The Nomadic Life - West Oz

Author: Jonathan Oliff

26th November 2007

Nomad - [noh-mad] - a member of a people or tribe that has no permanent abode but moves about from place to place.

The journey began in Durban, South Africa. This is where my travelling experiences usually begin, me being a Durbanite for all my bodyboarding years. Durban will always be base or home, sun rising it's staunch head over our tropically cool waters, cruising to vanish, devoured by the hills, an afternoon delight. One thing I hate about travelling is packing, my bags always seem too heavy but I can never figure out what garment I should leave out, I think I'm kind of a chick in that regard. This trip my bags are the thinnest that they have ever been and I am quite proud of their catwalk-model appearance, that is until I endeavour to bicep curl them onto my shoulder. My girlfriend Kim, who is an accomplice on this trip, has no problem with packing her luggage and making it look easy, that is until my arm officially weighs it and I tell her that it's too heavy and needs to be repacked. This is a good way to get into trouble; however my term in the dog-box is fleeting once my arm is proven right by a faithful bathroom scale.

Anyway, I decide that all my new kit and board from Nomad are essentials; the rest just kinda takes a back seat. The new gear will be smutted around recreationally, while other once important clothes will be taken only to be worn and ruined under the dirt and sweat of manual labour. 'Going to Aus', I think as I daydream of all the waves there are on this continent... all the videos I've watched, showing off some of the best waves in the world. Remembering the first Underground video I watched, sitting wide eyed in awe on a musty couch in a dark dingy basement of a local surf shop. That was the first time the Aussie talent was exposed to me.

I've seen the ability of the top guys from Aus in real-time action during my travels to Hawaii; the guys are leading our sport. And judging from the images presented to me in the glossy pages of their magazines, I can see why these guys are so calculated and stylish. Hollow, shallow and powerful ... these are words evoked by the colourful images on hand in any Riptide or Movement magazine. So I board the plane anxious, but excited. This swarming butterfly feeling in my stomach follows me until the dark puffs of clouds devour the plane and paint the windows black. The trip is long, but the cheapest tickets always are and as we land I realize that Emirates is pretty much my favourite airline, the service was incredible. If only I could expect food like that for the rest of the trip ...

Arriving in Perth in the early hours of the morning, the surf was only going to be seen in the glowing dawn, that light that seems bright only because of your sleep congested eyes. When we did eventually come upon the ocean, it was howling onshore and a little rainy, pretty similar to how I left Durban. So, with this in mind I am pretty desperate for waves, but the cold windy slush in front of us is never going to cut it. The guy showing us around, Daniel De Gosa is a Durban boy who lives in Perth and he is certain that there will be waves soon. Dan takes us to see some "Roos" and as they happily bounce around just out of arms reach I think of how cool it is to see an unfamiliar animal is its own surroundings.

One cold damp morning Daniel and I manage to get some small but fun beach break action at a spot called 'Locals', just outside of Perth. The wave is a sort of wedgy peak that uses its power to sling shot you into a long walled shorebreak. As I scraped my way into quick but steep takeoffs I was reminded of the Toti shorey I'd scored in sweltering afternoon heat, huge differences included that this water was Reef full-suit material, De Caprio murderingly cold and far cleaner than any Warner beach I have surfed.

Later that night I get a call from an ex-Durbanite, Duncan Conradt. Duncan used to rip North Beach and Farbowl apart on the knee. Now he wants to go for a surf and show me that his Dk skills are still intact. I work a couple of days, helping Duncan set up Patio Awnings. Manual labour is pretty awesome, it's physically hardening, full of uplifting accomplishments and it's always going to be better when you're catching up with old buddy. So Duncan sets me up and introduces me to some guys who spent some time recently in SA, actually they even stayed in my flat while I wasn't there. Cruising with the boys back home left quite an impression on them and all they wanted to do was show a Saffa a good time and some waves in their hometown.

We awake on a frosted morning to travel an awkwardly quiet hour north to a place called Lancelin. If you've ever stayed in a house with me you would know that morning is a quiet time for me, I only started living after some sort of excitement has gripped my lucid mind, it can be almost anything, but is not usually the common landscape of desert and shrubs. So with a slanted eyed tiredness I travel. I travel with strangers in their foreign land and none of these conditions entice any sort of extroverted behaviour, so we sit quietly between awkward lines and wait to see what the coastline has in store for us. After arriving and casually wondering out of the silence that gripped the heavily loaded station wagon, we stand as if we were professors and the ocean presented was a test subject to be analysized before any measures were to be taken. I turn to my left as a mad professor suggests we go for a paddle so that we can scrutinise our subject more closely. I only really realise that this seemingly normal looking gentleman was zany after the Olympic sized paddle out to a deserted island, all the while being pursued by an oversized inquisitive local seal. We then walked over the small, but lush piece of land and make another paddle to the outside reef. The stubborn seal had thankfully forsaken his educational quest and our stuff would be safe, left on the beach. I look over to Ross, who suggested the task, the venture that might have been as pointless as it was strenuous and realize his nutty experiment is actually ingenious, the waves are sick, easily 5feet, bowly lefts and rights. Ross' bulky flop of an Afro still bonds him a little with the mad professor identity that I'd dreamed up, but I'm thankful to have trusted him because as the day progresses the tide get lower and the reef gets shallow, with long barrel rides and awesome air bowls. After a couple of hours we call it a day and head in, this session will shine in my memory because it felt as if the place belonged to us, as if we had discovered an unmapped island that just happened to have waves and they too were ours. I feel that this might be the essence of travelling; just being able to experience places, deciding on their compatibility with you and yours, maybe then deciding on whether to hang about for a term, choosing how long that term should be and where to go next.

Where I go next is with the boys is down to Hardy's original playground, Margaret River. If you've seen any Tension vid then you've seen parts of Margaret River, the place is renowned for its surf in way that is similar to the inherent knowledge that South Africans love Waimea shorey. The first day is solid swell and only North Point is on, really crowded, but a world class wave usually will be when it's on. This wave on this swell direction consists typically of a dicey take off with an approaching second peak that is tempting to hit, however, getting to that section with time to launch is a little tricky and often the 'pull-in' option is the most popular. This is definitely safer as the reef gets pretty shallow at some spots of the wave. Anyway, after a couple barrels, some successful, some closing out it becomes more tempting to smash any available sections; one gets the better of me with its demonic power and smashes me into rocks. Wearing a few bruises and some scratches I try again on the next wave and timing ends up on my side, the boost is into the flats and that ends up being my curse, but a heavy landing is what makes bodyboarding sick. My next and final wave at North Point for this trip is a barrel with an awesome view of the plateau that is the channel, which happens to be filled with other boogers.

The following day we were a little slow at getting up, which is always a problem when searching for waves as time is not usually on your side. The excuse for our delayed awakening is that we actually didn't have anywhere to stay for the weekend, so we set our camp up in someone's vacation house. Not really their house as much as their damp, breezy garage behind the cosy little house that lay roadside. When we eventually do get to the lands end, mid morning, we are greeted with 4ft Gas Bay, only us out at the point. By us I'm referring to Ross, myself and a classically Aussie guy named Matty. Matt is one of those guys that can get anyone amped, he's got a naturally infectious stoke that makes me believe he might have been a Ritalin child at school. His contagious energy combined with his heavily country Aussie accent makes him incredibly hard to understand at times. So, the three of us exchange shallow, thick and clean barrels as if we gentlemen at a turnstile, all graciously urging each other to advance and feeling a little guilty when we did. But any feeling of guilt is lifted when on the returning paddle as the first wave to pass usually carried the more generous colleague in a barrel of his predetermined depth. It doesn't even matter which way you go, after slicing the wall with your rail you were most likely going to get spat out and ramps were in abundance.

My next surf was a pricey interaction, the price being an hour ride on the back of a jet ski with Daniel and Matty at a frosty 6am. The swell skipping ride included trying to hold on to three slippery boards at high speeds and an unexpected swim in the middle of the ocean. This happened about ten kilometres off the coast when we gayed out, committing a badly executed 'Baywatch' dive off the ski... The re-saddling jump back out of the icy blackness would have impressed any quick starting Olympic sprinter ... We hugged each other tightly the rest of the bouncy trip, giggling about our fresh discovery, a common phobia of open water human trawling. Anyway, the trip to Rottenest Island is worth it as we get really fun Chickens reef, a bowly left and right breaking wave. My guess at the spot's name is that it correlates to the length of ride you wish to pursue, as the length of ride determines the shallowness the reef underneath, until you pull off and stand, ankle deep on barnacled boulders, wishing you had of bailed earlier. After the surf we investigate the rest the island, experience it at a quarter of the price that the other cowardly, ferry taking tourists had paid. With pompous smirks on our faces we walk around, sneering at the average 'ferry man' as he tries to get close to the Quaqas, while we comfortably feed and stroke the miniature kangaroo like animals. Our arrogance turns to envy as we watch the last ferry of the day leave us far behind in its frothy wake, we are never to catch up for the smoother ride behind its engines.

As I leave the water I think that this is how I could spend the next six months of my Nomadic life, cruising with awesome guys, getting world class waves. Often enough the profits will outweigh the sacrifice. When it comes down to it, I suggest that if you are ever thinking about travelling in 'the land down under', I would highly recommend the West Coast, even if only for a fraction of your stay. The county side is beautiful and the waves can be world class, if you get lucky... But being able to stay in a place until you get lucky and conditions turn in your favour is the advantage of being a Nomad...

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