Mushroom Rock

There’s a lot of different kinds of rock in the world, the vast majority of which, I’m sure, I know nothing about. My understanding of rock formation and geology is basic and rudimentary and couldn’t begin to touch at a comprehensive overview.

I know that some rocks are sedimentary, where sand and gravel and similar material has been deposited somewhere over untold eons, in beds of rivers, or lakes or seas, and after layer upon layer of this has been put down it is then compressed, somehow, maybe by its own weight, maybe by other layers of rock lifting themselves up and folding themselves over it, or cliffs caving in and mountains collapsing and falling down on top of it. This gives sandstone and similar things. It typically shows shelving layers of rock, parallel running fragments of long shards, in which often fossils can be found: fossilised ripples of an ancient seabed, or the skeleton of a marine animal squashed flat, or imprints of seashells, sometimes occurring high on top of mountains.

Other rocks have vulcanic origins: they are the result of lava flows that erupted out of an ancient vulcano millions of years ago and ran down its slopes in long streaks of liquid fire, until it eventually cooled, quite rapidly, upon exposure to the outside air. Due to this sudden cooling this type of rock will usually show what appear to be bubbles on its surface and throughout its structure. It can be surprisingly light, and, in an Australian context, when this rock, which is basalt, gets ground and worn down over millions of years of erosion by wind and rain, it creates the most fertile soil anywhere to be found on the continent. It is frequently possible to chart the flow of lava that spewed forth say 22 million years ago by mapping where rainforest naturally occurs now near vulcanoes extinct sine then: it will have grown on the nutrient-rich former lava runners. As such, bands of fertile rainforest will radiate out from a vulcano, and they will be interspersed with areas of much lower nutrient content, which, in contrast to the rich rainforest, will only be able to sustain relatively less diverse and sophisticated eucalypt forest.

Any bits of lava that don’t make it out of the crater of the vulcano will cool down at a much lower rate inside of the shaft of the vulcano, and will solidify very slowly into very dense and hard granite, which, when eventually eroded and exposed to the elements, yields a soil that has all the fertility of a sandpit. That is, fuck all. Large expanses of inland Australia are made up of such granite country, and its massive grey boulders lie somberly spread around in a mostly dry landscape of weaving yellow grass and spindly trees.

Sometimes vulcanic stuff will happen right next to formerly deposited sedimentary stuff, and the proximity of the great heat will cook the sandstone into something else, known as metamorphic rock: a bit like superheating sand and melting it into glass. Australia’s most spectacular and rightly most famous rockclimbing area, Mt Arapiles in south-west Victoria, is the result of one such sandstone cooking events. It combines the enormous variety of cracks, crevasses, lumps, bumps, ridges, ledges and miscellaneous other things a human can poke a finger in or clasp a desperate claw around usually found on sandstone with the incredible hardness of the vulcanically cooked rock. This means that all those myriad hand- and toe-holds will be solid and reliable, and not prone to breaking and crumbling, as is usually the case with normal sandstone. It’s the fluke combination of those two features that make Arapiles such an outstanding and remarkable place for rock climbing.

In a coastal context there’s also a thing called coffee rock, familiar to most people who spend any time poking around beaches at all: a dark brown if not black rock with soft lines and edges, that crumbles easily and even lends itself to carving graffiti in it (“Johnno waz ere 2008”) with only mildly pointy and hard things, like sticks. It is the result of heaps of layers of trees and other plants fallen into bodies of water such as lakes over long periods of time, where the vegetation eventually rots and gets squashed hard by subsequent layers of more of the same. The many lakes found in e.g. Fraser Island off the Queensland coast exist because they are sand hollows formed over a bedrock layer of coffee rock, providing an impermeable bottom that retains the water.

However, in the wide and wonderful world of geology one thing that is not very often encountered is the phenomenon of mushroom rock.

The amazing natural curiosity that is mushroom rock is rare, and usually only found by a very specific breed of people engaging in a very particular type of endeavour.

We discovered the existence of mushroom rock only very recently, as we paddled out into the surf one night under the stars and by the light of the full moon. We surf in the very early morning to avoid the crowds that fill up our popular break as soon as the sun comes up. When the moon is full and hangs over the bay like a giant magic lantern, casting silver light over the water of the sea and wrapping the beach, the mountains and the waves in a cloak of soft black velvet, we forego sleep and venture out well before any normal rational thinking reasonable minded human being even considers leaving the confines of their bed. In summer time, when the nights are balmy and they’re short anyway it is a pleasure to do so. We’re on the water hours before sunrise and surf to our hearts’content in peace and quiet by the light of the full moon, which is as bright as any day.

This year was a particularly fortunate one, since the summer solstice, the mid-summer event that was hijacked by christianity 1600 years ago and renamed christmas, coincided with the full moon. It’s an event that doesn’t happen very often: the last time was in 2010, the next time will be in 2029. It’s a long time between drinks. Anyone who didn’t catch it this year will have to wait around for a fair while till the next one comes around. It’s a very good reason to get out of bed. Missing it would cause chronic FOMO of epic proportions (Fear Of Missing Out).

So we were out in the early morning. In reality it wasn’t really morning at all, it was just the middle of the night. We yawned with sleep deprivation as we paddled out through the breakers, and positioned ourselves in our favourite spot to take advantage of the east swell that had, fortuitiously and in a well-mannered style, presented itself exactly at the right time for us to enjoy. Thanks be to Huey, the god of surfers, sleepwalkers and insomniacs.

We like to pride ourselves on our intimate knowledge of our patch, of every sand bank, curling wave, waxing breeze and jutting out rock, that comes with singlemindedly obsessing over these twenty-five square metres of washing, heaving and surging water that we call our own. You need it if you’re gonna try to ride it in the dark. Moonlight notwithstanding, the dark water is capable of harbouring nasty surprises not discernable in the silver shine.

A few of these made themselves known in an unpleasant fashion. There were a handful of us maniacs out, nocturnal creatures often likened to, in descending order of general appreciation by the world at large: 1. night owls (adorable, fluffy and feathery, beautiful big round eyes, surrounded by the mysticism of the stealthy silent hunter, widely admired by the community at large and often adopted as Spirit Animal by confused hippies and new agers experiencing a particularly potent reflux of LSD, ecstacy and organic lattes); 2. vampires (popularised through the advent of atrociously shit movies dominated by brooding pale-faced wankers with burning eyes and super powers allowing them to indulge in mindless brutality and violence, throwing lesser creatures around the place at will, and breathlessly admired by swooning bimbos with more make-up than brains, coming in their pants at the mere thought of having their jugular ripped out in Close-Up and High Definition); and 3. cockroaches (skanky, dirty, ugly, smelly, living under fridges only to come out when the light goes off and scuttling away when the light goes back on again in a creepy fashion designed to send shivers up and down the spine of the most traffic-jam-hardened suburbanite when confronted with any living animal form not either specifically inbred to be a cute, cuddly and eminently useless pet, or presented to them on a handy little plastic tray with glad wrap all over it, ready to be charcoaled on the barbie at their convenience; as a bonus they also crunch in a suitably horrific fashion when ground underfoot (the cockroaches, not the suburbanites) and, when smashed, feel cold and lifeless to the touch (the suburbanites, not the cockroaches).

We liked to think of ourselves as cockroaches, not being able to stomach being likened to the other two options.

One of The Cockroaches, a character that goes by the name of The Snake Catcher on account of his aptitude for snatching wave stealers by the scruff of the neck and quoting carefully selected Bible verses to them in a stern voice and with ominously wiggling eyebrows, looked over his shoulder at the inscrutinable black mess of salt water that came surging his way, dragged his arms through the water one two three, jumped up and rode off into the dark distance. Within seconds we heard muffled cries of ‘Fucking hell!’. The rest of us still sitting there frowned at each other. What could possibly persuade The Snake Catcher to exclaim in such a profane way? Ordinarily he is a quietly spoken god-fearing man, leader in his church community and foremost mover and shaker in the local evangelical movement, kindly and considerately showing unworthy sinners the path to The Eternal Light through the careful and meticulous study of incoherent ramblings of deranged desert madmen with sunstroke, self flagellation, sexual abstinence and the development of early onset prostate cancer.

We shrugged. We would soon find out. It was my turn next, I sized up the rise of the water behind me, paddled hard and fast, jumped up and rode away.

Straight onto a massive sharp, pointy jagged rock sticking out of the water right in front of me, there where previously no rock had ever made an appearance within living memory, which goes back, allegedly, to when Captain Cook, great explorer of the Pacific Ocean, first made landfall here in 1770 because the look-out in the crow’s nest had, so the story has it, spied naked aboriginal women in tutus and hoola necklaces on the beach here, waving to him and making suggestive sexual gestures. Having been at sea for nine months during which time the crew had nothing to fuck but themselves, each other, and occasionally, a choice plum pudding, their enthusiasm for going onshore is understandable, if, from the strict christian view that I like to maintain, lecture people about and shove down their throat at any given opportunity, lamentable and deplorable. 

There was a great big fucking rock in front of me where no rock had been before. Sharp and looking dangerous. So I wrenched my board sideways before I jumped up, then popped up, looked it in the evil eye and thought loudly to myself ‘there, take that you fucker’. I grinned in an appropriately smug and self-satisfied fashion at having escaped such dire peril, only to, two seconds later, see another great big rock stick out in front of me again. My mind boggled. I was perplexed. Stunned, like the mullet that is my personal totem animal, in those quiet contemplative moments when intensive and detailed study of my navel at a microscopic level reveals an uncanny and puzzling similarity between it and my arse. As the thing rose up, sharp and pointy and mean and nasty looking, I briefly considered, for want of anything better and more productive to do, shitting my dacks.

However at the last possible moment my resolve unfaltered itself, no mean feat, metaphorically, physically and linguistically speaking, and, through no conscious effort of my own, some sort of pressure was placed on the rear of my board, surely not in any way, shape or form related to the amount of excessive poo building up out of fright in that general area, potentially resulting in a greater gravitational effect, and, somehow, the front of my board lifted itself out of the water, took advantage of a minuscule bit of backwash wave bouncing off the rocks to the side, and, with myself hanging on for dear life and clean underwear, catapulted itself right over that rock, with what felt like only millimetres to spare between the bottom of the board and the top of the rock.

I landed on the other side in a skid and spray of salt water, thoroughly non-plussed and shaken, and, for want of anything more useful to do, kept on riding that wave until it died the slow agonising death of waves everywhere on this planet, and I slid off the backside of it. I wiped my brow, took a deep breath and surrepitiously checked the contents of my boardshorts, just in case. It appeared I had survived with my skin, dignity and underwear intact, or, at least, as intact as before. Who would have thought.

Now where had those bloody rocks come from all of a sudden?

I gave myself over to the contemplation of this extraordinary conundrum as I laboriously paddled back to where I had just come from. I have recently received a few great tips on how to improve my paddling technique, and as a result I am now twice as slow and have dislocated my left shoulder. I nodded with satisfaction at my continued journey along the troublesome and hazard-strewn path of Acquisition Of Better Surfing Skills, although, in truth, it was more like Acquisiton Of Any Surfing Skills At All, No really, Please Show Me How.

I made it back to where I had taken off and caught up with the others. There was the Snake Catcher, quietly perusing his waterproof pocket Bible in preparation for any eventual confrontations with anti-social surfers From Out Of Town, who might fail to understand that these waves are ours and are onlyto be dropped in on and snaked into at their own peril. There was also our mate The Shredder, so named for his amazing ability to pull into a one foot wave on a three foot shortboard and completely rip it to pieces in admirable if slightly disturbing and demented fashion. He currently had his tape measure out and was running it thoughtfully along the base of his board, while rubbing his chin in contemplation of whether or not it was time yet to pull out and fit the extension which might enable him to, maybe one day eventually, travel more than three metres on a tiny point break wave.

Also there was Chief Switchfoot, him off the amazing ability to be goofy-footed on both sides, producing the most awkward riding stance any surfboard was ever graced with until I first stood up on one. He was stroking his beard pensively.

I paddled up to him, sat up and exclaimed in consternation:

‘There’s two great big fucking rocks overthere!’

‘Yes, I saw that,’ he replied, ‘the Snake Catcher just almost brained himself on them.’

That was of course an exaggeration, since brains and the Snake Catcher have never yet hitherto been known to have been seen in the same general vicinity. Nevertheless, I got his drift.

‘Where do you reckon they come from all of a sudden?’ I asked.

I was utterly stumped at this baffling natural phenomenon. David Attenborough might be able to dedicate a full length two hour wildlife documentary to the mystery. I imagined we could probably rope in a few feral cats and miscellaneous cane toads, captured on infra-red camera, to provide a bit of wildlife action against the back drop of deeply philosophical and geological enquiry.

Now, it’s a little known fact that Chief Switchfoot is actually the proud holder of a degree in Marine Geology, obtained from the University Of Alice Springs. He is, therefore, the undisputed authority in the field of all things Rock And Painful Looking Obstacle In The Water.

He stroked his beard again, in an amazingly accurate impression of Professor Dumbledore.

He took a deep breath. ‘I reckon,’ he said, ‘I reckon ... ‘

‘Yes?’

‘I reckon it’s one of those really rare things you don’t see very often.’

That would probably not be unexpected from A Rare Thing.

I nodded in agreement, although I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

‘Ah yeah. That’ll be right. So, what do you think it is?’

He seemed to come to a conclusion. He wiggled his eyebrows alarmingly and declared, proudly and confidently:

‘I reckon it’s mushroom rock.’

I looked at him in bafflement. Being naturally uneducated as well as ignorant I had never heard of such a thing.

‘Really?’

He nodded solemnly. ‘Really.’

‘So, what would that be then?’

‘Well,’ he said, shifting sideways on his board and looking a bit uncomfortable, ‘it’s a special kind of rock that grows up overnight, out of the blue, when the conditions are right. Sorta fing. Especially this time of year, you know.’

I didn’t know. The depth of my not-knowing knew no boundaries.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you know, when the nights are particularly dark, and there’s a lot of humidity around, it promotes the growth of mushrooms. Stands to reason. Everyone knows that.‘ And he glared at me sternly.

Far from me to admit that I had never heard of it.

‘Ah yes, now that you mention it, of course, yes, I remember, it’s all coming back to me now.’

He nodded approvingly. Clearly my ignorance could well be mended one of these days. In turn I nodded emphatically in agreement. Obviously, even though the night at hand with the full moon was bright as day, in the days before the moon was full it would have been quite dark. So there was condition number one filled straightaway. And, in terms of humidity, you couldn’t really get any more humid than the bottom of the sea. It all made perfect sense, and I felt elated with gratification at such enlightenment.

Meanwhile The Shredder had finally finished fitting the extension to his board, bringing it up to an impressive Four Foot Nothing, and he expressed his confidence at his improved ability to be able to catch the next wave, and, potentially, with a bit of luck, to be able to travel further than his previous record of three metres. He was boldly eyeing off the four metre mark, and, he quietly but confidently informed us, he wouldn’t entirely rule out, with a bit of luck, venturing into uncharted five metre territory. We shook our heads at such audacity and bravery, and expressed our admiration for his adventurous spirit in the strongest terms of encouragement, only slightly tainted with disbelief and ridicule.

We would soon find out. A wave presented itself behind us just at that very moment, and in a great big flurry of flapping hands and trailing legs he disappeared into a maelstrom of white water.

The Snake Catcher, Chief Switchfoot and me looked at each other. We started counting.

‘One ... two ... three ....’

Sure enough.

‘Ah, fuck! Fucking hell!’

The dulcet tones of The Shredder’s voice came ringing out above the noise of the crashing wave, which, we couldn’t help but notice, was disappearing into the wild black yonder without him on it.

We turned our gaze towards Mushroom Rock Two. It appeared he had skillfully and cunningly circumnavigated Mushroom Rock One, and then, with great foresight, planning and commitment, had skewered himself onto Mushroom Rock Two.

We saw him stand up in the surf and turn his board over in his hands. We looked at each other and frowned. This didn’t look good. So we called out to him.

‘Are you all right? What happened?’

As if we didn’t know exactly what had happened, and could clearly see that he wasn’t anywhere near all right. Such is the conceit of polite social interaction.

‘I smashed into this great big fucking rock here!’

His language was atrocious. I had a quick quiet word in the ear of the Snake Catcher about explaining some of the finer points of Bible-condoned speech habits. The Snake Catcher nodded his approval and agreed to take it up with him in private sometime very soon. After all, we shared our break and our waves with lots of tenderhearted and impressionable people of all ages, and it wouldn’t do to be exposing them to such terrible language, even if they only spoke and understood Japanese.

‘Ah yeah. Jeez, that’s unlucky, ey. What a surprise too,’ one of our group offered.

Someone sniggered. I looked around in indignation at such inappropriate behaviour, but it didn’t seem to be any of the others.

‘I smashed into this rock ...’

Yeah, we knew that.

‘... and it’s knocked out one of my fins. It’s gone, I’ve lost it!’

A tragedy indeed. We didn’t like the chances of the three-foot shortboard, even with its extension, being able to perform adequately, or even at all, with only two fins. We could clearly and vividly imagine The Shredder paddling around in circles, only pulling to the right, since his left fin had disappeared. A bit like a dolphin sleeping and resting half of his brain while slowly cruising around in circles, being a conscious breather and not being able to sleep fully without drowning.

And that was that.

The Shredder, devastated at the loss of his fin, got out of the water, went and retrieved a set of goggles from his car, and started snorkeling and duck diving around Mushroom Rock Two, in a desperate attempt to recover his fin and continue his bid for the five metre long distance record. We sat back and watched his head as it bobbed up and down in noticeably increasing frustration, periodically getting smashed in the back of it by passing longboards, not all of them ridden by Japanese speaking people.

When we finally got out and ended our session he was still there, duck diving, splashing and cursing, in his futile attempt to reclaim his equipment.

That was a week ago now.

We have since received word that he is still there, refusing to give up. We have gotten in touch with the Salvos and Meals On Heels, and they have promised to keep up, for as long as it may take, the steady supply of vegemite sandwiches, English Breakfast tea with organic goat’s milk, and overpriced smashed avocadoes that he has been living on, snatching mere handfuls of food at those rare moments that he manages to extract himself from the water.

Wonder if he’ll ever find it.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but notice the other day that Chief Switchfoot appeared to have fitted a brand new fin to his board.