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After we just witnessed a major swell event in Sydney earlier this week, it’s a perfect time to get sentimental and go deep into the Tracks Archives. Let’s take it back to a classic swell in 1988 where just like Monday’s session, only a few spots around Sydney could handle the size. Tracks writers Derek Hynd and Percival Person shared their experiences surfing at North Avalon and Tamarama- This archive featured in Tracks Magazine Issue no. 212 (May, 1988).
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BIG THURSDAY
Strange things happen when the surf is over eight foot and offshore in Sydney. Old hellmen come out of the woodwork, surf stars test their mettle, a few intrepid kooks usually nearly get killed and the beach carparks are packed with appreciative audiences. Sydney copped one of those rare, big, clean, powerful swells in March producing epic waves at a select few spots that handled the size. Derek Hynd reports on bizarre happenings at North Avalon while, from the other side of the bridge, Percival Person recounts what went down at Tamarama.
NORTH AVALON
By Derek Hynd
It was a brutal start to the day. Old surfers were roaming, chortling, and farting all over the North Avalon car park stunned to be re-living a day that none thought would come again. Another ‘Big Sunday’ confronted them, like the one 15 years back, only now it was a Thursday 8.48 am, March 10, to be precise. And though time had obliterated their youth, the Dinosaurs bowed to the Call of the Wild, and one by one walked the two hundred metres out to the platform, and drifted into the gnarly lineup.
At a time when 150 frantic school kids clustered on the hill to keep focused on Tom Carroll’s every sculptured movement in the lineup, minutes before the school bell dragged them over the road, the last thing they wanted to hear was an alarming number of extinguishing locals ranting about that ‘Big Sunday’ before they were born. Who the fuck were these guys? No one surfed back in ’73, except on films and they weren’t even talking about Tommy out there off Indian Head, but Midget Farrelley..
Here are the blunt facts. was the best swell to hit North Avalon in 15 years. The bank had a 100 yard tube section like Grajagan. The jump off the platform was a major risk. Midget Farrelley dominated the outside lineup. Tom Carroll was predictably incredible, but dropped-in so arrogantly on other guys’ best waves that he deserved about 25 beatings. Ah yes, and 21 surfboards snapped in two and a bit days.
Twenty-one boards. A $10,000 user-pays joy- ride. This wave had power.
I checked out the lineup, pretty bloody early from the best view in town- the Gerald Stuart Memorial lookout, above South Avalon. “Oh Gosh,” I exclaimed to myself, “It looks rather too big for me.” So I drove home and hid under the bed with all the fleas, trying to be a wimp. But I wasn’t one. I was just testing myself.
There was a full pack out there-great surfers from all over Sydney, soul surfers from North of the bends, legends like Midget and Mick Dooley, hardened locals, abject kooks from fuck knows where, and one or two grommets, wilfully neglecting their educational betterment. .
Big Thursday rivalled Old Time Narrabeen, Outside Corner Ulu, Massive Tweed Bar, or G- Land. Well, maybe not G-Land. But five waves were that hollow.
Tom caught two of them, mercilessly fading Mike Rommelse on the latter, and when I heard the hill roar like it was a Coke final… well. I asked the bastard a while later if that one was like Pipeline, and he laughed dismissively.
“Nah,” he beamed, “More like Grajagan.” Rommelse was five yards away, feeling really good. Ces Wilson caught one, calling it the longest backhand tube of his life – the type where you travel and travel, loving the view, fantasising about making it out, and realising a possibility and coming through a surfer’s dream, numbed in disbelief, praying that someone, anyone, saw it. Simon caught another, a smaller six footer, when I was back on the hill, I saw him take-off, then he was gone. All I could see were the rooster tails of a real surfer, as he snapped again and again under the hook, racing down the beach.
No photog got it at its biggest-dead high tide, 12.30pm. That was when ‘the one that got away came from back in time. The wave of the day. So big and vertical was it, that it wedged 50 strokes further out and Hawaii 5-0’d all the way down to the clubhouse. At least 300 yards. Rob Ensbey snapped his third board under that one-12 feet, if a bloody inch. I reckon. Rick Cram almost snatched it, but punched through, then under- stated the obvious as we watched unridden perfection from behind… “That was my wave in,” he kept saying. And I kept thinking of the look on his face as I dropped in.
Thursday passed. It was Friday and the swell was dropping fast, down around four to six feet. I’d laughed hard and heartily when I’d seen broken boards, especially Tom’s. I jockeyed for my last wave of the swell. I’d had a blast. Everyone had. And the ‘pigdogs’ were still open. As I claimed the wave, I heard the unspeakable come from my mouth. I quickly said to Craig Finnis, “I’m so stoked my 7’6″ has survived the last three days”. You IDIOT! Then I took off, was pitched Inside a big open thing, driven onto the bottom neck-first, made to feel agony as I heard a violent crack, asked the question, “Am I a veg-et-able?” floundered to the surface, listened to reflections of my own karma/laughter and saw a board, my board, snapped like a twig.
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TAMARAMA
By Percival Person
Big, powerful, challenging lefts that crank across two bays; sometimes ending up in Bronte. Other times ending on rocks. Broken boards, broken bodies, death tolls, and glamour. Glamarama occasionally it lives up to its name. The 8th, 9th and 10th of March were the best three days of swell from a pretty good summer. It began on Tuesday night with the south-east wind easing in the late evening. Already there were about 50 guys out but the lumps were moving far too inconsistently for the pack. The bulk hung behind the point that separated Mackas and Tama. There was another peak in the middle of the beach. This one bigger and faster than its outside counterpart. Every now and then, they’d link up for a screamer. Long, grinding lefts ending mostly at Poolos, with the odd one rattling in to Bronte. I almost sacrificed myself, in the effort to watch Turkey pretend he was out at Ulu on one particular four second sequence. The rocks let me go this time.
PC, Rickey, and myself hung in the middle. There were others around but these two were comrades from many a session. All three of us got more than our share of waves.
Racing into the particularly sucky section of Poolos, copping the punishments of our endeavours; dodging the crowd and holding off till the darkest moments. The last hour cleaning up beautifully. The early promised plenty.
PC and Rickey beat me to it as the sun rose above clean six foot lines of lefts. Out there to revel in perfection that had not been seen in these parts for a long time. Few close-outs, few bumps, just clean faces to wake up to. Three hours of thrills till the tide fattened the situation up. After a while of contemplation, it was aboard the express for Bronte.
Through Poolos and Into some square right- handers that were cranking off the reef. Deadley. Snod and myself joined the line up with Reedy and Burkey. No-one else. Sucky drops that a couple of extra fibreglass inches would not have gone astray on. Big open-ended barrels that allowed exits. Also some that wouldn’t. I scored the best barrel I’ve had for a while in Sydney. You know, like the one where you drop to the bottom, lean into it and everything gets set as you see the wall begin to bend ahead. Hearing your mate paddle out with a hoot, then roar and rush as you’re going, then gone through that zone and into daylight, a victorious grin stretched from ear to ear as you glide over the wave’s back.
That evening I sat on the cliff watching the bumpy swell come marching in. It was on the rise! The anticipation was sharp as I listened to the story of Poolos. The end section, compared to a race-track on its day, known as a killer on others. A dredge like the Wedge with nothing to stop you but an express train racing across the tracks and more finally-rocks.
Poolos was a bodyboarder who got caught inside his soon-to-be-named reef. Big swells at high tide thrashing against the mixing bowl. Big backwashes dousing the struggling swimmer doubley more than he deserved. Exhaustion succumbing to the beat of the whitewater. Out of action but still gasping feebly. Until the final cracking blow of head on rock. Poolos.
The dawn brought big, clean waves; perfect sometimes, chaos others. Other places came to mind but the decision was made. I was out there on my newly acquired 7’3″ Gunta was already dropping into them with force and abandon. The 7’3″ drew long, fast lines. It felt good to have power under my feet again. Streaking across smooth walls. Southa and Robbie ventured out before long. Both obviously relishing the waves -Southa slipping behind green curtains, Robbie snapping and goirig off his brain as Tama came tumbling down.
The peaks varied which made the challenge that bit harder. Adrenalin burning in the paddle- puts. Sets looming and shutting down on the unaware. One particular set shut-down on my head turning my board into two. The end of a two- session board. Both memorable.
Back into the line-up on a 6’6″ before the wind turned. The sun shining through the off-shore breeze, water temperature warm, and the triangles formed. My final wave saw my departure through Poolos and onto Bronte Beach. As I walked back I saw Brad Mayes spewing at a fool of a body surfer attempting Poolos. The sets came hammering down. Hammerrama!
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