bronze pommie by them, they gave me advice on the fishing options with tides and the weather and the seasons. Being a pom didn’t matter to them, I was just another new coming “white fella” in their reckoning, but so gradually turning the right shade of brown and I wasn’t one of the stoned surfers, who were too free with their racist jokes about the Aborigines. For me the aboriginal people are the top caste, the echelon in that society, they are revered and respected above everyone in my eyes.

Soon, I did gain some acceptance from a small group … of pelicans. If I was on the north beech they would waddle up, a couple and a-string-along older male who seemed to shadow them always, the pair seemed to reluctantly tolerate his presence, though not too close, they maintained their boundaries. It was a strange unit and even stranger on the occasions I became a part of it.

The company was nice, though I was under no illusions, they knew I had a bait bucket that I may get distracted from, or would end up with caught fish and a bait bucket to juggle for attention while still fishing and this was an opportunity too good to miss. Stupidly I succumbed to their charms and would toss the smaller catches back to them which only helped cement our bond, it did nothing to train them to be selective though of what they rightly considered, justifiably; their fair share of the bounty of the ocean.

A few times I thought I’d avoided them and my catch was safe, I’d be in a world of my own by the surf’s edge when some dark shadows would pass over the sand around me as they circled down, slammed on the breaks, and clumsily landed  close by. With a “G’Day pom, did you think you’d avoided us today mate!” they shuffled their plumage back into shape.

Not a chance, they were as constant as the tides, and even used to waddle after me heading home part of the way, before giving up and watching me leave. If I was just stood aimlessly looking out to the  horizon deep in contemplation, the pair would be stood with me 6 -8 feet away their beaks often looking out that way too, with the old fella shuffling around somewhere in the background impatient for some action. It must have looked so weird from back on the beach. Being a pom didn’t matter to these either, I was just another human, but not one to be avoided as, like them, I caught fish and never made wild movements at them, even when they pillaged my catch. I wondered if my affable gentle chatter with them helped encourage the equilibrium that developed over time.

As for the towns folk and acceptance; if this had been a movie or an old tale there’s always a defining moment when the stranger in town earns the respect and gains acceptance, being a none surfing ‘pom’ in a small stoned surfing community, this was never likely  to happen.

Once a year the Tailor arrive for a few weeks, I think they are known as Bluefish elsewhere. A shoal of veracious predators that schooled up the bait fish and drove them into shore and then wreak bloody havoc. In all the wide expanse of the north beach they would hit one patch of 20 or 30 yards for about half and hours frenzy every night for a few weeks. The pacific islanders seem to know just the mark on the beach and the timing of the year.

There was a trick with them that the biggest fish seemed to prefer the back of the shoal furthest out to sea, so we would fish up to our chests in rolling surf then drag each fish back to shore to drop the catch off, re-bait and then work out again into the surf. Just keeping the larger fish, anything smaller was put back. Sometimes in the frenzy the fish would take a random nip at you with their sharp teeth. Thankfully, I was pre warned about this.

The standard tackle was three hooks linked, hook to eye, like a chain; and the baited, cast out far and then ripped back infaster than the coming waves. 

A couple of dozen of us were there the first night, and when the shoal hit I was out in the surf in my shorts and an old long sleeved shirt to save me from the nips.   As far as I could get out in the bouncing waves with my feet still grounded, few taller guys got out a little further but I was proudly up in the front too, and in amongst the islanders. We were a yard or two from our neighbor’s all casting straight, no crossed lines, no competition for space, and a mutual growing respect.  After the Tailor blitz died down it seemed accepted that I’d done good, not pissed anyone off, and as a fisherman at least; I was now part of the place at last.

Within a few nights word had got out, and the out-of-towners from the Gold Coast and even as far as Brisbane turned up. This new crew concentrated the numbers in the small arena of activity, only these new comers were back on the shore line, casting just past us or over our lines, and catching the smaller tailor snappers as well as some bigger fish, they’d drag them in between us and occasionally you’d get a scrape of a spiny fin, or line pulling  around you. What was worse was these guys on the beach were mopping up and killing everything and filling bin bags, it was such a waste.

This developed a definite ‘Us and Them’ feeling now between us guys in the surf, selectively choosing the bigger fish, and those shore huggers happy it seemed to wipe out the entire shoal, while not caring about us so much, out in the surf. On the third night of the shore huggers, what I thought was inevitable, happened, and it happened to me. 

Concentrating hard and casting straight out in a big bit of swell, I’d just flipped back the bail arm to start  reeling in and felt a sharp pain by my elbow, and looked down to see a small tailor stuck to my shirt sleeve, I knew there was a hook in there somewhere and I was praying the barb hadn’t got in. Then my arm  got yanked backwards by the hook and spun me around, I screamed to the heavens “JUST Stop your fucking pulling!!”. I seemed to have the attention of every one on the beach not connected to a fish. It was now just hooked in my shirt and the blood from the wound was instantaneous, I grasped my rod in my teeth to free up my hand and got hold of the hooked fish and yanked it out of my sleeve, I think that every onlooker thought I’d yanked a hook out of my arm. I was incensed and descended into my full drama queen mode.

Keeping hold of the fish with my bloodied right hand I marched back to the shore, dragging my rod straight behind, desperately trying not to cross anyone and get it out of the fishing zone. I couldn’t work out  whose rod this line had come from and didn’t care, my message was to the assembled throng and I made sure they all heard it. I just picked on the most sheepish and least rugby player looking victim and let rip straight at him, “If you haven’t got the balls enough to get in there with the rest of us you fucking Shit for brains, Then just fuck off out of here!”  Tossed the fish at his feet, and wearing the bloodied remnants of the shirt, with a nasty scratch that looked like a gaping bloody wound with all the water, gritted my teeth, reeled in my line, and with a still baited hook, got back into the surf to continue fishing. That wound in the salt stung like hell.

When it was over, we were walking back, one of the bigger older pacific islander sidled up to me, “Mate, bloody good job it was just your sleeve, eh? You had ‘em fooled  good and proper.”

Not everyone was fooled it seemed. “Didn’t fool you then big fella, even with all that blood”?.

“Nah mate, you’re a wuz like me, I’d a bloody fainted before pulling that out of my arm!... you fucking had em going though, you told them”! and gave me a big friendly nudge. “You did good mate”.

I didn’t care about the surfers, acceptance from the real ancient locals meant everything. I could have hugged that bastard that had hooked me.

Things changed. The owner of the local caravan park said he liked to keep the freezer full with fish in his shop and  offered to pay me to keep it stocked which slowed down the drip of my depleting funds and prolonged my stay a while.  Local fishermen would stop and ask me where I thought the best spot was that day and what bait.

The surf guys though always had a beef about my presence. Unlike the big gentle islanders there was a competitive edge to them in everything they did.

One day I headed down the river mouth, there was an outcrop in the channel that I liked and was great for Whiting. They tasted great, froze well and I had an area ‘sussed-out’ after taking a boat over it with the islanders a few times on the way for Mud crab, with them teaching me about the river features and me drinking it in.

As I approached there were half a dozen guys there already; surfers. They were fishing, drinking ‘tinnies’ and passing around a Bong. I planned on passing by and going way beyond them, to get some peace. but a voice rang out “Oh Christ, you won’t catch anything here now the bloody poms here!“ I wasn’t sure if he meant that I catch everything, or that I scare everything away. But I  was enormously proud of my reputation either way. If I’m not the best, then I’m the worst, not settling for mediocre, I’m at least something definite!

So I decided to stick around and rise to the challenge. “ Where do you want me guys. Upstream or downstream of you?”

I couldn’t believe it they put me downstream. Just past my favored point. They were catching Whiting by the bay and were sure they’d nailed the best spot. Small fish though, there was seagrass out there, and the juveniles loved that shelter, they were easy targets, but a waste of time. I had some seaweed beds and rocks in front and started catching adult whiting.. “I told you, bloody pom, he’ll catch everything”. Next I pulled into a good sized leather jacket, this was an unexpected treat, hard to prepare for cooking, but the flesh tastes like butter. As I lifted it in I heard a voice complain aloud at me . “Oh just fuck right off mate!” as he unbelievably stormed off in a huff… I hoped he was the one who called me a grommet when I first arrived and I was so glad I hadn’t take up surfing.

Have a great week what’s left out in Sexyloops land!

All best to all,

Chris Avery