New wave - a 1960s beach revolution

Author Graeme Lay. Photo / Supplied

Sun, sea and the birth of surfing: the first part of a four-part story by Graeme Lay.

The big black 1952 Chrysler wagon drove slowly down Kaimara's main street. At the end it turned left, following a sign that stated: To the Beach and Cemetery. White lettering on the Chrysler's passenger doors read: Grimstone & Sons - Funeral Directors.

The street that led to the beach was only a hundred yards long. At the end was a sign pointing left which stated "To the Beach", and one that pointed right and read "Cemetery". The big hearse took neither route. Instead it drew up on the cliff-top. Its doors opened and five young climbed out. They were dressed in shorts, T-shirts and jandals. Two also wore faded blue duffel coats; all were as brown as acorns. The hearse driver was Rob and the other three were called Blondie, Gremmie, Dave and Pete.

The young men walked to the cliff edge and stared out over the bay. It was like a great bite in the land, with rocky promontories like black teeth at each end. A few skeins of white cloud hung in the sky, the open sea was an infinity of blue. The water within the bay was smooth, but further out a submarine reef was pushing up a series of swells which rolled landward, rose into waves, broke and swept up the beach's black sand. Just above the beach was a stucco, cream-painted building, from the roof of which flew a black and yellow flag. Behind the beach, on a broad level area at the base of the cliff, were rows of small holiday baches and a campground. The holiday season had not yet begun, and the campground was empty, the baches untenanted.

Staring out to sea, the five young men absorbed the scene. Blondie, who was short and had a peroxided crew cut, broke the silence. "Man, look at those waves ..." Gremmie, the sturdy, curly-headed one next to him nodded ... "Yeah ... a point break and a reef break. How big, d'you reckon?" Pete, the tallest of the five, replied admiringly, "Five feet." Then he inhaled sharply. "No, look at that one. Eight feet, it's got to be." "And not a board rider in sight," added Dave, who was growing a beard. "It's too much, man." The others nodded. Rob, who was blond-haired and strongly built, squinted into the sun. "Waves with no one on them, a great beach and plenty of baches to choose from. What do you reckon, fellas? Shall we call this place home for the next few weeks?" There were nods of assent. Rob turned back to the hearse. "Well, let's organise ourselves some accommodation, then get amongst those waves."

The date was the tenth of December, 1961. And from that day onwards, nothing in the town of Kaimara would ever be the same again.

Down at the beach, another group of young men was gathered on the sand below the cream-coloured building. The flag which flew from its roof carried the words: Kaimara Surf Life-Saving Club. A ramp led down from the clubhouse entrance to the sand, and beside it were two large wooden surf skis and two surf rescue reels, their canvas harnesses placed on top.

It was late afternoon, and these young men had spent their working day in and around Kaimara: in offices and on building sites, or haymaking on the farms that surrounded the little town. Now, wearing their swimming togs, little black and red caps on their heads, they were listening to a middle-aged man who was addressing them from the concrete terrace in front of the clubhouse. The man had a plump, flushed face, prominent lips and black, curly hair. Dressed in a black blazer with a surf-club reel emblem on its breast pocket, a white open-necked shirt and grey slacks, his name was Lance Jackson and he was the club coach. He spoke earnestly to the dozen young men below him.

"This year's going to be the greatest in this club's thirty-year history, boys. We've got the swimmers, and our team work's good. At last year's carnival we were third in the six man and the four man rescue and resuscitation competition. Good, but not good enough. Next year - 1962 - we're going to be winners. Okay?"

The young men nodded, but diffidently. They all knew that in fact they had only three swimmers who could compete regionally: broad-shouldered, 21-year-old baker Marty Chambers, lanky electrician Barry Jordan, 22, and slim, 19-year-old bank clerk Stephen Lowe. The other club members were no more than competent swimmers, several less than that.

The coach continued. "Our marching's fine, we can all keep in step. Now we have to concentrate on getting our swimming fitness levels up, so we can compete in the water as well as on the sand. We need to be top swimmers, is that understood?" Still looking down, the club members nodded again. "That means a swim around the buoy ..." He pointed out to sea, to where an orange buoy bobbed beyond the breakers, " ... every day." He stepped forward. "Okay then, line up." They obeyed, hands on braced thighs, eyes looking seaward. The tide was high, and waves were breaking on the sand only fifty metres away.

"Ready, get set ..."

Distracted by the throaty sound of a car engine, the coach paused. He and the others all looked across to their left, to where a long black limousine had driven out on to the beach.

A hearse, on the beach? The club members stared as five youths jumped out of the vehicle. The strangers all wore baggy shorts and T-shirts. One opened the rear door of the hearse and pulled out several long surfboards.

They spread the boards out on the sand and began rubbing them with some kind of substance. Their laughing and joking reached the ears of the others. As the surf club boys continued to stare, their thoughts were identical: Who were these strangers? Where had they come from? And what the hell were they doing in Kaimara?

The five each tucked a long board under his arm and carried it down the beach to the water. The surf club members stared. They had seen magazine photos of surfboard riding, in Hawaii and California, but these places were unimaginably distant. Surfboard riders here, in Kaimara? People here only surf-skied, and body surfed. The waves at Kaimara had never seen surfboards like these.

The five young men walked out into the water to knee-depth, got up and knelt on their boards, then began to paddle seaward, their arms dipping in and out of the water in a regular rhythm. When they reached a wave they plunged straight through it, emerged on the other side and resumed paddling. In a few minutes they were beyond the last wave. There they spread out, sat on their boards and waited, glancing behind them at the swells which were being built up by the reef out beyond the bay.

Jolting himself back to the task in hand, Lance Jackson glared down at the line of surf club members, who were still staring out to sea. "Hey, pay attention!" he barked. "Never mind those scruffy buggers, get your minds back on the job. I say again: Ready, get set, GO!"

The club members sprinted towards the water, but their eyes kept straying towards the board riders out in the bay, who were now kneeling on their boards and paddling beach-ward as a big swell began to rise behind them. As Stephen dived under the breaking waves, then began swimming, he found himself just behind Marty and Barry, who were stroking hard as they headed for the buoy. But all three glancing across at the other group of young men and their long boards.

Marty reached the buoy first, followed by Barry and Stephen. Once there, instead of rounding it and beginning to swim back, they all clung to the buoy. The other club members were still some distance behind, flailing at the water. Still holding on to the buoy, Stephen pointed. "Hey, look at that!"

Two of the other young men were standing up on their boards and skimming along the face of a breaking wave. Their arms were raised, their feet planted. Together they slid to the base of the wave, then rose again expertly, keeping perfect balance. One of the pair - a small figure with a blond crew cut - shuffled his feet down his board almost to the end, somehow still managing to keep his balance, then shuffled back again. As the board riders approached the buoy, Stephen, Marty and Barry ducked under the water, allowing them to pass. But before they did, both board riders grinned at them and shouted, "Yay, stoked!" And when the three swimmers surfaced again the pair was still riding the unbroken face of the wave, its white water foaming away behind them.

Treading water, Stephen looked across to where the three other board riders had caught a wave and were cutting across its glassy face. Barry wiped the hair from his eyes.

"Shit, I wouldn't mind having a go at that. Those guys are amazing."

"Cool all right," said Marty. Stephen nodded keenly, wondering how they might be able to have a go at board riding.

The trio swam back to the beach, catching waves and body surfing at the half-way mark, then jogging up the sand to the clubhouse, loosening the ties that held their caps on. The coach was waiting for them, and he was scowling.

"You all stopped swimming. At the buoy. Why?" Lance demanded.

Stephen shrugged. "We were watching those guys on their boards."

The coach's face reddened. "Stephen, you know bloody well you don't stop and watch anything when you're in a surf race. You keep swimming."

Marty spoke up. "But it wasn't a real race, Lance, it was just training."

The coach thrust his face forward. "Just training? Marty, in three weeks' time we'll be competing against the best surf clubs in this province. I want Kaimara to win, and the only way that'll happen is by training. Hard training." He looked down the beach, to where the other club members were staggering up the sand towards them. 'You three are the club's best swimmers, so it's up to you to set an example to the others."

The others threw themselves down on the sand in front of the clubhouse, collapsing on to the sand, but they were still watching what was happening out in the bay.

A swell wrapped itself around the headland, then reared to a beautiful, translucent wall of water. Kneeling on his long board, a fair-haired young man thrust himself forward, his hands digging into the water. As his board slid down the wave he leapt to his feet. Crouching, he picked up speed, keeping just ahead of the break. Then, gripping one rail of the board, he disappeared inside a tube that the wave had formed, then seconds later shot out again. Spinning back over the wave, he shouted in triumph at his four mates.

Lance ignored the board riders. Still looking grumpy, he said, "Okay, training again here tomorrow. At five o'clock, sharp ..." He climbed the concrete steps and went into the clubhouse.

Stephen picked up his towel and began to dry himself. He said to Barry, "Did you see what those guys can do on their boards?"

'Yeah. The big guy went right inside the wave and out again,' said Marty. "Fantastic."

Barry nodded, keenly. "I'll say." He looked at the others. "I'm gonna see if I can have a go meself."

Stephen nodded. He'd already decided the same thing. But he was also wondering, how the hell could they get hold of one of those amazing new boards?

- Continued next week.