The View From Yesterday: Andy Does Darlo

If you follow '70s surf stars on social media, then no doubt you've already experienced the second coming of Andy Meridian. A slavish audience free of media gatekeepers means Andy can now spend ample time indulging his favourite pastime.

The younger generation, not alive when Andy was in his prime, might only know him from his no-fucks-given storytelling - an attitude that spills over to the rules of the English language - but make no mistake, Andy Meridian is a guy that has been there, done that, and he did it all before you did.

A fresh round of capital-raising has provided Swellnet with enough liquidity to afford an exclusive audience with this legend of Australian surfing.

Here he is in a conversation recounted to Surf Ads.

A lot of old friends have been coming out of the woodwork after the chaps here at Swellnet published their Darling Coast compendium. 

I’ve been getting phone calls, letters, DMs. 

“Andy,” they’d say, “did you read the Darlo story?”

“Yeah yeah yeh,” I’d respond. “So what?”

“Didn’t it bring back some memories?”

Well, sure. Of course it did. I hadn’t thought about Darlo in years. Especially since that commie bastard O’Connor shut it off back in the ‘80s. That doesn’t mean it’s a good thing. Nostalgia’s as powerful as crack cocaine, ya see, and twice as dangerous. I should know - I’ve peddled both. 

But it was hard to ignore a certain stirring in the loins when reading about Witchies, or Buttons, or HP. And it wasn’t just my enlarged prostate. 

I loved that zone. In fact, for a time there, I even lived in the old whaling station above Spinners. Not that I’d ever claim local status. You’d remember from my 1998 autobiography 'Thrustin’ Down The Door' I was born in a beach shack on the backside of the Burleigh headland, during the triple cyclone event of ‘56. 4220 represent. 

But as Australia’s third to fifth most successful amateur surfer-shaper-importer of the ‘70s and ‘80s, many a moon were spent chasing two-star regional events and three-star women along that stretch of coast. It holds a sacred place in my Adderall-riddled heart. A home away from home. So fuck it, here goes. Here’s some fuckin’ Darlo stories...

I still remember the first time I visited it.

I'd just come back from my third trip to Bali. I’d been over there with with Jimmy Diez, Gronk Graham, and Marlon Brando. Brando tagged along as he was a friend of Jimmy's. Said he was researching a role for a new surfing film he was starring in alongside Olivia Newton-John. This was in his lean days. Before the corpulent excess of fame had sucked the manna from his soul and placed it on his hips. The man was a specimen. His movie ended up being canned before they started shooting, but we had a wild time anyways. Surfing empty Padang. Shooting tigers in the Ulu highlands. Brando couldn’t surf for shit but jeez he was a good shot.

Of course in those days you could hunt tigers, elephants, pygmies - anything you wanted - without the woke brigade getting on your back. We'd bag three Sumatran whites a day and stash their hides in our boardbags on the trip home. They sold for 1,000 pound each on the blackmarket back in Sydney. 1,500 if you threw in some paws. Crazy money. 

But it could only last so long. Marlon was called back to Hollywood, Diez got scurvy, and the Gronk and I went chasing competitive glory at the first ever Surfabout at Spinners. The jewel of the Darling Coast.  

We’d received word of it while in Bali. Everyone in those days knew about the fabled reef break, but few of us had actually surfed it. Westy Winton was gonna run a comp there trialling his man on man format, according to the jungle grapevine, both in and out of the water. There'd be a big prize, too. 2,000 quid. Winner takes all. All the best surfers in Australia. 

So I’d rolled back into the country with a fistful of cash, a boardbag full of pintails, and a well-honed tube stance. I was ready to fuck, as Marlon would say. 

We had to get from Sydney to Spinners in twelve hours to make the registration. No mean feat, especially in the pre-six lane highway days. But Gronk claimed he could handle it. 

“Don't worry, mate. I’ve got my old pink convertible in the long term parking. She’ll get us there in time, no worries.”

I was tired from the long haul - in those days they flew back via Afghanistan - and in no mood to argue. We loaded up our boards and hit the road. 

I woke as we pulled up at Spinners. It was six am on a cool winter’s morning. A fresh southerly swell pouring into the cove. I’d be damned if it wasn’t the spitting image of Padang.  Except of course it was a right. And shorter. And fatter. And only broke three times a year. But I didn't care. It was love at first sight. 

There was only one problem. I’d fallen asleep as soon as we cleared the airport and that little bastard Gronk had traded my quiver to pay down a debt while passing through Kings Cross!

I was fucked. I couldn't ride his boards, a collection of asymmetrical flex fangtails, as they were too low performance for me.  

I grabbed the diminutive New South Welshman by the throat. “Good god, man, why didn't you just give them the wad of cash in my pocket?”

“Naww mate, the cash wouldn't have been enough. They wanted ya boards.”

I sighed. Some things in life only made sense to him. No use trying to battle the demented little gnome’s logic, however twisted. It wasn’t the first time he’d pulled a stunt like this on me, and it wouldn't be the last. 

The only other man I knew with a quiver that could match mine was Glenn-Michael Peters. The enigmatic natural footer from a few headlands south with the handlebar moustache and volcanic eyes. GMP. We had our battles. There was a begrudging respect. Some called him the best. I disagreed. One thing was for sure. Neither of us would piss on the other if they were on fire. 

In recent times he’d become increasingly unhinged. His methods in competition were unsound. There were whispers of drug addiction. Gangland connections.  A police pogostick chase through the backstreets of Coolum. (He later claimed that having achieved all there was on a surfboard, the pogostick was the next true frontier of innovation.)

But right then I needed his boards. It wasn't like I could just walk up and ask him for a lend. Or even try to buy them. I’d end up with no money, no ride and a broken nose. If I was lucky. 

All I had left were two untreated tiger pelts in the back of the car that I hadn’t been able to pawn off. I’d have to think outside the box. 

Ahh yes, the box. I zeroed in on GMP’s girlfriend at the time.  Suzie. 6’1, 23. Mahogany skin. Legs longer than a mother’s goodbye.

I put on my best, velvet-laced, dulcet tone.

“Hey sweetie, can I interest you in a tiger suit?”

She looked at me with a droopy-eyed mix of contempt and premium-grade hashish. “What do you mean?”

I pulled one of the furs from the boot. Even as a reject it was still magnificent. Particularly when compared to the cheap beatnik potato sack GMP had her donning. 

“Go on, try it on. It's yours. I don't need it.”

I draped it over her honey-dipped shoulders. She sure did look good in it. 

“Well… ok. Thanks!”

Suzie did a couple of slow struts up and down the comp site. I can tell you now, no word of a lie: whoever was surfing that heat had at least half their waves missed by the judges. Heads were swinging and my plan was working.

GMP, noticing the commotion, came flying out of the competitor’s tent, where he’d been getting his mandatory pre-heat rubdown from Winton. 

He took one look at his girl draped in fur like a New York runway model. He looked like he was going to explode. 

I made myself scarce. 

“What are you doing? Who the fuck gave you this?” he demanded. 

“This guy…” she drawled. She spun slowly to point me out, but I was nowhere to be found.

“I swear he was just here…”

“Who was there? Who? Was it the undercovers? They trying to pin the stolen jacket on me? Fuck!”

His eyes darted skywards like they were tracking some invisible artillery shells. 

“Baby I swear, no. It’s not what you think…”

“Farrk this. They’re coming again, aren't they? He dragged her across to the carpark to his clapped out FJ Uute.

“C’mon, grab the pogo sticks, we are getting the fuck out of here!”

They left the carpark in a hail of dust and rocks, headed home for the Goldy. 

But most importantly, his full quiver was still sitting innocently on the grassy knoll. Right where he’d left it before his rubdown. 

Don't mind if I do. 

Of course the rest is history. The boards were magic. I played a game of hide and seek on the Spinners bowl that would have impressed the great lord Brahman himself. Tricks journo Phil Phillet described my performance as "Jackson Pollock meets Jim Hendirx" whatever the fuck that meant. Regardless, I didn't even come close to losing a heat. I cashed the cheque. Bought the old whaling station with my winnings. I even made sure GMP got his boards back unharmed.

So yeah, there’s my fucken Darlo story. It was the start of a lifelong love affair. Didn’t miss a swell for eight years.

// ANDY MERIDIAN

PS: I never did hear from Brando again, but to this day I swear he based the character of Vito Corleone on a village chief from Balangan named Big Daddy Ketut.