Surfing At Home

Heard a Canadian comedian talking about his surfing lessons. He wasn't impressed and reckoned he could easily recreate the experience at home by drinking a bucket of sea-water, cutting his arms and legs with a blunt knife, and hitting himself on the head with a wooden plank. Twice.

Goodbye To All That

It was good while it lasted. For those of you who don't know, I start work on Monday as the constituency officer of our local MP and, yes, it is a proper, full-time job with an office and ties and pay and everything, just like I used to have and many of you still do.

I think it will be fun, and interesting as well, but I will miss my carefree existence. Well, I won't miss cleaning the house every week which is just as boring even if you try doing it the other way round. And not, obviously, spraying the eaves and window frames with noxious chemicals to reduce the herds of spiders hanging around, some poisonous, we think. Dealing with the invading mice, on the other hand, wasn't too bad. I found that the Australian equivalent of the Little Nipper mousetrap (proudly made in Bedwas) was a big improvement: it doesn't decapitate its victims so clearing up after a night of slaughter was relatively easy.

Ironically, I've only just discovered what seems to be an old codgers' surfing session on Sandy Beach which takes place after breakfast, if it's nice. I joined them this morning and it was all very sedate in contrast to going down after school when the air (and I do mean "the air") above the waves is full of youths on impossibly short and pointy boards. Something about 8ft long and rounded is de rigeur for the morning sessions. Ideally, any design on the board should be almost invisible under ancient layers of wax or faded to a mere suggestion from decades in the sun. Oh well, there's always the weekends.

Gotcha!

Had some fun producing this week's paper, as you can see....


The Front Page

Last week, we, and a local fraud investigator, Bruce Dwyer, aka Minder, offered a reward for information leading to the whereabouts (as they say) of a bloke who who'd charged kids $125 for a soccer clinic, only to cancel the clinic and then disappear. We also revealed (how easy it is to slip back into the old phrases) that he had a conviction for supplying drugs. Within 24 hours, several former and vengeful girlfriends had called, one of whom dobbed him in, and he was promptly arrested for failing to comply with a weekend detention order.

Not only that, but a local businessman and soccer coach decided to organise a replacement clinic for the disappointed kids. So the front page was great fun. We also found out the con man was a drug addict. Now, if only I'd been working there next week...wait....it's coming....yes...SOCCER SCAM LOVE RAT IN COLD TURKEY CELL HELL...yes, that'll do nicely.

Sitting Pigeon

More from our bowls correspondent, Bill Lush (see post below ). After hearing about his shark-fishing exploits, I asked him, foolishly perhaps, if he'd been involved in any other sports. "Oh yes," he replied. "I was a very good shot."

Apparently, back in the good old, no-nonsense days when you didn't have to make do with clay pigeons and could shoot real ones instead, Bill was tieing for first place in a big cup competition. It all came down to the last shot but when the trap opened, the pigeon didn't fly out (well, who could blame it?). Bill explained that in those circumstances, you could either ask for another trap to be set or for the recalcitrant to be coaxed from its hiding place. Bill chose the latter.

"And d'you know," he said, "this little red pigeon came out of the trap and walked off along the ground." He paused, looking vaguely sentimental. "So I shot it and won the cup."

With that, he donned his smart straw hat, tapped his walking stick on the floor and was gone.

A Pointer or Two

Had a visit at my temporary desk at the Independent from the nonagenarian bowls correspondent, Bill Lush, delivering his column On The Jack. A former journalist and, apparently, many other things besides, it's always a pleasure to see him.

He sat down in the spare, grubby chair and asked me if I'd ever tried bowls. I said, no, and that I'd just taken up surfing. He looked very serious. "Mmmmm," he said, propping his chin on his walking stick. "Given any thought to White Pointers?" These, of course, are sharks and Bill then regaled me with his many shark experiences from when he lived in Tasmania.

In the game-fishing anecdotes, the sharks came off worse but he also told me about the scientist studying seals he took out to a colony in his boat. She ignored his warnings about local sharks and insisted on donning diving gear and going over the side. He brought the boat back alone. His thesis is that anyone, surfer or diver, who goes in the water looking remotely like a seal should expect to be eaten. "It's not the sharks' fault," he said. "And they always spit you out when they realise they've made a mistake. Anyway, if you change your mind about bowls, come down the club and have a roll sometime."

Settling In...

Beginning to get the hang of Sandy Beach. As we suspected, it's less flashy than Diggers and has more of the air of one of those small, slightly seedy and deliberately unpolished Normandy seaside towns, minus, unfortunately, the boulangerie. Perhaps there's an opening there.

Mornings still see the trek to the beach, but it's much less trendy, less an aggressive lifestyle choice to be flaunted, and more of simple pleasure. End of the afternoon, everyone, young, old and middling, goes down to the sea, to walk, swim, surf or body-board. But "everyone" doesn't equate to a great many people so there's acres of room.

Most people wander down in their cozzies with a towel over their shoulder. Small, black Speedos seem to be the garment of choice for gentlemen of a certain age and figure, which is a bit of drawback, but they seem to be past caring. I don't think they're trying to make a fashion statement. The surf is good for beginners and I'm looking forward to getting my own board to sample it. For the record, I've progressed to a hard board, as opposed to a learner's soft board, and I'm told I'm ready to go out the back. This is very exciting, though the estate agent who sold us our house did confess to me that he had to be rescued at Diggers after paddling out on the rip and, well, failing to get out of the rip and heading off for New Zealand until the lifeguards caught up with him. So excitement needs to be tempered with caution.

As for the house itself, we have a vigorous type of grass which is keeping the new motor-mower fully occupied, and the ceiling fan in the bedroom is a boon on hot nights. Unlike those I've lain under in India and Pakistan, it doesn't threaten to fall from the ceiling, carving chunks out of your sweating flash, thus keeping you wide awake despite its cooling effect. Shelves for books, LPs and CDs have been commissioned from surfer/carpenter Matt from San Diego who lives on another beach down the coast.

Unfortunately, in many ways, I have to go back to work on the Independent for two weeks. But the Pacific Ocean will still be there, glittering in the sun, when we drive over the rise at the end of our road every evening on our way home.

Shark News

I know some of you like news about the deadly wildlife so you'll be glad to hear that three bronze whaler sharks were sighted right in the harbour the other day. One was reported to be 12 foot long.

This is a bit alarming as there's lots of sailing and windsurfing in the harbour and, because it's relatively surf-free, Jetty Beach is popular for swimming. Niece-to-be Hannah and the rest of her Nippers life-saving group were among those to leave the water.

Moved....

Well, it all went very smoothly. Apart, that is, from being locked out on the day we took possession. Somehow, when the estate agent gave me two remote control fobs for the garage and no keys, I felt that it wasn't going to be plain sailing and, sure enough the connecting door to the house was locked.

Luckily, we didn't have three perspiring removal men and all our possessions waiting in the road while the locksmith was summoned (by the vendor who also paid the call-out bill) as we'd always planned to move in the following day. And boy, did they sweat. Hard work in this climate. The vendor also left us a goldfish, which is still alive.

Anyway, everything inside the house was fine, including the keys. There's been more perspiring, as various boxes are lugged around and lugged back again when they prove to be the wrong box, or the right box in the wrong place, obviously. It's not me who decides these things for the most part.

One of the first jobs was to cut the vast lawns, front and rear. We are now the possessers of a motor mower (four-stroke, 18" cut, for those obsessed with such things) and a whipper-snipper (a strimmer in this neck of the woods).

Since I started writing this, two people have wandered past with surf boards and one with a spear gun. I shall head to the beach myself shortly.

On The Move

Possibly the last posting for a while. We're packing ready for the move to Sandy Beach on Tuesday and the computer will soon be in its box. Once it comes out of the box, Telstra will have to squirt something down our new telephone line to make it work faster - I hope that's not too technical - and that took many days last time. Then there'll be a celebratory "we're in our new house" posting. Or one saying it's all been a nightmare.

Honest Dollar

Just earned my first honest dollar, standing in for the editor of the local Independent Weekly. Once my amazement at the fact that one could travel to the other side of the world and end up editing a paper after one had been out of that line of business for longer than I care to think had faded, I was amazed how little had changed.

Advertisers still treat requests for information with contempt and then complain about the final copy; terrifying proof readers still treat journalists like feckless schoolboys who have made a mistake in their English homework; and the people who make up the pages still pay little regard to the way you've laid them out.

In spite of that degree of familiarity, work was a serious shock to the system and a post-deadline day visit to the pool felt like a real luxury. Next week, we've lost a production day because Wednesday is Australia Day so I guess life will be even more fraught. Just like old times.

In a similar vein, I'm afraid we went to see Bridget Jones - The Edge of Reason (yes, it's only just reached us). Watching the scene where she parachutes into a pen full of pigs, the director says to the cameraman: "give me the porker's behind" and the camera panned straight to Bridget's bum, I thought: "How like every cameraman I've ever met." They would all have done exactly the same thing. Unhesitatingly.

Lesson No. 5

Got there at last, after delaying for a week after my toe suffered a painful encounter with a bed sheet and Sara said surfing probably wasn't a good idea. Today, however, we both left the beach in more or less the same state as we arrived. Most of the time in between was spent standing up. On the board, that is. There was another irritating child, gliding past us. Her father was particularly irritated, he told me, as he couldn't stand up at all. We also discovered that jockeys are natural surfers because they're light and used to spending time in a crouching position on something long and unstable with a mind of its own. The lessons have been a great Christmas present and we think we'll hire boards, while we build our confidence. Neither of us have been "out the back" (beyond the break) where the big boys play and I think we'll be staying in the wash (waves after they've broken) for a while. It's quite addictive.

Progress Report

Can now walk without a limp and Sara has skin on nearly all her knee. So we'll go down to Diggers for Lesson No. 5 tomorrow. We've been assuming that the battering and bruising stops as you get better but a colleague has told Sara that I goes on for a long time.

Meanwhile, I nearly sat on this on one of our patio chairs, which would have been memorable for both of us, I imagine....




...it really is a jungle out here.

Kind of Blue

That's actually the colour of my left foot, rather than a reference to Miles Davis. It also has a few shades of purple, following an unplanned and ungainly dismounting of the board during Lesson No 4. Didn't think I'd done any harm at the time but Lesson No 5 has been postponed until normal colouration is resumed and I can actually walk properly. It'll also give Sara's sand burn on her knee time to heal. Beginning to see why some people here look at you as though you're mad when you say you're having surfing lessons.

Lesson No. 4

Sara triumphs, and rises above the waves; I'm about the same as yesterday; Colin rests, which was not a bad idea as I could barely get on the board by the end. A ginger-haired boy too small to carry his own board or even paddle it, stands up straight away. We all get very jealous and spend the rest of the session trying to knock him off. In our group is Andrew, from Sydney, who works as a builder/carpenter, coaches football and bastketball, and is the nightwatchman at girls' boarding school. "Dream job, mate, but I still need a holiday."

Lesson No. 3

Vindicated. All that lunging in the lounge, the source of much hilarity on the part of my nearest and dearest, has paid off. Today, despite a falling tide, north-easterly winds and a nasty sweep, verticality was attained on the vast majority of waves caught. Sometimes wobbly verticality, but getting there was the whole point. Grace and style can come later, though probably not tomorrow. Sara is pleased to report that she got both feet on the board on one occasion and has no more injuries. Colin has been consolidating.

Surf School of Life

Sign up here....

Back in the endless summer of my youth, I took up the offer of being taught to surf by a friend who was working as a lifeguard at Southerndown Beach. The lessons, or rather, the lesson, went something like this: “this is the surf board, there’s the sea, and try not to hit any bathers.” And after a few hours, I was standing proud, threading a path through any swimmers not wise enough to get out of my way.

It’s very different now. We gave each other surfing lessons for Christmas and I’m writing this with what might be a cracked rib. Certainly feels as though it could be. I have no idea how it happened, at some stage in the first lesson. No further damage was done in the second lesson. Sara has lost the skin from one knee and the ability to move her arms. Sister-in-law-to-be Sian has retired after doing a fair impression of Robinson Crusoe being washed ashore clinging to a piece of driftwood after days at sea. Brother-in-law-to-be Colin seems remarkably perky and unscathed, apart from also complaining about sore ribs.

Our instructress, Erica, seemed rather surprised when we turned up for the second lesson. I don’t think she has to deal with many people of our age. She appears to have the flexibility of a brand-new elastic band, which makes manoeuvres like the “Five Toes” look very easy, especially when she’s showing you on the beach. But my right foot has never seen the need to get very close to my groin before and shows no sign of wanting to do so now. Also, I have trouble with the lunge for the vertical that follows the “Five Toes” so, between applying ice packs to my ribs, I have been lunging in the lounge. I may be getting the hang of it, at least indoors, but you‘ve got to start somewhere. Both Colin and I have, however, stood up briefly. On a wave.

Somehow, it all seemed so easy at Southerndown and I remember catching the waves and rising to my feet with one single, gazelle-like movement. I can’t think what’s changed. Perhaps it will come to me when we have our next lesson tomorrow.

Crawling Along…..Still

There’s more to do than I thought Crawling Along. It turns out Cheryl wasn’t being entirely honest when she said my right arm and my breathing were OK. She was being kind. My right arm doesn’t leave or enter the water properly - you’re right, that doesn’t leave much - and when I try to breathe on my left side, my mouth is still under the water. Yes, this makes it difficult.

So my current “drill” involves trundling along with my flippers on, one arm held straight out in front, concentrating on making the correct movements with the other arm. And I have to find a position for my head, which hopefully will not be resting on the bottom of the pool, which seemed likely on my first attempt when my inability to think about more than one thing at a time and to coordinate various body parts came to the fore.

And I have to develop “long arms”, a phrase I’ve heard drifting out of the toddlers’ learning pool. My legs have been left to fend for themselves for a bit and we’re concentrating on the bow, rather than the stern. This summer’s Jetty Swim might be a bit ambitious, I feel. However, I am now inspired by the achievement of our friend, Amanda, also from Wales, who has just qualified as a lifeguard in Sydney, hard enough in itself, but she’s also the mother of three young boys. So - when do I breathe, exactly?

Quick Sale

We think we may have bought a house. I say “may” only because I don’t want to tempt fate, but it does seem as though we’re going to acquire a detached bungalow one street back from the beach in a village about twenty minutes drive north from Coffs. You can see it here Ti-Tree Road, at least until the agents change their site.

Compared to buying or selling in the UK, it’s happened with frightening speed, less than two weeks elapsing between agreeing a price, organising searches and inspections, exchanging contracts and including a five-day cooling-off period - we’re in the cooling-off period at present. Taking Christmas into account, the completion and moving date is January 31. Considering that it took more than two months to sort out the deal on our flat in Penarth, even though we weren’t buying anywhere else and our buyers weren’t selling anything, and for most of that time we had nothing resembling a completion date and languished in a legal and financial limbo, it seems quite remarkable.

It’s strange because the elements of both systems are much the same, the only difference being that everyone here - banks, solicitors, surveyors - seems to agree that it can be done, and done quickly. We did have to put down a 10pc deposit on exchange of contracts, which does concentrate the mind, and gives the seller some security. The deposit is returnable if you pull out with good cause in the cooling off period, otherwise it stays in trust until completion. You could still get gazzumped in the cooling-off period but, in theory, everyone knows where they stand.

There’s little in Sandy Beach itself, apart from a hairdressers and a shop selling papers, milk, canned goods and fishing tackle and bait. And the beach, of course. It looks and feels like a seaside community. Woolgoolga, just up the highway, or at the end of the next beach, depending how you look at it, has a fine Sikh temple and shops and restaurants. Otherwise, one scoots down the highway to Coffs. In eighteen months, there will be another option - a cycle-way along the coast which will make a fine ride.

Fingers crossed……

Crawling Along

I've written before about the humiliation that awaited me on last summer's visits to the swimming pool Sink or Swim. Well, nothing's changed. But I've decided that I can no longer be the only one doing a leisurely breast-stroke while everyone else is speeding up and down doing the crawl, or freestyle, as it's known here. Whenever I try it, I expend a lot of energy and get precisely nowhere, except nearer a watery grave.

So Cheryl, an instructress who also runs the pool, kindly agreed to sort me out. "Sounds like you've got heavy legs," was her initial verdict when I explained my problem, and my tendency to lie in the water at 45degrees. In fact, it's worse than that. A full inspection this morning revealed that my right arm and my breathing were fine but my left arm, upper body, legs and feet were not. I could see the poor woman wondering where to start.

She opted for the left arm, and her advice produced an almost immediate improvement. For the more serious problem of my heavy legs (her initial diagnosis was confirmed) I need soft flippers, apparently, and Cheryl will give me a set of drills to perform. So after some serious practice of my new left arm movement (carefully not forgetting what I was doing right with the other arm and my lungs), I tottered off to near-by Paul's Warehouse for said flippers. I'm determined. If I can crack this, maybe I'll even try the annual Jetty Swim.

Christmas Confusion, Dingo Drollery

Driving back home the other day in blazing sunshine, with temperatures in the high twenties, we came across a selection of floats, like a small carnival. Standing beside them in the heat were hordes of small children, all sweating in red tunics and hats, and amid them, Santa Claus, in full regalia, including whiskers.

This was the starting point for Santa's parade to the nearby shopping plaza and to anyone used to celebrating - if that's the word - Christmas in conditions of stygian gloom and possibly torrential rain, it was bizarre sight. Since then, the temperature has climbed to the mid-thirties on a couple of days, and Santa is well set up in his air-conditioned grotto, doing what Santas do the world over - patiently, or otherwise, having their photo taken with small children while being observed by a security camera to ensure propriety.

Most of the houses round here are decked out in flashing lights, stars, sleighs and reindeer, all looking bleached under the blazing sun, with the fizzing noise that cheap electrics make being drowned out during our regular tropical downpours by the croaking of hundreds of frogs and the cries of enthusiastic cicadas.

There are no lights on our house but, like most people, we'll be having a barbecue on Christmas Day. Apart from this, I really can't accept that Christmas is coming at all. We seem to have no need of a mid-winter feast but no doubt we'll manage to force down a few fresh prawns and, because I thought everyone was joking when they said Christmas was coming, I'm committed to making a pudding.

In the midst of all this tradition and sentimentality, you'll be glad to hear that the Australian sense of humour remains as robust as ever. You'll remember the case of Lindy Chamberlain, whose baby daughter was apparently taken by dingos from a campsite at Uluru? Well, she still regularly makes the headlines here, and did so last week, because what exactly happened has never been fully established and speculation continues.

Outside almost every bookshop is a display of Larson desk calenders. The cover cartoon shows a nursery and in the front garden is a playpen full of toddlers. Nextdoor is a dingo farm, with a line of dingos, their noses pressed to the garden fence, looking keenly at the occupants of the playpen.