The Wombat Surf

 The roaring, bone-crushing surf of the last few days and weeks had faded into a distant memory, or, some might suggest, a figment of our imagination.

   We stood gloomily under the stars and stared out at the black water lapping sedately at the beach. Tiny ripples fanned out towards the night sky horizon.

   ‘Right. We’re stuffed for a wave,’ said the Reefshark.

   ‘Nah, look at it, look, there’s a set coming through right now,’ said I, the Baboon, enthusiastically, pointing at the water in front of us with one hand while resting the knuckles of the other one on the sand.

   Three heads turned, very slowly, to the right. Even more slowly they swivelled back around to the left. A tiny crest of bubbling white water shimmered in the night, spluttered anaemically like an old two-stroke lawn mower on stale fuel, and laid down and died. Three heads turned back towards me.

   ‘So ... you sure there’s nothing wrong with your vision?’ enquired the Cork, one of the world’s natural-born pessimists.

   ‘No mate, I’m telling you, there’s a wave out there,’ I insisted. I gave this statement, apparently devoid of any basis in reality, a bit more thought, and felt a bit more was required. ‘You just can’t see it from here,’ I ventured. ‘It’s hiding.’

   ‘Hiding?’ The eyebrows on the great dome of the Snake Catcher’s head rose like two caterpillars recently resurrected from an early and undeserved grave, keen to join the wake and have a few beers in their own memory. ‘Where? Under the water?’

   ‘Yeah ... mebbe, ey ... look, I’m sure if we paddle around there’ll be a wave there somewhere,’ I said with conviction. ‘It’ll be just around the corner, you’ll see.’

   Never underestimate the power of wishful thinking, the potential of collective delusion, or the persuasive abilities of a Baboon on a banana-induced high. Much against the better judgement of some of the crew we suited up and paddled out into the night, gently lifting and falling on the tiny swell. We rounded a set of rocks obscuring the view of the bay, and headed out underneath the bulk of the great Cape Naturaliste headland, towering high above us, and sheltering the small town of Eagle Bay. We spread out at the foot of the cliffs, and relaxed and waited, secure in the knowledge that on a day like today we could afford to take our time, because no-one else in their right mind would bother coming out.

   Sure enough, against all reasonable expectation waves turned up, and with surprising regularity too. They weren’t big or overly powerful, but they rolled in smoothly and quickly, and stretched out in perfect lines, with not a drop of water out of place. Small but very nice indeed. We took it in turns to slide into them and savour the rides like wine connoisseurs who gobble up a mouthful of wine, swirl it around in their mouth for a bit appreciatively, and then spit it back out again, offering ludicrous far-fetched comments on such aspects as palate, bouquet, fruit, character, and perceived percentage of added metho.

   The sun came up slowly, coating the world in a blanket of hard, pure dry-season orange. We sat back on our boards and shot the breeze, thoroughly enjoying the rare pleasure of having our break to ourselves without having to contend with tourists and blow-ins. Smiles broke out all around. Leave the world to us, and we’ll sort it out like this. We’ll take it in turns, and make sure that everyone gets enough to go around. How hard can it be?

   We took off in quick succession: the Reefshark, veteran of many a Polynesian coral reef adventure; myself the Baboon, knuckles dragging through the water, and pink shiny arse pointing to the sky; the Snake Catcher, relaxed in the absence of stresses associated with chasing drop-ins and snakes; and the Cork, bobbing madly out of control on the water and heading in all the wrong directions. Heaven on a stick.

   It wasn’t to last.

   As I paddled back up to our take-off zone, where the Reefshark had already pulled up again, I saw a bloke waddling down the beach, doing battle with a board that seemed to be getting the better of him. I eyed him wearily as he laid down and started heaving and moaning, dragging his arms through the water ineffectively. Bad news, guaranteed.

   I pulled up next to the Reefshark, who was riding the swell contentedly, waiting for the set, a big smile on his face. It wouldn’t be there for much longer.

   I pointed at the figure working its way up towards us.

   ‘I think we might have company.’

   The Reefshark turned his head and looked at the approaching figure thoughtfully. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, nodding knowingly, ‘that’s the Wombat.’

   ‘The Wombat?’

   ‘Yeah. He looks like one.’ The Reefshark grinned. ‘Moves like one too.’

   I had another look. I had to admit that there was a certain roundness to the figure. Notions of Fat Arse were suggesting themselves. Ah well. Each to their own. People can’t help what they look like.

   They can however help what they behave like. Very much so.

   Because, as we sat patiently waiting for this figure to join us in the line-up, smiling benevolently, happy to extend Friendly Greetings Of Goodwill To All Human Beings On Earth, and waiting to say goodday, this character paddled right to the inside, and sat up on his board a metre to the left of the Reefshark. He pointedly showed us his right ear and the back of his head, and said Not A Word.

   My mouth had been half open in anticipation of replying to a greeting from the new arrival. None was forthcoming. I shut my mouth again with an audible snap, feeling faintly embarrassed.

   I looked across to The Wombat. He showed me more of the back of his head.

   I scratched my own head in confusion. Was there something I wasn’t getting here?

   I looked around. Our break is a pointbreak. The great mass of the headland sat on our left hand side. The ocean washes around the base of its cliffs, lifts up and starts breaking, and rolls away from the right to the left. The person closest to the rocks is next in line for a wave, and has, usually, been waiting the longest. If a wave turns up, it’s theirs. They have right of way. It’s not hard to understand.

   I looked further down the line. Way down in the distance over there were our other two mates, slogging their way back up to us, having a yarn and passing the time of day. I looked back to where we were sitting. I counted the number of people in the water. One, me; two, the Reefshark. I scratched my head again, dumbfounded.

   That Wombat fella had paddled out on a quiet day with knee-high surf, had found the grand total of two people in the water, and had, inexplicably and astonishingly, selected to go and sit on the inside of them. While refusing to make eye-contact or say a word of greeting. What was he thinking?

   It was possible he was merely trying to find a good spot to hang out, while intending to wait for his turn perfectly politely. He could well be shy, reserved or tongue-tied. Everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt.

   All doubts were dashed when the next wave arrived. This was going to be the Reefshark’s wave. He had, after all, been waiting patiently since well before the Wombat entered the water.

   No such luck.

   No sooner had the Wombat noticed the wave than he turned around and started paddling with all his might. His intentions were clear. Not only was he a rude and unfriendly bastard, he also fully intended to snake the Reefshark, jump on the first wave coming along and snatch it away from underneath the nose of the person who’d been waiting for it.

   He didn’t know the Reefshark.

   This bloke is a big wave surfer from the Pacific reefbreaks. He has spent many, many years riding great big monstrous things quadruple overhead and has broken longboards in half on impact, all without blinking an eye or breaking a sweat. The Wombat didn’t stand a chance.

   With slow, lazy armstrokes, one, two, and a casual glance over his shoulder, the Reefshark moved like greased lightning, dropped down the crest and rode away while the Wombat clambered to his feet arthritically and found himself looking at the Reefshark’s arse. The Wombat wobbled once or twice in frustration and, as the Reefshark bolted away into the middle distance, very slowly fell over backwards with his legs in the air.

   I shook my head. What is it about surfing that brings out the worst in people? The vast majority of people would be shocked at the proposition of going into a post office, knocking over an old lady with a walking frame waiting in the queue, and elbowing their way to the counter in front of the queue to get served first. Yet when it comes to the surf, people seemingly leave their manners and their brains behind in their cars, and the water becomes a cut-throat free for all. Why?

   We contemplated the situation. We considered politely explaining the rules of engagement to the Wombat. Looking into the future, we foresaw acrimony, arguments, argy-bargy and aggression, as well as the very high likelihood that the endeavour would be pointless.

   We got out. There was no point in spoiling a beautiful day with a shitfight.