By Phil Jarratt
So you’re turning six, right? What would be on a six-year-old’s wish list?
Harry Potter themed party in the park. Check. The biggest Harry Potter chocolate cake imaginable. Check. Sausage sizzle. Check. All the mates from kindy and now school, and mum and dad and family, and even the grandies, as long as they can tone down the kissing and hugging. Check. A skateboard. Check. A surfboard. Whoa! Hold the phone. Tug, tug. “Ma, you and Poppy haven’t given me a present yet.”
So I’m circling the Noosa Lions Park looking for a park, a six-foot soft-top dressed in ribbons and a bow in the car with me. It’s a beautiful autumn Sunday on a holiday weekend in Noosa. There are no parks. I give up and find something down near Quamby Place. I take the ribboned soft-top from the car, tuck it under my arm and begin the long walk up Noosa Parade, my surf cred draining from me with every step.
Hamie “Potter”, our youngest grandson so far, has no idea of my humiliation as I sneak up behind him in the park. Surprise! We’re all there, two sets of grandparents responsible for this surfing rite of passage, Mum, Dad, aunty, everyone. Birthday boy looks bemused. He sucks on a lollypop and poses politely for all the pictures, then he puts the board down on the grass and moves on to the next thing.
“Tomorrow we surf!” the granddads yell in unison at his retreating little figure.
I was more than twice Hamie’s age when I was given my first surfboard, which was just as well since it was three metres long and weighed about three times as much as me. Within 18 months its boxy, triple-glassed rail had claimed my two front teeth, but I never forgot that moment, recalled here from a recently-completed memoir *:
The birthday board was a dog of a thing, a purple polyurethane foam Barry Bennett pig shape, one of the earliest foam surfboards produced in Australia. It had been pigment-coated by one of its previous owners to cover up the waterlogged sections and the general yellowing of the inferior foam.
Having heard that a neighbour had a full-sized foam surfboard for sale at a price my parents might consider affordable, I didn’t think to inspect it, I just dropped a few hints as my birthday approached. My father purchased it for nine pounds, having haggled it down from the ten quid asking price, as was Dad’s way.
Dad knew nothing about surfboards, but nor did I, so we were both pretty chuffed when he led me down to the garage, where the waterlogged Bennett had been artfully displayed on a couple of sawhorses, the family’s Wolseley sedan and the workhorse Commer van having been backed up a few metres to heighten the dramatic impact.
‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked.
I paraded around the hideous thing, pretending to admire its contours, running my fingers across the rough and waxy surface. As I recall it, the Bennett was about nine feet three inches long, with a slightly tilted wooden D-shaped fin that extended just beyond the rounded tail. It seemed to have been dropped on its tail during delivery, and through the smashed fibreglass I could see the splintered ends of a thick balsa centre stringer bordered by thinner redwood ones.
I really didn’t know what to look for in a surfboard, but I knew it was none of the above. My dream board did not feature a purple pigment disguising a waterlogged and rotting core. My dream board was brightly coloured like a rainbow, and it shone and glistened in the sun. But this was a surfboard nonetheless, and it was mine.
I said to Dad, ‘It’s beautiful. It’s grouse. It’s a gas. I love it!’
The Bell
Speaking of rites of passage, Jordy Smith’s pretend ringing of the bell halfway through the final of the Rip Curl Pro at Bells Beach two weeks ago has now entered surfing folklore, and not without some wringing of hands.
I thought it was just funny and cheeky, like Jordy himself, but the coveted, hand-crafted trophy that’s been a part of the world’s longest-running surfing event almost since it began has attained iconic status. Ringing the bell is an honour, a landmark event in a surfing career, not to be taken lightly, just ask anyone who has one.
All of which is a bit odd, considering the haphazard early days of the Bells Classic, and The Bell. The whole deal would probably never have got started if a champion swimmer, Olympic wrestler, teacher, woodworker and surfer named Joe Sweeney, had not got jack of the long paddle down the coast or the tortuous muddy track into Bells Beach, hired a bulldozer and made his own track in through the bush. An enterprising fellow, Joe parked at the top of the track every swell and charged his mates a toll until he got his hire fee back.
One of the blokes who coughed up reluctantly was Peter Troy, who organised the first Bells Beach Surf Rally on Australia Day 1963. The rest is history.
Someone came up with the bright idea of making a handcrafted bell for the contest trophy, and after it had passed through a few hands, the task fell to Joe Sweeney, who turned them into pieces of art.
Joe died in 2016, but not before passing on the mission to son Jeff Sweeney, a surfer, boatbuilder, and great bloke. Sweens told me last week: “It’s been a ritual I’ve watched from arm’s length for the last 30 years, and I’m proud to continue the legacy. I just wish they’d stop trying to shake it until it breaks!”
* Phil Jarratt’s memoir, Life Of Brine (yep, same as this column) will be published by Hardie Grant Books in August.
