The surfie click! is back
Kathy Lette rediscovers the joy of Australian beach life – until she encounters a school of sharks
HUMAN beings may have spent billions of years evolving out of the ocean, but all Australians want to do is get back in. I grew up as a bronzed, salt-encrusted surfie girl on the beaches of Sydney, boogie-boarding and body-surfing. When I left to live in London 28 years ago, I hung up my bikini. In Britain a girl must learn to surf her brain waves at galleries, museums and theatres. But I’ve now been conquering the Great Indoors for so long I need a lifeguard in the bath.
So this year I decided it was time to head back to Oz to rediscover my inner surfie chick before it’s too late. As a kid, the only dry thing about me was my sense of humour, so it would be easy, right?
Wrong. When you’re going to die, a lot of thoughts cross your mind. First, the desperate hope that Shirley MacLaine is right about reincarnation. The waves slapped my face so repeatedly that I felt I was being interrogated. I was in the big, trundling breakers off the silica sands of Byron Bay having a surfing lesson – and wishing I were anywhere else, including being stuck in an elevator with a Scientologist.
THE blond, blue-eyed Antipodean Adonis appointed as my coach had instructed me to paddle my board out through the huge creamy surf. A heroic feat like this requires Olympic stamina even without an ironing board attached to your leg. But in a 6ft swell, it was as plausible as Miley Cyrus in a nunnery.
As I made an ashen-faced contemplation of the churning sea, I reminded my tutor that as I’d been living in England for so long, the most athletic thing I’d done for decades was to get the lid off a jam jar. ‘Don’t you think this swell’s a little too big for me?’
‘Sure there have been some injuries and deaths in surf this big,’ my aquatic Love God winked ‘…but none of them serious.’
Moments later, a massive wave known as a ‘vomit comet’ broke over me, tumbling and rumbling me this way and that.
Gasping for air, I clung to the board with one hand while checking my body over with the other. Unfortunately no bones were broken, so I had no choice but to face the next mighty wall of water. ‘Gee, this is not going to be painful at all… no more than say, CHILDBIRTH!’ I screamed at my instructor.
Chuckling, he simply submerged the base of my board so that the nose rose easily over the top of the big white wave while yanking me under in an effortless duck-dive below the crest. Without waiting for a written invitation, he then climbed on behind me and lay down – his face pressed between my thighs, totally oblivious to my astonished reaction, then paddled me out beyond the breakers.
‘Righto Kath. This wave has your name on it.’ The muscled merman then spun my board into the take-off position.
I had just enquired if he’d like me to attempt something less difficult – say, discovering a cure for ebola or finding Cher’s birth certificate – when he hurled my board like a waxy javelin towards the beach.
As I mentally prepared for an emergency air evacuation to intensive care, I suddenly realised I was aloft, hurtling on the crest of the wave.
My old training kicked in and I pushed up into a kneeling position, jack-knifed to standing, then crouched low, tilted forward and holy hell, I was flying! I darted to shore, brimming with delight.
I was still squealing with glee when Mr Bulging Biceps surfed to my side in a spritz of spray. ‘Not bad,’ he grinned. Australian blokes aren’t good with praise. ‘Not bad’ is the equivalent of winning the lottery, Nobel Prize and an Oscar all in one.
Triumphant, I sprang out of the water… then retracted violently, having forgotten to untie my leg rope. Landing on my bum at his feet, it was then that I also realised that my bikini bottoms had caught a different wave altogether. I lay there in the shallows, shielding my nether regions in a wig of seaweed.
‘Not bad at all,’ my hot coach winked mischievously. It gave a whole new meaning to ‘costume drama’. After acquiring another cossie, I caught ten more thrilling rides, my confidence growing each time.
The beachside town of Byron Bay, at the top of New South Wales, is the perfect place to learn to surf. Not only do humpback whales breach in the deep, but pods of dolphins shoot the waves beside you, guaranteeing an endorphin, or rather, endolphin high.
Exhausted but exhilarated, it was then back to the barefoot luxury of the Elements of Byron Bay resort so that I could brag about my surfing prowess. This stylish coastal retreat stretches acres, with over 50 eucalyptus-ladening Belongil private villas all overlooking forth in Creek or the beach. Hold out my few the pool bar, I boasted waves the way mountaineers talk about
K2. Now that I’d regained my sea legs, the next step in my aquatic reacquaintance was to snorkel with giant rays and turtles in Lord Howe Island Marine Park.
A two-hour flight from Sydney later and my plane circled down through the clouds to reveal an exquisite island paradise 400 miles off the eastern coast of Port Macquarie. With its volcanic crags, white beaches, rainforest tracks a-squawk with bird colonies, and serene turquoise lagoon, I had to tilt my head backwards so that my eyeballs wouldn’t fall out in amazement.
Still run by the descendants of the original settlers, there’s no crime, no door locks and no cars.
The island is encircled by the world’s southernmost coral reef, so I immediately dived in. A sense of calm washed over me as I watched stingrays, shy sea turtles and gropers with pouty Mick Jagger lips joining the iridescent fish darting through coral. Confidently diving to explore a shipwreck, I was just congratulating myself on my status as a born-again mermaid when I swam smack bang into a school of reef sharks.
Now, a shark can put a nasty hole in your social life, not to mention your lower limbs. Panicking on dry land is uncomfortable enough, but in water what ensues is a surprisingly rapid decrease in buoyancy.
ILEAPT on to the back of my snorkel guide, sending us both plummeting towards the seabed. ‘Relax,’ he spluttered, once he’d resurfaced. ‘They’re only reef sharks.’ ‘ONLY?’ I stammered, dogpaddling furiously. ‘Reef sharks could use our boat as a toothpick.’ I asked the insouciant local for his top shark survival tip. ‘Just make sure you’re swimming like hell away from the teeth end.’ But the nonchalant sharks simply swam on by, uttering a ‘No thanks, we already ate’ en route.
Speaking of appetites, the cuisine at the five-star Capella Lodge, nestled beneath the misty, rainforest mountain, and at the Arajilla Retreat – snuggled among the roots of the giant banyan trees – is so moreish and delicious that Greenpeace will soon be pushing you back into the bay to join your whale pod.
After a week’s surfing, snorkelling and scuba-diving, I felt at one with the water once more. But the best thing about Australia is that you can surf the briny and your brain waves simultaneously.
Back in Sydney, a friend dropped me and my daughter Georgie by sailboat to the Opera House for a Beethoven symphony, followed by an Australian Chamber Music recital. Jeffrey Rush starring in King Lear at the Sydney Theatre Company, fine dining at the Bennelong Restaurant and a stay at the de luxe Langham Hotel and I felt I really had dived in the deep end.
But even though I’m back in touch with my inner surfie chick, I’m not telling those bronzed lifesavers. Back at Bondi Beach for a final dip, I pretended to drown, just to get some mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Now there’s a top lifesaving tip for all middle-aged women. At our age, it’s such a novelty to hear heavy breathing again…