The View From Yesterday: The Interior Coast

Since Andy Meridian's last story on Swellnet he's had all manner of old friends renewing their acquaintance. Each evening a new Facebook request from a name that fires long dormant neuron paths. The accompanying photo: grey beard, loosely-buttoned Hawaiian shirt, off-kilter composition, reaches out across the years. "Andy, do you remember when..?"

...and off they go on a syntax-free reminisce.

There's one fella who hasn't made contact, however, and just the thought of his name sent Andy reeling into another whirlwind tale of surf, drugs, and carnage. Fortunately, Surf Ads' schooner was full, as were the AAAs in his dictaphone.

Of course Darlo wasn't the only empty stretch of surf we were pioneering in the ‘70s. The whole eastern edge of Australia was one vast, untapped coastline. A bulging sac of froth waiting to be drained. 

There was Caba, Lennox, Byron, Angourie, Crescent, Treachery, Summercloud...I could list the spots forever. Dunbogan. 

In fact, I was the first to successfully shoot the pier at Redcliffe jetty in Brisbane. Back in those days we would surf the Brissie coastline all the time.  You might laugh at the thought now but in the ‘70s we had a much more active sea state. Consistent swells 360 days a year. Offshore for most of that. It was something to do with the smaller number of humpback whales causing an explosion in plankton numbers, which in turn drove more photosynthesis and oxygen into the atmosphere. Less whales = more storms and surf.

It’s why I've always said whales are the ultimate environmental vandals. Nuke ‘em all, I reckon.

But every three weeks we’d get a Category 6 cyclone or East Coast Low form up and turn on what I called the interior coast. Perpendicular pulses that would interact with local bathymetry and activate spots like West Stradbroke Island. The Macleay River banks. Tuncurry Bridge. Throsby Creek.

There was a character I'd often chase these spots with called Dick Moran. We had a funny relationship, me and Dick. One that only flowered in north-northeast swells.

Dick was a promising junior who had shunned the spotlight after a bad experience one night on the extra malted milkshakes. It had been a straw and all affair - just horrible business. After that he lived a solitary life around Yamba. Writing reactionary poetry and working as a pelican hunter. He was still an incredible surfer in his own right.

We’d invariably run into each other on these swell events, and we quickly bonded over our shared love of novelty waves and anarcho-fascist politics. 

For months at a time we’d never speak. But no sooner would an onion low appear on the charts then I’d hear the phone ring. Of course in those days we weren't using real-time satellite images and colour-coded charts. The best we could do was the weekly forecast in the fishing periodical Mullets and Mingers. 

One such swell popped up on the mag’s charts, next to the weekly Fisherman’s Girls reader submission. Isobars packed tighter than a Samoan school bus. 

My phone rang that night.

"Andy, it’s Dick. You seen the latest in M&M?"

"Yep."

"What are you thinking?"

"They can’t be real. She’d barely be able to support herself."

"I mean the chart, Andy."

"Oh yeah, right. I think you know where I’m thinking."

"Roger that. I’ll see you there in twelve hours. You bring the usual supplies."

Click. 

And that was that. 

I went about readying my pack. Three boards. A swag. A kilo of mullet jerky. Two jerry cans of water. The stickiest of buddha sticks, taped to the inner wall of my anus. Three sheets of military grade acid. Compass and sextant. A Colt .77 revolver, unloaded. Usually only required for theatrics, for the most part. 

For this swell we were chasing a fickle wave we’d only heard about through faint whispers and vague glances. I can’t give too much away but it involved another righthander breaking down the inside of a national park-fringed peninsula, all within cooee distance of a capital city. 

We met at midnight at the designated highway exit. It would be a long trek in, about six hours all up. We wanted to be there right in time for the dawn session when the tide and wind would be most favourable. We hoisted our packs, dropped a tab of acid each - which Dick said aided night vision - and headed in.

Fast forward five hours. We were almost at the end of the trek, the morning sun just beginning to illuminate the edges of the tree-lined gully. The acid was really kicking. I had imagined I was an eighth century nobleman, being carried to the markets by my serfs on a giant elephant hide. It was like something out of one of Dick’s poems. My pack, the boards. I hadn’t felt a thing. 

But a grunting noise on the track behind us quickly brought me back to reality. 

I turned to the commotion. I could just make out the silhouette of Dick, backpack and board under arm. Then I saw it. A great figure rising up behind him. It must have been eight feet tall if it was an inch. 

The Yowie. We’d been told stories about the mythical creature that stalked these lands. I had always written it off as an old wives’ tale. But here it was in the flesh, about to tear us arse from limb. All I could make out in the dark was fur, horns, and the most evil of intent. 

It let out another guttural craw. 

I pulled the revolver from the hoister. Held it in front of me unconvincingly. I remembered it wasn't loaded. Oh, fuck. 

My buddha stick dropped to the ground with a wet thud. 

Thankfully, Dick’s pelican hunter training kicked in. He might have had one malt too many in his life but he was still a fast thinker. He jabbed the tail of his ‘6’7 swallow directly into the ghastly beast’s neck. It howled in protest as the twin blades opened its skin. I was coming to my senses too.  I jumped on top of the monster, and jammed the revolver into the wound. 

I’ll tell you something else for free. You’ve never heard a clearer noise than a Yowie having its throat slit on a moonless dawn. It’s just one of those things you have to experience yourself. 

After a few seconds it finally went limp. Dick and I lay motionless in the semi dark, panting heavily. 

"Remember," he told me finally. "Always aim for the gullet."

I nodded in silence. 

"C’mon, there’s still waves to be had."

(Whiting)

We wrapped the lifeless beast in my swag and dragged it behind us the rest of the way. By the time we reached the spot, the sun had fully risen. The acid worn off. I opened the swag to inspect our kill.

Dick saw it first. He let out a heavy sigh. I peered over his shoulder. 

It was no Yowie. Just a regular bush pig. Maybe the acid had inflated my sensory perceptions somewhat.  Still, it was a big fucker. It looked up at us with dead eyes.

"That was some trip, Dick." 

"It sure was, Andy."

Behind us the first set of the morning rolled down the inside of the point, spitting as it unloaded across the stone shelf. There was land on all four sides of the body of water. And not a soul in sight. 

We surfed for twelve hours straight, and that night feasted on the pig while we laughed at our luck. We let out a howl in the beast’s honour, and dropped the rest of the acid. It would be a long walk back. 

The interior coast had delivered again.

// ANDY MERIDIAN