The Golden Hour

 We study the conditions. We observe the weather patterns, analyse the swell, time the frequency, watch the wind, and, above all, monitor the tide like a cat stalking a particularly juicey mouse. If all else fails we sacrifice small furry animals to Huey, The God Of Surf And Violent Hangovers.

   Here in our often-forgotten corner of northern WA the surf is unpredictable at best. Long flat spells in the dry season will be broken by cyclonic monsoon swell, and we’ll switch from knee-high wind-blown close-outs, our regular daily fare, to triple-overhead man-eating bone-crunching monsters at virtually no notice. It’s very much feast or famine.

   As always there are the tricks of the trade, the bits of jealously guarded Local Knowledge, acquired over painfully long periods of trial and error, and divulged only at knife-point. Hogged with all the parochialism, narrowmindedness and petty avarice only True Localism can breed. If you don’t have five grandparents in the local graveyard you don’t get a look in.

   So when I turn up, board under my arm, I know exactly where to go, and what not to do.

   It’s a busy day, by our standards . There’s at least 20-odd people out, a high number considering the limited availability of waves, which tend to break along one lone rocky shelf that juts out into the ocean, surrounded on all sides by a desert of sand that stretches out to Indonesia under water, and across to Alice Springs overland. There are times when the difference between the two is lost to all but the most discerning eye.

   Like right now. The sea is flat, with barely a ripple. The troop of would-be surfers sit huddled together forlornly, like vampires at a vegan dinner party. Shoulders droop, chins sag. Muttering is heard floating over the water.

   I don’t pay it any mind. I strike out and paddle towards where I know there’s a reef hiding somewhere under the surface. It does nothing, and will sit there innocuously, examining its fingertips, looking up at the sky and whistling tunelessly. Until the time is right.

   A bloke paddles over and comes to sit next to me. I’ve met him the day before. He looks like a throwback to the Glory Days of the British Empire, like a military character out of a WWII parody movie: a ramrod-straight back, pointy chin, upright demeanor and a big bushy grey moustache under his nose, looking for all the world like a possum that washed out to sea and latched onto the first thing it saw sticking out, holding on for dear life. He’s also covered from tip to toe in white zinc, clearly not taking any chances with the elements. Getting skincancer does not appear to be high on his wishlist.

   But he’s an excellent waterman. Yesterday he was on a boogie-board, ripping it up and catching more waves than anyone. Today he’s on a surfmat, a glorified li-lo, with his feet in flippers dangling behind him in the water.

   I nod at his equipment.

   ‘How you going with that?’

   ‘Yeah, not too bad. It’s really fat, got no edges, bounces all over the place.’

   I eye it off. He’s not wrong there. It’s got as much edge as an overripe watermelon.

   But what does it matter? Bitter turf wars have been fought out in line-ups across the country, pitting longboarders against shortboarders, surfers against bodyboarders, and everyone united against stand-up paddlers. But who cares. In the end all that matters is that you have a good time catching waves, no matter how you do it.

   We exchange a look of understanding, and paddle out a bit. The crowd off to our side is thinning out: people in the line-up are giving up and bailing out.

   Good.

   Because here it comes now.

   The long range swell that travels half way around the world is tired and worn out by the time it gets to us up here in the tropics. But, for one very well-defined window of opportunity, once a day, it jolts awake. The rising tide picks it up, kicks it in the arse, and throws it lengthways across our sandbanks and rockshelves. And right here right now, on cue, before our eyes, the tide fills in, and a perfect wave rolls around in front of us. Rib- to shoulder-high, a wall of blue and green, topped with a crown of soft white foam. As if by prior understanding we both pull into it at the same time, and with a nod and a thumbs-up I go left while he goes right. We fly along the wall of glass, not a drop of water out of place, and ride it until it exhausts itself in two feet of water.

   This is The Golden Hour: that time when the tide, the swell and the wind align perfectly to create exactly the right conditions. One hour before the high tide, and only on a big tide; sometimes, if we’re lucky, we might get an extra half hour beforehand, but don’t hold your breath.

   I paddle back out in the rip sucking alongside the reef, get back to my favorite take-off spot, and go again. And again, and again. Possum-Mo does the same thing on the other side, and between us we are shredding it. Jackpot.

   Of course it can’t last.

   Before long the crowd upstream, hugging and hogging the rockshelf pointlessly, take notice of what is happening and come paddling over. The bulk is made up out of a group of young boys, looking around 14-15 or so. Half of them are on foamies, the others either on old, patched-up boards, the ones with poor parents, or on conspicuously shiny brand newies, the rich kids. Most of them have got no idea what they’re doing.

   But they know a good thing when they see it, and they’re on top of us like flies on a turd. They saw us catch waves and they’ll be damned if they don’t get in on the action. So they crowd and clutter together in front of us, downstream, paddle for every wave, get on, fall off, crash into each other, bump heads, and swear and carry on.

   I take a beautiful drop, go right for a change, and find myself faced with a crowd of obstacles. I zig left around a kid trying to get back on his board, zag right around another one trying to get to his knees, and do a triple zig-zag around two of them having a placid yarn right in front of me with their backs turned to me, oblivious to the world. Halfway down my wave another one paddles like mad and drops in right in front of me. I throw on the brakes, turn hard the other way, grab my board so it wouldn’t smash his brains out, and abort the mission.

   We both stand up in waist-deep water. I look him up and down, and smile. Without too many sharp teeth.

   ‘Hey mate, don’t do that, ey. It’s dangerous.’

   His eyes swivel sideways, left to right and back again. He looks over his shoulder and avoids my eye.

   ‘Uh ... uh  ... yeah uh, I’m just hopping out now,’ he squeaks.

   ‘Yeah mate, that’s all right. But remember this. You’ve got to learn these things.’

   He goes red. Could be a bit of Instant Sunburn, mebbe, ey.

   ‘Yeah, but .. uh ... uh ... I’m hoppin’out.’ And true to his word his sticks his board under his arm and legs it out of there like the cops are after him.

   I shrug. He’ll work it out eventually. Hopefully.

   I grab my board and walk out of the water. At the tide line I stop. The tide is turning. I look over my shoulder. True to form, the swell has disappeared as suddenly as it arrived, and the group of twenty-odd are sitting close together, staring bemused at the water. I see Possum-Mo get out of the water a bit further down the line. He wasn’t born yesterday.

   I give him a wave from a distance, turn around and head up the beach.

   The Golden Hour has finished for another day. The sea resumes its inscrutable flat face and goes back to sleep. I might do the same.