By Phil Jarratt
The last time I was in Margaret River it was a left, and the only boxes I heard about were available from the undertaker on the Bussell Highway. But that was a long time ago.
These days the left-hander that breaks out in front of the Surfers Point car park (now beautifully sealed and landscaped) at Prevelly is pretty much ignored by the hotshots competing in the Drug Awareness Margaret River Pro in favour of the short, sharp, double-up right that tends to deposit you on dry reef after two or three quick slashes. Even that critical wave is regarded by the pros as second call only, once surfing The Box has been ruled out for insurance reasons.
I watched some of the world’s best free-surfing The Box while the girls’ comp proceeded at Main Break, the first time I’d seen it in the flesh, so to speak.
What a scary, mutant thing it is! I’m so glad that while we were surfing the left way back in the mists of time no one ever looked across the bay and suggested we paddle over and give it a go.
But then I saw North Point, an even more mutant slab a dozen kilometres or so up the coast at Cowaramup Bay, where the World Surf League seemed absolutely committed to holding a round, almost regardless of conditions.
Having been warned that there was no parking at North Point, and even less standing room, the vantage points around the headland having been fenced off to protect the fragile coastal environment, we arrived at first light on the first morning and found a spot above the break where we watched three one-wave sets in half an hour devour free surfers on the dry ledge before a ranger chased us off.
In the end we watched the round on a big screen from the comfort of the VIP lounge at Surfers Point, eating a gourmet lunch and sipping Margaret River sav blancs. Not quite what I’d hoped for, but on a day when not many waves were ridden, it was good to have the diversion of fine food and wine.
Once the Pro got rolling at Main Break there was plenty to ooh and ah about, particularly when the swell jacked up, and reigning world champ John Florence began to unleash some of the most spectacular moves I’ve ever seen from someone in a contest jersey, pushed all the way by ratings leader and comeback king Owen Wright, Brazil’s Filipe Toledo and Adriano De Souza, and our own Julian Wilson, not to mention the great Kelly Slater, who looked very much on song for a 45-year-old until Big Saturday when, after only a quarter century on tour, he got over-amped and gave a heat to young Jack Freestone.
And speaking of Kelly, it was good to catch up with old mates including caddy to the stars Stephen Bell (sometimes known as Belly Slater) – who is now charged with looking after the oldest (Kelly) and youngest (Leo Fiovoranti) surfers on tour – as well as WSL commentator and former world champ Martin Potter, and behind the scenes heavyweights Renato Hickel and Steve Robertson, who have been with the world tour since it was invented, maybe longer.
Around the VIP bar, there was a lot of chatter about whether Margarets will be a world tour event next year. The WSL honchos seem to think that the tour is unbalanced with three events in Australia but only two each in Europe and the USA. The event does have its problems, although I don’t think money is one of them – the WA tourism and development authorities throw a fortune at it – but now that I’ve rediscovered it, I hope they keep it on to give me an excuse to go back.
One place I won’t be hurrying back to is the inland centre of Pemberton, surrounded by Karri forests and vineyards. It was a place I remembered fondly from 30 years ago, but I really can’t remember why. Anyway, a word of advice: don’t go there on a Monday because it’s closed.
I’d booked a quaint-looking motel whose restaurant had several rave reviews on-line, but on checking in we were told it was closed Mondays.
“But your website says it’s open seven nights.”
“Ah yes, we’ve been meaning to change that.”
“And is the heated pool heated?”
“Not exactly.”
Never mind. The afternoon was young. We left Basil Fawlty to his daytime television and drove out to the surrounding wineries for a few cellar door tasting sessions. Wrong. After four “Closed Monday” signs and two locked gates with no explanation, we gave up and retired to the pub, where the bar girl was friendly, the beer was cold and the poached trout on the counter tea menu proved to be Pemberton’s one saving grace.
