Middleton 6

The Freight Train - June 2000

Looking down from the top of the hill, we could see that the surf was excitedly perfect! Away to the southeast and west, the overnight sea mist clung to the shoreline, hiding its treasure. While at Middleton, the early morning sun shone like a spotlight, as if it was pointing to where the El Dorado was. Driving the last few hundred metres down the main road did nothing to quell the enthusiasm, as the view of the glassy, approaching waves, only confirmed the reasons for my excitement.

A few seconds later we pulled into an unusually crowded car park. At first glance it was hard to find all the surfers who belonged to these cars but on closer inspection we could see a group huddled out to the left of the point, while in the bay a handful had it exclusively to themselves. It didn’t take much longer to realise that there was a short board competition being held and thus, the reason for the crowd.

Without even giving it a second thought or look, I decided to launch from the bay with aid of the rip, rather than battle through endless mountains of whitewater, by going off the point. The girl, wisely decided not to go out, as the size was quite beyond her capabilities. I eagerly untied and took the boards off the car, climbed into my gear, waxed my board and started walking down towards the bay. While walking down there I checked out some of the vehicles and owners, trying to see an old familiar face or two, but to no avail. I’m constantly amazed of how many new faces I see here when conditions are as good as this; they all just seem to come out of the woodwork.

The final few metres down to the beach were quite perilous this morning, as there seemed to have been some overnight rain, making the grassy slope, muddy and slippery. After doing a few stretches and good look to see if some big sets were looming, I commenced my paddling out with the aid of the rip. In less than 5 minutes I was out the back, pleased with myself, for accomplishing another dry hair paddle.

I started to make my way down towards the point where about a dozen or so guys were scattered, when all of a sudden a big one came through. I pointed my board towards the horizon and started scrambling, at almost the same time it started to feather on top. It was still a further 50 metres out when it started to break and I thought to myself ‘Well! Is it going to be a turtle-roll or a bail’. As it got closer, it became a solid wall of whitewater and then suddenly all this oncoming energy hit a deep channel, which caused the whitewater to back off. By the time it reached me it was a big green swell building up, getting ready to break again, further in.

I finally reached the spot where I thought I wanted to be and I looked towards shore to check the landmarks to confirm that I was. I was just left off the point itself, which meant I was still slightly in the bay. Looking to my right there were the other guys, who seemed to be concentrating on the left, while to my left and in the bay were the four contestants of the comp. The first few waves I went for I was successful in catching, but my actual riding of them was deplorable. I distinctly remember getting onto a really nice looking wave, only to fall off as I commenced a very insipid looking bottom turn. Finally, after half an hour I picked up a big one, which turned about to be a left. I managed to ride it for about 50 metres and then flick off, just before it took me any further into the bay and closer to the rocks. Not a nice place to be caught, especially if a big set rolls in. After that ride my confidence grew, because of late I’ve had some very poor performances on the surf. From then on, all the waves I caught were screamers, with one in particular being the best ride I’ve had in months. I was paddling out, oblivious to the fact that anybody had seen it when Peter, the local Headmaster hollered out ‘you were really flying on that one’.

For the next half an hour the waves appeared to have dried up. I mentioned to Peter to watch out, as I suspected that we were due for another big sneaker, and he said ‘What! About every half hour?’ I said ‘Yeah! That sounds about right’. Shortly after that Ian, another local paddled past me, cursing and muttering something. I said ‘what’s the matter, Phil?’ As you can see I’m hopeless with names but I never get a face wrong. He replied ‘I just got a blast over the loud speaker system to get the hell out of the contest area’. He added, ‘There’s no way in the world I’m going off the point, I’ve already tried and spent 15 minutes doing that, without any luck’. He kept on paddling off down towards the left, still muttering profanities as he went.

A few minutes later I found myself almost alone and sitting a lot further out than the other guys, with just a few smaller waves coming through. I couldn’t see the horizon, for a reasonable sized wave was almost upon me, but I had a gut feeling that something else was approaching. All of a sudden I could HEAR it feathering, followed by a rumbling. And as I went over this wave, I finally saw it: A monster, breaking a further hundred metres out. I thought to myself 'Fuck! That’s big, I’m in deep shit!’ as it was roaring and rumbling towards me like a freight train. I felt so insignificant and humbled and completely at the mercy of something so powerful. This wave seemed so arrogant, having a mind of its own, saying ‘You’ve been playing with my kiddies so far, so now deal with Daddy!’ I expected it to wash the whole Middleton Point away. The best choice would have probably been to bail, but I decided to turtle-roll instead. The next thing I know is the power of that wave ripped the board right out of my hands, while I was caught up in the surge it slammed me down a metre or two, rag-dolling me. After it passed I had to breaststroke my way up through the dark towards the surface, and as I broke through, I quickly had a look back to see if another bomber was following.

After I gained my composure, I sheepishly looked around to count the heads bobbing up and yelled out to Peter, who was way over to my left 'How’s your clacker valve?’ I couldn’t hear his answer but I had a fair idea what it was. This is not the first time I’ve been in such a situation but I can assure you that you get the clear and distinct message from such an experience that you are totally and utterly alone. Anybody who dares to treat the sea with any lack of respect is doomed to come to very tragic end.

I continued to surf for another half an hour or so, getting to odd reasonable ride or two and without any more sneakers coming through. I was also starting to feel the cold and decided, regardless of the quality, the next wave I caught would be a roadie. I picked up a reasonable sized one and after it closed out I proned in. Upon reaching the beach I made my way over the heaps of rotting seaweed that had been piled up on the shoreline to the ablution block. It’s a little unnerving that when you come out of a very unstable environment, such as the surf and find yourself sinking down and up to your knees in a stinking, rotting mess. Even if it’s covered with what appears to be a firm layer of sand. If I was stoked by my session or my undergarments soiled from it, all were washed away by the freezing cold water coming out of that shower. I even considered making a mad dash back to the surf to get warm again. Once I climbed the stairs and reached the car, I hurriedly got changed and we headed home with the thoughts in my mind that the next day would be even better, only a little bit smaller. And I was right too.

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Photographs by Sibylle Martens