Whilst popular culture holds summer to be the epitome of the beachside lifestyle and winter is often held up to be the true surfer’s season, in my experience it’s those precious months from March to May and their Goldilock’s confluence of the two climactic extremes which holds the place dearest to the heart of most wave riders. 

After the hectic zinc cream and crowds of summer, it’s always a dream to wake up to the cooling blue sky days of autumn. Lighter winds buffeting a still warm ocean. The sea comes alive with migrating sea life and the swells assume a more dignified and groomed behaviour. 

Whilst winter may hold potential for more regular storms of greater ferocity from the southern quadrant, autumn has a wide open and varied swell window which allows all manner of surfable options to become viable. If you can’t chase down good to great waves somewhere in the southern hemisphere in the last two weeks of April and the first two weeks of May then you really need to take a good long look at yourself in the surfing hall of mirrors. 

No two autumns are the same. Here is a few personal notes from another stellar seasonal gift from Huey. 

Give Me Convenience Or Give Me Death 

It’s no secret that the East Coast has been subjected to an inordinate volume of precipitation during the recent La Niña phase. The outcome of which has been literally catastrophic in parts. My little town has had its own share of rain over the past couple of years but fortunately not to the extent of some places. The rain has nonetheless had a marked affect. The ocean has experienced extended periods of muddy colouration and the presence of dangerous debris strewn throughout lineups. A certain beach in the vicinity is reached by a dirt track over a bush-covered mountain. The track became almost impassable to vehicles towards the middle of autumn just as the banks really began to shine. 

People were unhappy with the state of the track. Most people that is, not everyone. It soon became obvious that the vast majority of surfers are decidedly lazy and the closure of the track was a boon to those who found the twenty minutes of blissful up-and-over through pristine bush land to be the best wish a crowd-hating surfer could hope for.

Whilst word of unprecedented Easter crowds filtered down from zones north and south, the mob who went walkabout enjoyed a dream-like sequence of empty waves. Had car access been available, a normal Easter would have seen crowds of about twenty surfers, yet the lucky few numbered about five at a time. It’s a matter of simple maths to estimate that 75% of surfers would forsake good waves for convenience. A fact long relished by those willing to put in a few hard yards to score. 

It’s not an exaggeration to say I felt a touch of pride when some of the keen young rippers of the area figured out they could winch aside the roadblock logs put in by authorities, replace them after they’ve driven past and then gunned their four wheel drives through the treacherous clay pit sink hole in order to save themselves a walk, whilst simultaneously leaving those with less initiative to ponder the tyre marks heading over the hill as they turned for beaches with easier access and larger crowds.

Sticking it to the man and letting the lazy punters surf elsewhere. The spirit of independence still shines. 

Fifty Waves To Leave Your Lover 

A fortunate surfer will hold a love affair with several special surfboards throughout their surfing career. Like any affair of the heart, these passions can run hot and cold over days, weeks, months or even a lifetime. Some loves are a deeply satisfying slow burn whilst others are tumultuous and torrid flings of the brightest intensity and the shortest duration. 

I’m lucky enough to hold my birthday during Huey’s generous autumn bounty. A good friend was kind enough to give me a top shelf brand model hifi epoxy surfboard to help me celebrate. Never one to turn their nose up at a gifted surfboard, I looked forward to riding it. 

Initial impression was that the board felt unfeasibly light under my arm. The rails and planshape had me at hello. First surf was a revelation; in clean 3-4 foot, thin-lipped walls with plenty of bowl, my heart was stolen. Within minutes, the Birthdaystick had eclipsed my desire to surf on anything else. Yesterday’s favourite was immediately relegated to a life collecting dust on the rack. It was as though I’d been looking at surfing in black and white and now all was revealed in saturated colour. Turns I’d never seriously contemplated were now firmly within my grasp. 

I went to sleep dreaming of the board and the possibilities unfolding before me. 

The next few days followed a similar arc of personal best ripping and gushing the board’s praises to anyone who’d listen. Life appeared consigned to pre-epoxy and post-epoxy eras. I thought I’d stumbled upon my one true surfing love, we were truly star-crossed surfing soul mates. I rang the generous friend who’d given me such a fine present and heaped superlatives on the Super Board. 

Then an ill wind came about literally and figuratively. A bit of chatter and chop on some powerful waves awaited the morning after the southerly change. Waxing up, a fella on the beach remarked that my epoxy might not be the wisest choice for the conditions. They say love makes you blind and it was ever thus as I strode towards the water, confident that my Soulmate Superboard would never fail me. 

The hot lover from the night before, deliciously lively underneath, was now a temperamental bitch determined to buck me off at every opportunity. No longer were we moving in unison, acting as one, reading each other’s motions to higher highs. The connection between us was lost as rapidly as it had first appeared. The Superboard actually seemed to despise me being astride and threw me unpredictability. The fires of surf love had gone out. 

The board formerly known as the Soulmate Superboard now gets a run in the appropriate conditions when I know the winds and sea state are calm enough to allow me to tame its irrepressible animalism. Alas, a mere mortal like me is not destined to tame such a wild-spirited board for long. Fortune didn’t totally abandon me, for there in the board rack at home was the steadfast PU standard I’d been riding before I ever laid eyes on that wild epoxy maiden. Reunited, we rode out the rest of the autumn in comfortable familiarity. 

Castles Made Of Sand 

Autumn is a time of change. We enter in boardshorts and leave in ugg boots. Leaves fall from trees, bluebottles are eventually replaced by whales, and the sand around the surf breaks moves with the varying winds and swells as we transition from summer to winter. 

This moveable feast of granular goodness can take far less time to relocate than one might imagine. When the currents are right it’s not unusual to have thousands of tonnes of sand appear and disappear almost overnight. For surfers this can lead to a world of unexpected delight or heartbreaking disappointment depending on how the cards of fate may land. 

Some places have more variable sand patterns than others. This area has more than its share of quiet nooks and crannies where sand may sneakily accrete away from the watchful gaze of a comfortable beachside carpark. Locations which one would not imagine to ever hold surfing potential can turn on surprisingly good waves, the likes of which you’d never be aware unless you stumbled upon them either inadvertently, through hard won experience, or by being privy to the exclusive closed whispers of the local surf tribe. 

A vigilant surfer may find all kinds of oddball waves forming around such structure as nearshore bombies, tombolos, or where a freshwater torrent has sprung forth from the coastal lagoons during heavy rains. Semi-detached islets, rock strewn bays, or even deep water storm bars can hold excellent waves of differing lifespan. 

So it was that word filtered down about the Sandbank X which was building halfway beside the lone rock crop along an otherwise featureless and relatively wave barren stretch of coast. I’d noticed it as I’d driven the beach as the quickest route between headlands and caught glimpse of a couple of local boys bobbing around out the back of this unlikely surf spot. After a couple of set’s observation it was obvious they’d found a little slice of heaven as they traded off with deep tube rides. The onshore wind wasn’t far away and they came in with sly grins at having been caught in surfing flagrante delicto. I swore to secrecy only to return the next day to find they hadn’t managed the same level of stern silence. Still, five guys on perfect sandbar barrels wasn’t too hard to take. 

The run of swell and wind complimentary for the bank lasted longer than the bank itself. Within a few days the crew had built to a dozen surfers on happy rotation as the Sandbank X started looking a little worse for wear. 

It’s always a bit heartbreaking to watch a good thing fade away. At first you try to fool yourself that the increasing tides might be limiting the window of good waves or the swell is changing direction. Anything to put off the reality that your sneaky little dream bank is not long for this world. Before long you’re surfing it on the fumes of good times past and the crowd retreats in size just as a few days previously it was building. 

Then it’s just a feel good memory which unites those who were present or is handed down to close friends as knowledge to be kept under their hat for future reference.

Karmic Imbalance 

Easter can be the most crowded time of the year in many small towns. The local surfers in these regions know what’s coming and they mostly impress me with their stoic acceptance of the pressure on the local lineups. The dynamic in the lineups changes not just from the sheer increase in surfers but also from the attitudes brought with the tourists. A normal day at a small town break may appear casual to the observer but rest assured, everyone is well aware of their position in the pack and who has priority when the sets appear, even in shifty beachbreak peaks.

The visiting crowd bring a more anarchic vibe to proceedings. It’s not that they’re necessarily bad people, they’re just used to a more cut throat surfing environment. This is exacerbated when many holidaymakers travel in large groups. It’s very normal for eight or more surfers to paddle out together during these times. This can breed a bit of complacency and over confidence towards consideration for the locals. 

So it was by the end of the long weekend and the word was out that a certain spot was producing dreamy waves. The holiday crew far outnumbered the handful of locals and the competition was getting a bit intense. Not outwardly aggressive, simply that the sheer size of the groups dominated the peaks. A holidaymaker would catch a wave and then paddle up the beach, through the rip and back to inside position next to their mates, This had the local lads grumbling. It’s one thing to share your break with visitors another thing to be kicked to the curb in your own backyard. 

After a few days of good-humoured acceptance I started to get over having a conveyor belt of crew replace each other on my inside. I watched the older local fella I was chatting with between waves throw in the towel against the mob and head in. Not feeling obliged to walk away from great waves myself, I decided to turn the tables and started blatantly paddling straight to the inside myself. It was bizarre and a bit humorous watching the visitors whinging about suffering the same behaviour hey’d been brutally dispensing to others over the past few days. They got a bit aggressive which spurned me on harder. Before long I was openly laughing as I paddled past muted threats, not caring how these people felt at the treatment I believed they deserved and brought on themselves. 

Despite my cheerfulness and deep satisfaction from catching so many great waves at the expense of these fools, I knew that I was going about the situation all wrong. The joy of the rides was dirtied by an atmosphere created by all but which I could immediately resolve by conceding and moving to a lesser peak down the beach. 

Instead I kept catching waves. I rode basically every good wave which came through until I was exhausted and went home. Being a staunch believer in karma, I knew that any justification I might have for my behaviour was wallpapering over the disgust I felt at myself, and though I truly felt my actions were reciprocal to the attitudes of the greedy mob, I regretted how I’d acted and knew that the clock was ticking until that Great Wheel of Cosmic Justice came rolling over the top of me. 

Less than a week later and I was sidelined by injury. Possibly out of the water for an extended period. Karma strikes again.

Autumn is a time to harvest. The surfer is faced with an abundance of riches during these glory days of light winds and clean swell. I hope you’ve reaped the rewards offered up. If not there’s always the powerful swells and brisk offshores of winter on their way to help ease the pain. Good luck and get out there.

// HORATIO PETER McALLISTER