Remote Solitary

Crowded waves and competition for rides are the bane of the existence of anyone within cooee of a passably decent ride. Drop-ins, snakes and shitfights in the water are par for the course, or so it seems.

   It certainly is that way in our home town of Eagle Bay. Proud possessor of an enviable first class longboard break, we habitually get flooded under a never-ending stream of holiday makers from the big city, all out to make the most of their few precious weeks under the sun, and determined, come rain, shine, hell or high water, to score some of these fabulous waves. As a result hostile altercations in the surf abound, and our erstwhile peaceful, quiet and low-profile town is now more commonly referred to as Ego Bay.

   With one thing and another things came to a head, and I had decided to take a sabbatical. Time out from the neverending screaming arguments and occasional punch-ons. An interesting job opportunity came up, and so I took it.

   I found myself way beyond the Black Stump. Where the desert meets the ocean. The long, empty sand hills of the desert blend in effortlessly with the dunes of the foreshore, and the beach. Hundreds and hundreds of miles from anywhere. Apart from the tiny settlement where I ended up, the next town is two and a half hours away. In between, nothing but desert.

   While so far off the beaten track it’s not discernible with the naked eye, there is a special, secret spot here, that no one knows about. The Ultimate Spot X. When the tide is right, the swell is a decent size, and the wind blows from the appropriate corner, there is a point here where the swell, rolling in from the mighty ocean, wraps itself around a low rockshelf, protruding at right angles to the prevailing swell direction. Not quite a headland, and made of sharp, alien-looking jagged rocks, it is enough to make the swell stand up on its hindlegs, rear up and break in a long peeling wave. Moreover, in stark contrast to the land, which, as far as the eye can see in either direction, is made up of virtually nothing but sand, the ocean floor is made of nothing but rocks. The sand just about stops at the shoreline. It is bizarre, but it does mean that, when the wave breaks, it breaks consistently and uniformly, every time, all the time.

   I had left at daybreak, and by the light of the first rays of the sun, low over the horizon, had picked my way through the challenging terrain. Tyres down low, nice and flat, skidding and slipping through the ever-present sand, gunning over hills, fishtailing around corners. Without fourwheel drive you’d get about five metres down the road, and then you’d be digging. Or walking. Through the long shadows cast by the spinifex and straggly coastal scrub, in and out of bull dust holes, till, finally, I pulled up at the beach. No crowded car parks here. I have never seen another person here.

   Leaving the keys in the ignition and the board bag stretched out on the ground I waded into the surf and paddled out. There’s one narrow strip of sand where you can paddle without scraping your fingers to bits on sharp rocks. Out towards where the wave is breaking on the rockshelf in front of me. Being a fixed feature, there is a spot where the wave breaks, and, by way of great good service, there’s a channel where the water drains out through the rocks, and where you can paddle out to the back of the wave without getting your hair wet.

   I reached the take-off point, sat up and squinted into the rising sun. Let one or two go past, sussing out the lay of the land, the rise and fall of the swell, then, when a nice wall stood up, pulled into it and dropped. Turned hard right, and sailed up and down the wall of green. Pure magic. I reached the end of the ride, dropped down on my board, taking care to keep my feet nice and high and out of the way of the rocks underneath, and paddled back out again. Through the channel, round the back. Squint, assess, decide, and go. Paddle hard, and another nice drop. Beautiful bottom turn, coasting up and down, going right again, force of habit. Then, who knows how or why, I caught a rail, the board bucked, and I got thrown backwards into the wild blue yonder, off to the left. At the same time the board, having developed a mind of its own, kicked up, rose out of the water, turned itself on its rail, and riding on-end by itself, turned left as well. Ran straight underneath me, rail pointing high to the sky, and I landed square across it, my left arm and half of my ribs on the one side, the rest of me on the other side. Smash.

   Pain like you wouldn’t believe. Knives stabbing in my side. I knew immediately I’d hurt myself badly. I stuck my head up out of the water and tried to breathe. Nothing happened. I gulped like a fish out of water, and tried again. Nothing. Panic started to well up, overridden immediately by adrenaline kicking in. I lunged out towards my board, floating harmlessly a few feet away from me. My nemesis and cause of injury as well as my lifesaver. If I got stuck out there with the wave breaking on me, injured and unable to breathe it wouldn’t go very well for me. My only chance was getting on the board and getting out of there as fast as possible. I crawled onto it, and, clutching my side, started paddling with one arm. Tried again for another breath. This time I managed to get a little bit of air in, and the red mist in front of my eyes started to clear up a bit. Grinding my teeth, holding my breath and snatching snippets of air every now and then I dragged my one arm through the water, caught bits of whitewash, and made it to the shoreline. I stumbled onto the sand, grabbed the board, staggered back to the car. Only one thought in my mind: getting out of there as fast as possible. Last time I had experienced pain like this I had a collapsed lung. If I couldn’t get out I was going to be in serious trouble.

   Somehow I got the board back on the roof of the ute, and I set off. Clutching my injured side, driving with one hand, I gunned it up the sand hills. Down through the bull dust holes. Every time I tried to breathe it felt like there was something stabbing into my lungs, A broken rib with a sharp point? I tried not to think about it. The only thing I could do was hold my breath and anticipate every bump; every fishtail, every skid, every sandy bog. If I got stuck anywhere before the tarmac, miles away, there was no way I was going to be able to dig the car out. Or walk out, come to that.

   I rode the adrenaline. I knew that, as long as I was in crisis mode, my body would hold off letting me experience the full force of the injury. So I fanged it through those dunes, in and out of drifts of sand, over and past the spinifex, flying through sprays of dust.

   Eventually I reached the tarmac. I skidded onto it and made a beeline for the township, somewhere in the distance, at the end of that long empty road. My body must have realised that the most dangerous part was behind me, because as soon as I hit the tarmac I started shaking and shivering. I wrapped my fingers around the steering wheel hard, so it wouldn’t slip out of my grip, and, holding my breath, I drove with a white-knuckle death grip all the way back to town.

   I made it.

   I pulled up outside the medical centre.

   In keeping with our town’s status as an outpost settlement, there is no doctor, and no hospital. Equally, there is no police, no school, and no teachers. On the other hand there’s two pubs. We’ve clearly got our priorities right here.

   There’s nurses in the medical centre. When they get stumped they call the Flying Doctors. If they can’t get there in time you’re stuffed.

   I half-fell out of the car, and staggered over to the door of the centre. I tried to push it open, my hand shaking against the glass pane. Closed. I looked up at the sign. “Open Monday to Friday 8.30-4.30.”

   It was Saturday, 7.30.

   What else to do?

   I crawled home and gorged myself on all the painkillers I could get my hands on. I spared a thought for all my mates back in The Bay, fighting over waves with snaking blow-ins. There’s the downside to having an uncrowded wave to yourself, at the Back Of Woop-Woop. If the shit hits the fan you’re alone, no back-up and no help.

   I passed out.

 

 




 

 

Comments

  1. Anonymous5 December 2022 at 15:09

    And????

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Steve Hansen5 December 2022 at 20:29

      Well, I'm still alive. I couldn't sleep, lie down, roll over or get up for a week, then it started to improve. I don't think my lung is punctured, and the ribs are cracked and dislocated rather than broken through, I reckon. But it's all guess work, because, as I wrote, there's no doctor here. For now I can breathe and move, so that's all right with me ...

      Delete

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