For some time now, I’ve been chasing grains of sand and lumps of ocean in Mother Nature's game of cat and mouse.

She usually wins.

However, now and then I crack the code, usually when an extraneous variable I hadn’t factored into my equation arises rendering all my ‘weather braille’ worthless.

The times I've come away less than satisfied with a surf are often not associated with the elements. It may be the crowd, a vibe or attitude in a relatively quiet session, social media’s influence, or another reason that all and sundry have chosen the same aquatic playground as myself for the morning.

In essence, the session has been influenced by the ‘human factor’. 

My family and I packed up the van in search of a new patch to explore. This was not a well-planned surf trip, just a school holiday getaway. Of course, I packed a board before I even thought of a toothbrush, but the rest was a matter of que sera, sera: whatever will be, will be.

We arrived at a simple abode, nestled deep amongst the towering red gums of a sclerophyll forest. Solitude, save for the city of native animals that roamed those parts. There was a beach, yet how good it was I didn’t know. Given the place’s relative isolation and lack of fanfare it was unlikely to be a hidden Angourie or Martha Lavinia awaiting me. 

Surf forecasts be damned, I was in cruise mode now. Swinging my trusty 5’11" under my wing, within ten steps of the property I was engulfed within a littoral rainforest that led to a small dusty carpark on the edge of an unadulterated sand dune. 

I crossed the dunes and what lay before me was a classic East Coast beachbreak, complete with a smattering of ‘bunker-like' rocky sculptures along its shoreline. A head-high swell was closing out across various inshore sandbars on account of an onshore zephyr and a rapidly dropping tide. ‘Nothing to write home about’, I thought, but this joint had potential.

The spring evening was nippy enough to pull on a jumper around the barbeque. ‘Could be offshore in the morning,’ my mind announced to no-one and Mrs Nature at the same time. 

Sure enough it was. My son and I were up before the kookaburras, peering out at someone getting barrelled on a perfect left, spinning away from one of the volcanic sand catchers. There were waves and pretty good ones at that. As all good interlopers should, we paddled out to an inferior bank down the beach to pick off a few of our own. Gradually, black suits emerged from their bushy camouflage to clock onto their shift behind the bunker. A peace sign here, a knowing nod there, and the locals happily shared peaks until the call of caffeine or commitments grew stronger.

"Morning guys, get a few?" enquired several older surfers from their driftwood perch, mugs of coffee in laps. A heartening post-surf interaction compared with the usual indifference or disdain I was accustomed to on pilgrimages up and down quiet stretches of coast. My son taking the question quite literally, describing in more detail than required his account of the session, as endorphin-pumped grommets tend to do. 

In subsequent days the experience compounded. Our waves gradually upgraded from down-the-beach corners to behind-the-rock tubes due to the blessing and encouragement of a congenial scrum of forest beach locals. A bodyboarder revealing the secrets to this and other nearby spots, the local style-master offering wisdom to my young son and ageing cruisers interested in learning about our home spot. 

What was supposed to be some family downtime playing Uno and beach cricket had turned into one of the better shared-surf experiences of my time chasing waves. A complete absence of xenophobia combined with an openness to share this magical slice of Australia felt like something out of times long gone.

An otherwise ordinary week away, to an ordinary pocket of beach, revealed to me that my wave-riding brethren and sistren could significantly enhance the surfing experience. The anxiety of catching enough waves or psychoanalysing the lineup’s hierarchy was replaced with environmental immersion and innocent fun.

An early spring sun rose above head on our final session at the bunkers. Pacific Turquoise gave way to Tahiti Blue, iridescent strobes of light flickering below us with a surface texture of blown glass art seen in galleries. Horizon, sky, and swell became one, it was like trying to surf a mirage. Riding rendered impossible for the lack of perspective from usual wave contours.

Mrs Nature and her cheeky son Huey again teaching me that chasing perfection is nothing but an illusion.

//SOLITUDE