Photo: Eva Davis-Boermans surfing with a girlfriend in 2004, age 11, cred: Bernadette Davis
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“Chicks don’t surf!” -Puberty Blues 1979
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Saturday 26th September 2015 6.30pm
I’ve been home for more than a day now but I haven’t really arrived yet. It’s dark enough for me to have my headlights on but I can still see without them. I drive down Yarraluma and turn onto Redhill, wishing I could still see ‘The Rabbit Patch’ to my left rather than the modern houses that now line the road. Getting closer now and I can almost taste the air outside but I don’t open the windows. It’s better when you get it all at once.
As I reach the headland I get a glimpse of ‘Barlings’ to my left and ‘The Cove’ to my right. All whitewash. It’s been a windy few days. Up the hill and down into second gear as I curve onto Melville point and pull up at the top. There’s still enough light to see okay and I think I spot a whale but it’s just a white cap. My feet touch the cold gravel as I crack the door and take my first breath. Crisp wind fills my lungs and washes over my face. The waves that roll in are heavy with pearly white wash. Wind tangles my hair as I stare at the ocean, gripping the familiar wooden sleeper that guards me from the cliff. Once the initial fill is up I do the obligatory 180-degree turn and gaze over little Tomakin, its lights slowly winking on.
The beach is empty, the air is a cold southerly and the waves are messy and loud: my favourite place. I remember riding my bike up here and sitting for hours as a teenager contemplating travel, boys, life and the horizon. I suddenly shiver. The cold has set in and my exhilaration subsides. I jump back in my warm van and turn back down the hill. I’m home now.
Being back on Melville Point brings up so many memories of my childhood in the surf. When I was younger I never wanted to go to Barlings because, “Dad it’s too biiiiiiig” and always wanted to “just go to Edwards beach”. Then when I was in high school I had to convince Mum to drive me to the surf at ‘South Brou’ where all the ‘Brou Boys’ hung out. Then finally I learned to escape the crowds and love the sneaky lefthanders at Barlings early in the morning.
All these surfing memories are in part the reason I’ve come home. I had the privilege to grow up, a surfer. For me it was never even a question, I was going to be a surfer girl. But I’m keen to find what it was like when girls’ surfing wasn’t the norm.
As I pull up at home I check my messages. There’s one from Ness and one from Caz.
Ness: “Probably Sunday afternoon after 12 works best J”
Caz: “Hey Eva can we do Monday arvo?”
I’ve lined up interviews with the two women, hoping they can give me an insight in to when it was hard work being a surfer girl. They both began surfing in the ‘70s and paved the way for young women like me to be able to enjoy the ocean and the surf in a way women have never been able to before. It’s through their struggles that I’ve had it so easy.
***
Sunday 27th September 2015 2pm
“So how does a girl from Wee Waa even know about surfing?” I ask Ness.
Her explosive laugh bursts out of her and it gets me going too. It’s like she is laughing with her whole body as she leans forward and slaps her knee. Cool reflective circular sunnies shade her face, and her short sun-bleached hair blows in the sea breeze. She looks totally at home on the sunny veranda, cup of tea in hand, grin on her face.
“That is a very good question!” she says and the laugh continues. “I think it was just the dream in the ‘70s, move to the beach and become a surfer.”
The first time Ness hit the waves wasn’t as ideal as she expected it to be. At 17, Ness, her sister and two of their friends, decided they would rent a house at Terrigal for the week and teach themselves to surf. Ness laughs and rolls her eyes as she remembers her harsh introduction to ‘70s surf culture.
“You know, it was country-girls-hit-the-beach-in-board shorts,” Ness tells me, laughing in disbelief at her 17-year-old self. “Girls didn’t wear board shorts back then so we went out and bought boys’ board shorts.”
As the girls from Wee Waa walked down the beach, the feeling of satisfaction began to fade. Ness could almost feel the glares from a group of girls, clad in delicate crochet bikinis. “Uh oh…” she thought “What have we got ourselves into…” Fending off shouts of “Go home ya sluts!” and “They must be sluts they’re wearing board shorts!” they paddled out into the surf. Ness refers to that day as her first ‘dumping’ rather than her first surf.
“We just had no idea.” she says smiling, “There was a whole hierarchy and we just did not fit in.” I laugh along with Ness more out of shock than humour, feeling like she is explaining a scene from Puberty Blues.
“So if that was your first experience of surfing… why on earth did you keep going?” I ask, confused.
“Well … I never thought boys could do things girls couldn’t do, so I knew people could do it I just had to work out how!” Ness tells me with a matter of fact shrug.
And eventually she did work out how. Over the years she persisted with her dream to surf despite the opposition. When Ness’ mum moved the family to Cronulla in 1978, the disapproval she faced only made her more determined.
“My boyfriend at the time was a lifeguard at Cronulla beach,” she tells me.
Ness explains that lifeguards back then weren’t the same as they are now. It was less about keeping people safe and more about the look and the prestige that came with the title.
“When I tried to borrow a board and go surfing, he actually locked me in his apartment to teach me a lesson, until I learned my place, you know.”
I stare in disbelief.
“I think he let me out when I threatened to kick his door down.”
We both have a bit of a giggle at that. Our chat continues over tea out on the back deck as we compare surfing stories and empathise with each other about gender inequality. Ness tells me how when she moved to Wollongong and joined the surf club, her ocean confidence and ocean awareness grew and she was finally able to really start surfing.
I’m amazed at how even though ness seems to have gone through so much, she has taken it all in her stride. In fact, she doesn’t seem phased at all about the things that shock me the most. She actually seems more worked up about current gender inequality issues both in and out of the surf. It strikes me as odd because I would have thought growing up exposed to such obvious discrimination, she would feel happy with the progress of today. I mean, the beginning of my surfing life was a breeze compared to hers, wasn’t it?
A message on Ness’ phone interrupts my thoughts. She reads it aloud.
“Caz: River mouth looks good, off home to get my board!”
As Ness starts moving I realise our interview is over. It’s surf time. We jump in my car, stopping to check Ness’ seedlings on the way. She has tomatoes, beetroot and lettuce all ready to be planted out at her farm in Mogo. Ness smiles as she runs her hand along the fresh, tiny plants. It’s obvious that although she is a water woman now, she is still a country farm-girl at heart.
We cruise down to the car park and spot Caz, already in her wetsuit.
Obviously impatient to get wet, Caz isn’t hanging around. Ness and I walk to the waters edge with her, chatting about tide, wind, waves, water temperature, surfboards. The tide along the river is as low as I’ve ever seen it and Caz picks her way carefully through oysters and rocks on her way to the water.
Ness shades her face from the glaring afternoon sun and surveys the waves rolling into the river mouth.
“Hmmm… Alright I’m going to get my board.” She decides suddenly.
It doesn’t look enticing to me, but I can understand her enthusiasm. It’s always good to jump in the ocean, especially with a friend.
“Ok, see you out there in a minute!” Caz calls from the waters edge as Ness and I head back to the car.
Not keen on a second surf for the day, I drive up to the headland to watch them for a while. The wind and strong rip on the outgoing tide has messed up the river mouth’s usual perfect, peeling right-handers. I don’t think they’ve even made it out the back once, just paddled around on the exhausting whitewash. They don’t seem to be getting many waves but I can literally sense the fun they are having. A sea eagle cruises past on the wind above them as they play in the waves.
***
Sunday 27th September 2015 6pm
I swing myself up onto the kitchen bench to watch mum expertly chop the veggies for dinner. The chilli dip we made on Friday is ready and it’s delicious. I scoop in a corn chip and it comes out piled with dip. ‘Yum’, I think as I crunch away.
I am still in disbelief over my conversation with Ness. The treatment she received and the resilience she showed amazes me. To be called a slut on your first surf but persist and go on to be a surfer for life is no mean feat. But as I think it over, I realise that some of her experiences are not so far from my own as a teenager. Even though there’s never been any direct opposition to me being in the water, it was always very much a ‘boys club’.
The first real surfing lesson I ever had was when I was 9 years old. I’d already surfed at the hands of mum, dad and godfather for years but this was the real deal. Belinda was my surf teacher and I idolised her. At 25 she had her own surf school and travelled the world. Mum and I always used to joke that she was Barbie doll cross action figure. A combination to be reckoned with.
Bel and I walked down the beach at South Broulee and paddled out the channel, my arms working a million miles an hour, trying to look confident. Although the waves were probably only two feet tall, to 9 year old me they seemed towering. But being with Belinda made it seem more exciting than scary. Mum looked on from the beach in quiet disbelief. I would never have paddled out there with her or Dad. As we bobbed in the water, Bel explained what we were going to do.
“See just here, on the edge, not everyone makes those waves and they’re nice little lefts, so we’ll try catch those. Okay?” she looked at me smiling encouragingly.
“Yep.” I nodded in fierce determination.
I watched as Bel demonstrated. She moved closer to the inside and paddled for every wave no matter who was on it, pulling back gracefully when the person inside her caught it. Eventually she shifted her position closer to the inside and went for a crystal clear lefthander.
I watched her rise to her feet and glide along the surface, sending graceful arcs of spray in her wake. I grinned wildly at her as she paddled back out, my smile reflected on her own face.
“Okay it’s your turn now, lets get you one.” She told me as she paddled back to our spot. The next bit of advice she gave me has stuck with me ever since.
“If you want to be able to get a wave you have to show that you mean it.” She said suddenly serious. “Paddle for every wave as hard as you can, and don’t stop until someone catches it, otherwise you wont get one. Nobody will give you a wave, you have to show that you can commit, or you’ll never get a look in.”
I nodded seriously as she talked. It made perfect sense. At the time I saw it as just a tactic. Now looking back I realise it was because Bel knew that none of those guys respected my right to catch a wave. In their minds a wave given to a girl would probably be wasted because they would presume I couldn’t surf.
Even though I remember that surf as a carefree and fun experience, I know that it also taught me a valuable lesson. I had to fight for a place in the water because I was a girl. Just like Ness did.
“There’ll be none of that left the way you’re going!” Mum is grinning at me as I break out of my reverie.
“But it’s so goooood!” I giggle as I jump off the bench, “It’s your fault for making such nice chilli dip!”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, trying to conceal a grin. It’s nice to have her daughter home.
***
Monday 28th September 2015 1pm
I squeeze through the gate fighting off affectionate licks from Puddle the dog.
I feel like I have taken a step back into the 70’s. There is orange and vintage chic everywhere. Orange couch, orange table, orange dream catcher, even Puddle’s collar is orange. Caz and Mum have shared many cups of tea on our pavers at home and she greets me like an Aunt would. With a hug and a cup of tea.
“How was the surf?” I ask her wryly.
“Ha!” she exclaims with a low chuckle. “It was terrible, you didn’t miss much. We just ended up in the white-water getting battered around. It was good to get wet though,” she says with a smile.
We sit down on the back patio, Puddle in tow. After my conversation with Ness I’m curious to see if Caz has a similar story.
“What was it like in the 70’s for you being a surfer?” I ask to start her off. Caz smiles before throwing her head back in a hearty chuckle.
“Oh it was the classic, the girls would sit on the beach and the boys would go out and surf.” She says matter-of-fact-ly. “You know the boys would come in and give the girls a bit of grief about not seeing this wave or the terrific thing they did,” she continues. “And part of me was like ‘oh yes we should have been watching’ and part of me was like ‘are you serious?’”
Caz was quietly rebellious during the ‘70s. She tells me as a teenager that she didn’t question much, but having always been in the surf as a kid, towards the late ‘70s she started to want to be a surfer again. With her brother’s board strapped to the roof of her car, she would cruise around the beach looking the part but not really knowing what to do with it.
“I thought I was surfing but there was nobody to go with and no one to teach me. It was hard.” She says with an air of resignation.
With the wrong board and bad technique, Caz didn’t progress much in her surfing during the 70’s, but she never stopped loving the ocean. It wasn’t until the 90’s that Caz got her first real chance. She tells me that the first real wave she can remember catching was on a trip to Gerroa with her friend Jo.
“We got up early and headed down to the beach before anyone was up. The rest were still back sleeping at the campsite.” She recalls.
As they hit the cool sand, Caz surveyed the empty beach. ‘No-one out’, she thought glancing at Jo with a hint of concern. But the perfect, glassy, peeling waves were too much to resist. They paddled out together and bobbed around, scanning the horizon for rising swells. Caz had in mind the pictures they had taken of each other surfing the previous day. She had been lying too far back on her board, dragging her own weight through the water like an anchor.
As she saw a wave surging up she turned and paddled, keeping in mind to stay forward. She could instantly tell the paddling was easier. As the wave rose up under her it picked her up and she was finally trimming along the face of the wave. After what felt like only two seconds, the wave was done and Caz was changed. She paddled back out grinning to the sound of hoots and hollers from her friend Jo.
“All the tears and frustration about not being able to do it just washed away. Gone!” she tells me. “I still smile thinking about that wave to this day” she says with a big grin shaking her head.
I smile as Caz tells me her surfing memories because I can relate to that feeling. The sensation of gliding along the face of a wave is like nothing else. It feels effortless like flying but at the same time you feel grounded by the power of the ocean beneath you. It’s a sensation that all surfers feel and it’s what makes it so addictive. It’s a feeling of being in control yet at the mercy of the water all at the same time. It’s the reason we will brave the wind and the cold and the sharks and the crowds and float around waiting for hours. All in the name of 20 seconds of pure bliss.
Caz and I continue to chat until our tea turns cold and I give her a hug goodbye.
“I better go, Mum’s probably home by now,” I say.
“Yeah no worries, I have to head back to Canberra this afternoon anyway,” she says, trying not to sound too down about it. Puddle escorts me to the gate and I give her a pat before I head to my car.
“See you at board riders on Saturday!” I call to Caz from the car and she answers with a wave.
***
Friday October 2nd 5pm
I reach the car park at South Broulee, eager to catch a glimpse of the waves. It’s been a day or two since I’ve been in and my feet are itching to get wet. I squeeze my van between the cars that line the road. ‘South’ becomes an unofficial meeting place on summer afternoons, providing some shelter from the North East wind and potentially a clean wave. Some people are heading in to the water, some just getting out. The rest are just hanging out, in a rush to go nowhere.
I see Ana, Libby, Harry, Loui and Zac, hanging on the thick wooden fence between the sand dune and the path. They’ve probably been here all day running around in and out of the surf, as you do during school holidays when you’re 15 and live on the coast.
Ana and Libby see me and bounce over.
“How is it?” I ask them, presuming they’ve already been surfing at least three times.
“Yeah all right I just got in.” Libby replies.
“It’s getting better but a bit bigger too.” Ana informs me and Libby nods in agreement. They have a habit of finishing each other’s sentences.
I survey the waves. There’s a fair few people out and the rip looks pretty strong. Not ideal, but I’m desperate. The girls hang around and chat as I change into my wetsuit. Seeing the girls hanging out with the guy surfers at South makes me marvel at how different it is from when I was 15. When I was a teenager, it was the Brou Boys who hung out at South Brou in a pack. I chatted to them in the surf and we all knew each other but I would never have dared to hang out with them on the beach. There were boys surfers and there were girl surfers and we were separate. And it wasn’t always implied; sometimes we were told that we weren’t in the same league.
I remember once at a school surfing competition I’d just walked out of a great heat, stoked with my wave and celebrating with my classmates. As we stood around the beach fresh from the exhilaration of the wave and the competition, our supervising teacher, Mr Bennett, told me what he thought of my heat.
“That was a pretty good wave, for a girl.” He said, the last half of the sentence coloured with a tone that implied he was surprised at how well I’d done
“What did you just say?” I asked, rounding on him, hands on hips. I guess an angry 15 year old girl is a scary thing because he looked taken aback.
“I said, that was a good wave.” He replied defensively.
“For a Girl?” I added furiously, eyebrows raised. “You’re supposed to be our teacher you can’t say that, that’s sexist.” By now I had the rest of my teammates on my side nodding and glaring at him with equal venom. Mr Bennett wasn’t pleased at being called out.
“Don’t be so… belligerent!” he said loudly, and retreated back along the beach.
I remember feeling smug and distraught at the same time. I knew he was in the wrong but it had still made me feel like I would never be respected for my achievements. They were only ever going to be “good, for a girl.”
Eventually Ana and Libby head back to their mates and I have to smile at how far we have come in less than ten years. I zip up my wettie, grab my short board and jog down onto the beach.
As I paddle out I’m slightly apprehensive. It’s been a while since I’ve surfed this board and the waves are a bit bigger than usual. With a deep breath I start to paddle. Despite the apprehension I know I’ll be fine. It’s my home break and I’ve surfed much bigger. I let a few sets go past me, getting a feel for the waves.
The next set looms up and I start to paddle into position. As it swells up beneath me my autopilot takes over and I leap up, feeling the rough grip pad and wax under my feet. As I take the drop, arms out to steady me, I look up along the face. The wave stretches out in a perfect curve, nobody in my way. With glee I stretch my bottom turn out until I’m almost parallel with the surface. Looking up, I angle my shoulder around and let the waves power boost me back up almost like a slingshot. SMACK! As I reach the top I wrench my body around and my board doubles back on itself. Spray flies and I feel my insides lifting as I continuing flowing down the wave to the end. I punch the air ecstatically and wriggle back onto my board eager for more.
As I reach the back, I notice Ana has ventured back out in to the surf. I smile as she flits between the crowd, laughing and chatting to various people, then gracefully turns to catch a wave and glides down the line in style. Eventually she makes her way over to me.
“I’m glad you’re out here!” she says with relief as she reaches me. “I have someone to talk to!”
“You talk to everyone though!” I say, laughing. Ana barely stops talking.
“Yeah but your different,” she says in an exasperated tone that tells me I should automatically understand what she means. “It’s just more fun when you or Libby are out!”
Then I realise something. It’s us and about fifteen men. ‘Of course’ I think to myself, ‘I’m different because even though she can talk to everyone, it’s always more comfortable with another girl out here.’
“Fair enough!” I say shrugging, as another set peaks up. The sun is setting and my wetsuit isn’t cutting it. The cold has begun to make my fingers numb.
“I’m heading in!” I call to Ana as I paddle for the wave. It’s another cracker, worthy of a last wave. I ride it to the beach and walk back to my car as the sun sets in a blaze of orange behind me.
***
Saturday October 3rd 7am
I’m already at the beach when Jo Jo arrives with the gear.
“You’re here early,” she remarks. “I wasn’t expecting anyone until at least quarter past.”
“Yeah, I was up early filming for a Uni project,” I reply, as I help her unpack the registration gear. The thought of going back to Uni isn’t a pleasant one and I push it out of my mind.
The women roll up one by one, greeting each other with hugs and laughter. The surf is small but it’s clean and there’s nobody out. Perfect for the Broulee Women’s Board riders. I hear Ness laugh before I see her and wave to Caz as she rolls up on her bike.
“What heat am I in Jo Jo?”
“You’re up next!” she calls and throws me a white rash vest. “Libby and Ana are already down there!”
The past week has made me appreciate the women surfers in my life more than I thought possible. We’ve all had to fight for our place and it isn’t over yet, but we are still here. Looking around me, I know that women’s surfing is here to stay.
The horn sounds and we laugh and hoot as we leap out into the ocean.
***
“There are so many people out there who will tell you that you can’t. What you’ve got to do is turn around and say, “I can. Watch me.”
-Layne Beachley 7x Surfing World Champion
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