“What the hell is going on False Bay?”
First it was whale watching; with clutches of binoculared cetacean lovers backing up the traffic on Boyes Drive, waxing lyrical over blubber and spyhopping. Now it’s Shark spotting, complete with Smartphones, HD YouTube video feeds and webcams mere metres from the shoreline. I’m watching this feeding frenzy of a digital kind in a state of utter confusion. You might ask why; well I’m perplexed that in a mere 10 years the number of shark encounters in False Bay has increased with such alarming regularity.
Despite the impeccable scientific method of local Shark fundi Alison Kock, I am not convinced that the recent behaviour of our cartilaginous friends is quite normal, and no cause for concern. We’ve all heard those Shark attack stats that cite lightning strikes, mangled car wrecks and malevolent toasters, and those territorial tales of becoming a link in the marine food chain every time we paddle out. As surfers, these cautionary notes have been long since filed and entered into the psyche of the sport.
I’ve spent the past 30 years in the surf zone of False Bay, surfing , paddling, or bobbing about at the backline like a human crouton. I’ve experienced a countless variety of conditions from howling North West gales, pea soup South East mush burgers to those sublime kelp glass days that are few and far between. From my 80s heydays of mid-winter Cemetery and the Berg, to classic cover-ups at Dangers and mutated wedges at Clovelly. Add to that the rare days when Fish Hoek or spots like Glencairn Reef would come to life, yet I have never seen a shark, nor have the many friends I have surfed, paddled, skurfed or fished with.
I’m utterly mystified by this and everyone from Sharkspotters to experts seem to be regurgitating the same processed response; that the increased activity is part of the natural predatory behavior of Carcharodon carcharias. My reply has become increasingly skeptical when I hear, “Hey guys, it’s normal for this time of the year” or “Great Whites have been doing just this for millennia”. Well, if that’s the case where have all the sharks been on the countless clear days that I have surfed these very spots, or sat contemplating my existence while watching the ocean from Boyes Drive? I consider myself a fairly observant and situationally aware individual, so surely I would have encountered, or at least observed a Great White from afar by now? Was I just blissfully unaware of my precarious predicament, or was it mere benevolence on the part of my maker?
I’m bewildered and perplexed by the benign response of everyone. All this scientific evidence just doesn’t add up. What has transpired in the past decade to change the status quo of the 70s, 80s and 90s? Are we paying for the sins of our fathers? Is this a precursor to a complete collapse of the marine ecosystem, a harbinger of things to come, where huge schools of Snoek “go Pirhana” on grannies taking a dip in ankle deep water?
Something or someone has pulled the trigger, but no seems to be “stepping up to the plate” to deal with this issue head on. The Sharkspotting programme has been a massive success and is to be lauded and supported. They should be receiving huge amounts from that fiendishly subtle taxation system on the poor called the National Lottery. There’s no doubt that the Sharkspotting programme has saved countless lives, but in essence they are merely monitoring the symptoms of a bigger issue, and let’s be honest, the merest puff of a Southerly or South Easter puts a huge dent in their efficacy.
So here’s a list of possible causes or triggers:
- The proliferation of Shark Cage Diving outfits and Shark related eco-tourism.
- The protection of Great White Sharks by Law
- The depletion of fish stocks in False Bay
- The increase of recreational water users
- An increase or decrease of the Cape Fur Seal population in False Bay
- An increase in the number of Great White Sharks
- Changes in the predatory territories
To follow, here’s a spine-chilling list of attacks complied by Dave Elsworth of Kommetjie in a recent letter to the Cape Times. Take note of the dates!
2002 – Paul Major, surfski, Sunnycove
2004 – JP Andrew, surfing, Muizenberg Corner
2004 – Tyna Webb, swimming, Fish Hoek (Sunnycove side of the beach)
2005 – Trevor Wright, surfski, Sunnycove
2006 – Lyle Maasdorp, surfski, Sunnycove
2006 – Achmat Hassiem, swimming, Muizenberg (rivermouth area)
2006 – Richard Whitaker, surfing, Danger Beach
2010 – Lloyd Skinner, swimming, Fish Hoek (Sunnycove side of the beach)
2011 – Michael Cohen, swimming, Clovelly
I’m no Marine Biologist, Animal Behaviourist or Shark expert but in my opinion it’s time to tackle this issue in another manner. And no, I’m not talking shotguns, gaffs, and nets either. The waters of False Bay is the lifeblood of surf schools, surf shops, paddlers, surfers, kiters, divers, swimmers, Lifesaving competitions and many other recreational activities. What are viable alternatives in the interest of co-existence? Stay out of the water, hell no! What about Sharkshields? Yes, Sharkshields are very effective but prohibitively expensive for most although I do believe a possible solution could well stem from a similar form of technology. We all need to put our heads together, and a find workable solution – SA style!
For now the question remains; “What the hell is going on False Bay?”, and at the very least there’s a movie lurking beneath the surface of all this mayhem.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
At the Back
At the back every salty bead culminates in
the hollow slap of board against water,
and the lesser tap of polyurethane against fibreglass.
My leash is suspended,
in the last gun metal hours of daylight,
tethering leg and thoughts to one final wave,
before the scratch of each stroke grows to an ache
and joints seize like a wasted engine.
Every molecule is laced by the offshore,
even my thoughts of you at the evening stove,
are soaked by the darkest of blues at the back.
the hollow slap of board against water,
and the lesser tap of polyurethane against fibreglass.
My leash is suspended,
in the last gun metal hours of daylight,
tethering leg and thoughts to one final wave,
before the scratch of each stroke grows to an ache
and joints seize like a wasted engine.
Every molecule is laced by the offshore,
even my thoughts of you at the evening stove,
are soaked by the darkest of blues at the back.
Beta Beach, Bakoven
Placed between the last fragments of day and shadow
are minutes marked by the exhaling
of a final breath of light,
weighted at the edges
by atoms of gold and copper
that infuse the horizon
to a shiver of orange and blue.
Detail melts to animated silhouettes of black card,
cormorants, dogs and flirting couples
joined to sand and rock
in a ballet of unfathomable colour.
are minutes marked by the exhaling
of a final breath of light,
weighted at the edges
by atoms of gold and copper
that infuse the horizon
to a shiver of orange and blue.
Detail melts to animated silhouettes of black card,
cormorants, dogs and flirting couples
joined to sand and rock
in a ballet of unfathomable colour.
West Coast Surf
Slug slow tendrils
of mist cancel out the peaks,
footprints crumble from
the tent with it’s rummage
of sleeping bags and surfing mags.
The car is spread in deltas of dew,
stranded at that point
where bush becomes beach.
The incongruous slam of a door
followed by the clearing of a throat -
it scares the gulls.
Beyond the muslin,
the sea breaths in metronomic crashes,
exhaling into the immensity,
reminding us why we are here,
toes curled in sand cold as crushed glass,
anticipating those first needles of water,
seeking out the gaps between skin and neoprene.
A pair of Oyster Catchers dash for cover,
as the shorebreak detonates in a blast of sand and shell,
larger patches of water now float in the fog,
and the sun has become a yellow button in the east,
burning the bite away.
We shake the night out of our wetsuits,
and unsheath the boards,
then the frenzied flap and one-footed tug of rubber
on a damp towel in the sand.
Laughter, happy curses and running headlong into
a wall of West Coast mist.
of mist cancel out the peaks,
footprints crumble from
the tent with it’s rummage
of sleeping bags and surfing mags.
The car is spread in deltas of dew,
stranded at that point
where bush becomes beach.
The incongruous slam of a door
followed by the clearing of a throat -
it scares the gulls.
Beyond the muslin,
the sea breaths in metronomic crashes,
exhaling into the immensity,
reminding us why we are here,
toes curled in sand cold as crushed glass,
anticipating those first needles of water,
seeking out the gaps between skin and neoprene.
A pair of Oyster Catchers dash for cover,
as the shorebreak detonates in a blast of sand and shell,
larger patches of water now float in the fog,
and the sun has become a yellow button in the east,
burning the bite away.
We shake the night out of our wetsuits,
and unsheath the boards,
then the frenzied flap and one-footed tug of rubber
on a damp towel in the sand.
Laughter, happy curses and running headlong into
a wall of West Coast mist.
Tube
So elusive
you’ve become Heroin for some,
These days it’s become easy to avoid
my average bones and strung muscles,
me bobbing, taking water
like a holed bath toy,
above this vast pitch of dusted green.
Swells graze acned reefs of red-bait,
or mow head-on into sandbanks,
infused with littoral energy,
born in a pile-up of isobars
in the Roaring Forties.
Soaring through mercury,
fused to fibreglass by wax
crouched as fingertips taste speed,
All is quiet as a lake for Icarus at sea,
and then the ocean folds into a blur of spray,
and she holds you like a lover,
inside a mosaic of ecstasy,
breathless,
as the world dims to an almond.
Come June
and cold fronts that look like coils of razor wire,
Conrad would have paddled out too,
forsaking Lord Jim and Nostromo
for these few fractions in the tube.
you’ve become Heroin for some,
These days it’s become easy to avoid
my average bones and strung muscles,
me bobbing, taking water
like a holed bath toy,
above this vast pitch of dusted green.
Swells graze acned reefs of red-bait,
or mow head-on into sandbanks,
infused with littoral energy,
born in a pile-up of isobars
in the Roaring Forties.
Soaring through mercury,
fused to fibreglass by wax
crouched as fingertips taste speed,
All is quiet as a lake for Icarus at sea,
and then the ocean folds into a blur of spray,
and she holds you like a lover,
inside a mosaic of ecstasy,
breathless,
as the world dims to an almond.
Come June
and cold fronts that look like coils of razor wire,
Conrad would have paddled out too,
forsaking Lord Jim and Nostromo
for these few fractions in the tube.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Grey Suits & Shields.
In the abyss, fathoms deep with buck-eyed teeth and cartilaginous stealth they lurk. Loitering around the dog-eared corners of our nightmares are perfect instruments of submarine terrorism. Forget Nile crocs the size of Land Cruisers, or grumpy Puff Adders infused with large doses of cytotoxic inertia. We surfers are hardwired to relegate all other fatal mishaps to that of a mozzie bite when encountering a very large fish of the order Selachii.
Sharks have been around for a long time, most likely somewhere in the region of 450 million years. Evolution gave up fine-tuning their hydrodynamic efficiency some 100 million years ago, and in turn instilled in ocean going humans a primal fear that swamps all rational thought with the merest flicker of movement beneath the late afternoon glass. Even the Great White’s latin name, “Carcharodon carcharias” cuts through modern English like a rusty razorblade.
We suppress our fears, taking comfort in the reams of musty stats that declare the chances of perishing in an aviation disaster far more likely than becoming a human sushi roll at some perfecto point or suburban surfing nursery. Tabloid headlines and fear mongering are best ignored. Somehow fear always becomes that missing jigsaw piece, even when paddling out at a postcard beachie in the middle of summer on a pushing tide? Glassy A-Frames perfumed by sunscreen and wax in the mid-morning offshore are simply too idyllic for a fishy bogeyman. Cousin Johnny and the underwater Mafioso don’t exist unless you add them as sinister variables to your sublime equation. Then factor in treknet fisherman, shark cage operators or river mouths spewing muddy human detritus and your summery dream will end in one merciless blur of spray and thrashing, turning the sea to Pinotage and death.
Marine biologists, shark aficionados, crackpot journos and surfers all have their infallible opinions, stoking the fear in some cases with great glee. Shark attacks sell newspapers; humans feast on fear, gorging themselves like a crazed cabal of Blue Pointers. 100 million sharks are “harvested” annually in comparison to approximately 10 human fatalities. Even when faced with these incongruous numbers, deep within mankind’s genetic encoding there’s an instinctual fear that’s not going to capitulate to rational thought anytime soon.
Nonetheless it’s somewhat satisfying knowing there’s an equaliser patrolling our watery playground, an animal of almost mythic proportions that can shove us humans a good few links down the corroded food chain. No amount of surfista bravado or inked-up testosterone can square up to “Carcharodon carcharias”. I’d love to see a local bully “take it to the beach” with a hungry Raggie or tetchy Zambezi. It’s a shame a shark’s “Ampullae of Lorenzini” (sensory receptors) cannot differentiate between decent folk and 1st grade dipsticks.
So how can we as surfers protect ourselves from ending up as a briny crouton? “Nuke-em-good” knee-jerk reactions including shark nets, shotguns, spear guns and diving knives are a medieval waste of time. However, some time back the Natal Sharks board developed a device that’s best described as battery operated “Kryptonite” for sharks. It would eventually evolve into a commercially viable Australian product known as the Shark Shield™. The electrical impulse emitted by the device is effective up to 6m, and acts on the Ampullae of Lorenzini located on the snout of a predator shark. When a shark nears the electric field of a Shark Shield it experiences extreme discomfort and involuntary muscle spasms, immediately dissuading the fish from any further investigation.
New surfing vistas are now opening up for those surfers broad-minded enough to don a Shark Shield and paddle out with peace of mind. However, surfers are at times a narrow-minded tribe, perhaps blinkered to common sense by excessive doses of sunlight dancing on a dappled ocean. Ironically, these very surfers are convinced that they are beacons of free-thought and open mindedness, yet when it comes to embracing a scientifically proven device that deters our grey-suited friends, almost 90% of surfers I’ve chatted to cave into bullish conservativism. They suddenly squint into the middle distance and with all the wisdom of an Oxford don revert to urban myths about Shark Shields attracting ravenous schools of man-eaters. The wheel barrow loads of bullshit that spews forth from these armchair experts, and in some cases “highly respected” surfers, is on par with telly evangelists, African dictators and The Spanish Inquisition.
Yarns of Great Whites gulping down Shark Shields like jelly tots, and becoming “immune” to the device’s three-dimensional electrical impulse are no more than self-deception and technophobia in the wake of a revolutionary solution. Another favourite predestination of surfers is, “if it’s my time to go, then so be it”. I wonder if one of these dream-catching “fatalists” would saunter unprotected through the Kruger National Park with as much reckless abandon? Surfers reacted in much the same way to the invention of “gookcord”, leg rope or leash, but it turned out to be an indispensable surfing accessory in the long term.
As for the Shark Shield there’s no denying it’s an expensive piece of kit, but so were Flat screen TVs when they first flickered onto the market. If you surf a “sharky” spot, a fully charged device will give you at the very least, 4 to 5 hours of peace of mind. I’ve paddled out at a number of spots wearing my Shark Shield only to be scoffed at, or simply given a side-ways glance dripping with disdain and betrayal. Do I care; unequivocally not? It takes a couple of sessions to get used to the device, but it won’t affect your overall freedom in the water. Most detractors often bemoan the device as bulky and cumbersome, but then again they also like to think their surfing is on par with Mick or Kelly.
Yes, a Shark Shield is a man-made device and prone to possible malfunction from excessive abuse. If you don’t turn the device on it will not work, and more importantly, it needs to be rinsed-off and re-charged after every session. Perhaps that’s a bit too much to ask for some, considering the mountains of neoprene involved in ongoing micro-biological experiments in the back of bakkies and boots across the land.
Shark Shields come in two distinct types. One version allows for the battery pack to be fitted, by means of a base-plate to the tail of your board. The other type is secured to your ankle much like a leash. In both cases the electrode can double as a leash.
Interestingly enough, competitive surfers were protected by three battery operated Shark Shield devices attached to buoys at the backline of Nahoon Reef during the Mr Price Open surfing championships in 2009. Lifeguards merely replaced the Shark Shield batteries every four hours offering protection for surfers during the event. Global Surf News even reported that Surfing South Africa (SSA) was considering using Shark Shields at other surfing competitions in the future. It’s a labour intensive and expensive undertaking, but these tentative steps offer a life-saving solution that can be streamlined in the future.
Shark Shields are used by the Australian Special Forces, South African Navy, US Coast Guard and is also approved by NATO. I’ve watched countless videos online, chatted to commercial divers who swear by it and read detailed reports on the efficacy of the device. For me, it’s about peace of mind, and it happens to comes in the form of a Shark Shield when I paddle out at a high risk spot. As for the drive in my ’94 Toyota Corolla to my sharky bay, well that’s another story…
Sharks have been around for a long time, most likely somewhere in the region of 450 million years. Evolution gave up fine-tuning their hydrodynamic efficiency some 100 million years ago, and in turn instilled in ocean going humans a primal fear that swamps all rational thought with the merest flicker of movement beneath the late afternoon glass. Even the Great White’s latin name, “Carcharodon carcharias” cuts through modern English like a rusty razorblade.
We suppress our fears, taking comfort in the reams of musty stats that declare the chances of perishing in an aviation disaster far more likely than becoming a human sushi roll at some perfecto point or suburban surfing nursery. Tabloid headlines and fear mongering are best ignored. Somehow fear always becomes that missing jigsaw piece, even when paddling out at a postcard beachie in the middle of summer on a pushing tide? Glassy A-Frames perfumed by sunscreen and wax in the mid-morning offshore are simply too idyllic for a fishy bogeyman. Cousin Johnny and the underwater Mafioso don’t exist unless you add them as sinister variables to your sublime equation. Then factor in treknet fisherman, shark cage operators or river mouths spewing muddy human detritus and your summery dream will end in one merciless blur of spray and thrashing, turning the sea to Pinotage and death.
Marine biologists, shark aficionados, crackpot journos and surfers all have their infallible opinions, stoking the fear in some cases with great glee. Shark attacks sell newspapers; humans feast on fear, gorging themselves like a crazed cabal of Blue Pointers. 100 million sharks are “harvested” annually in comparison to approximately 10 human fatalities. Even when faced with these incongruous numbers, deep within mankind’s genetic encoding there’s an instinctual fear that’s not going to capitulate to rational thought anytime soon.
Nonetheless it’s somewhat satisfying knowing there’s an equaliser patrolling our watery playground, an animal of almost mythic proportions that can shove us humans a good few links down the corroded food chain. No amount of surfista bravado or inked-up testosterone can square up to “Carcharodon carcharias”. I’d love to see a local bully “take it to the beach” with a hungry Raggie or tetchy Zambezi. It’s a shame a shark’s “Ampullae of Lorenzini” (sensory receptors) cannot differentiate between decent folk and 1st grade dipsticks.
So how can we as surfers protect ourselves from ending up as a briny crouton? “Nuke-em-good” knee-jerk reactions including shark nets, shotguns, spear guns and diving knives are a medieval waste of time. However, some time back the Natal Sharks board developed a device that’s best described as battery operated “Kryptonite” for sharks. It would eventually evolve into a commercially viable Australian product known as the Shark Shield™. The electrical impulse emitted by the device is effective up to 6m, and acts on the Ampullae of Lorenzini located on the snout of a predator shark. When a shark nears the electric field of a Shark Shield it experiences extreme discomfort and involuntary muscle spasms, immediately dissuading the fish from any further investigation.
New surfing vistas are now opening up for those surfers broad-minded enough to don a Shark Shield and paddle out with peace of mind. However, surfers are at times a narrow-minded tribe, perhaps blinkered to common sense by excessive doses of sunlight dancing on a dappled ocean. Ironically, these very surfers are convinced that they are beacons of free-thought and open mindedness, yet when it comes to embracing a scientifically proven device that deters our grey-suited friends, almost 90% of surfers I’ve chatted to cave into bullish conservativism. They suddenly squint into the middle distance and with all the wisdom of an Oxford don revert to urban myths about Shark Shields attracting ravenous schools of man-eaters. The wheel barrow loads of bullshit that spews forth from these armchair experts, and in some cases “highly respected” surfers, is on par with telly evangelists, African dictators and The Spanish Inquisition.
Yarns of Great Whites gulping down Shark Shields like jelly tots, and becoming “immune” to the device’s three-dimensional electrical impulse are no more than self-deception and technophobia in the wake of a revolutionary solution. Another favourite predestination of surfers is, “if it’s my time to go, then so be it”. I wonder if one of these dream-catching “fatalists” would saunter unprotected through the Kruger National Park with as much reckless abandon? Surfers reacted in much the same way to the invention of “gookcord”, leg rope or leash, but it turned out to be an indispensable surfing accessory in the long term.
As for the Shark Shield there’s no denying it’s an expensive piece of kit, but so were Flat screen TVs when they first flickered onto the market. If you surf a “sharky” spot, a fully charged device will give you at the very least, 4 to 5 hours of peace of mind. I’ve paddled out at a number of spots wearing my Shark Shield only to be scoffed at, or simply given a side-ways glance dripping with disdain and betrayal. Do I care; unequivocally not? It takes a couple of sessions to get used to the device, but it won’t affect your overall freedom in the water. Most detractors often bemoan the device as bulky and cumbersome, but then again they also like to think their surfing is on par with Mick or Kelly.
Yes, a Shark Shield is a man-made device and prone to possible malfunction from excessive abuse. If you don’t turn the device on it will not work, and more importantly, it needs to be rinsed-off and re-charged after every session. Perhaps that’s a bit too much to ask for some, considering the mountains of neoprene involved in ongoing micro-biological experiments in the back of bakkies and boots across the land.
Shark Shields come in two distinct types. One version allows for the battery pack to be fitted, by means of a base-plate to the tail of your board. The other type is secured to your ankle much like a leash. In both cases the electrode can double as a leash.
Interestingly enough, competitive surfers were protected by three battery operated Shark Shield devices attached to buoys at the backline of Nahoon Reef during the Mr Price Open surfing championships in 2009. Lifeguards merely replaced the Shark Shield batteries every four hours offering protection for surfers during the event. Global Surf News even reported that Surfing South Africa (SSA) was considering using Shark Shields at other surfing competitions in the future. It’s a labour intensive and expensive undertaking, but these tentative steps offer a life-saving solution that can be streamlined in the future.
Shark Shields are used by the Australian Special Forces, South African Navy, US Coast Guard and is also approved by NATO. I’ve watched countless videos online, chatted to commercial divers who swear by it and read detailed reports on the efficacy of the device. For me, it’s about peace of mind, and it happens to comes in the form of a Shark Shield when I paddle out at a high risk spot. As for the drive in my ’94 Toyota Corolla to my sharky bay, well that’s another story…
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
A Soundtrack for the Ride - Surfing & Music
“The hills are alive with the sound of music,
With songs they have sung for a thousand years.
The hills fill my heart with the sound of music.
My heart wants to sing every song it hears.”
The Sound of Music - 1965
You’ve reached the backline, your arms feel like linguini and your brain is looping a tune that refuses to budge. Again and again the chorus dances circles around that numb spot in your head. Bumps on the horizon hit the pause button, bringing a brief respite, but it’s not long before the bass line starts to throb, throwing jabs and uppercuts at 160 beats per minute against your cranium. Your ice-cream headache pounds in 2/4 time. You should have worn a hood, but that thought cross-fades into the ether as a perfect left wails your name to the strains of “that song” wedged between your Frontal and Parietal lobes.
Old Davy Jones has been rocking, jiving, rapping, swinging and getting jiggy to every style of music known to man and the odd alien visitor since humans first took to riding waves? The ocean is imbued with a natural sense of rhythm, and our tunes are a mere embellishment.
Half the fun of surfing is getting there, and what would our path to the beach be without a soundtrack? Music fuels our passion, anticipation and imagination, creating dreamscapes where we pull off impossible moves backed by a ditty of our choice. Our musical fingerprints are evident in the lines we draw or sometimes smudge across the waves we ride. Surfing and music are inextricable; from strumming ukuleles to spinning discs, it was love at first sight for surfers and music.
Our sport has attracted all sorts of musical charlatans and wannabe rockers, including some of the most cacophonous cowboys and tepid songsters imaginable. Perhaps the 90s and a 21st century groundswell of political correctness are to blame for the current dearth. Musical integrity spiralled out of control in the 90s into a yawing blur of white noise. Watch a 90s VHS surf movie and prepare for an aural epiphany of the worst kind. Embarrassing stuff, that’s best left to gather dust in a very dark corner next to that crystallised tub of neon zinc.
Surfing royalty, including style maestro Tom Curren and übermensch King Kelly have pottered about the hallowed halls rock stardom. His HRH Kelly teamed up with Pearl Jam frontman Eddie Vedder for a quid pro quo of skills. Curren’s “Light Becomes a Fire” and “Ocean Wide” are worth a listen; including eclectic hints of Country music and shades of John Mayer.
However, from here on a precipitous downhill awaits. Retro single fins, an unkempt Donovan Frankenreiter, Brushfire records and the saturated hues of 16mm analogue film presented surfers with the musical equivalent of the sedative benzodiazepine; Jack Johnson. It escapes me how Jackie boy, a respected North Shore surfer, conquered the genre and reduced the irreverent energy of surf music to a formulaic fireside warble.
Clearly Jack has applied the “safety through repetition” rule to his compositions providing his fan base with the essence of predictability. A post-pubescent music critic recently likened one of Captain Jack’s “variations of a theme” to a seminal moment in 20th century popular music, The Beach Boys “Pet Sounds” album. Sorry bru, but that’s like comparing a rubbery jelly baby to a sumptuous Chocolate Mousse.
If you’re a die-hard Jack fan give Israel Kamakawiwo a listen. Not unlike Jack, he strummed his way from the islands and is the unchallenged Eddie Van Halen of ukuleles. Sadly, Israel passed away in 1997 but his interpretation of “Somewhere of the Rainbow” is an unassuming classic.
Yes, post-surf fireside troubadours have their place, but those sensitive strummers, and there are legions of them out there, are galaxies apart from the raw vigour of a band like Midnight Oil. Peter Garrett and the Oils hailed from Sydney, and performed for the local surf community at Narrabeen and the Bondi Lifesaver Club. They were uncompromising, took no prisoners and spoke the same language as surfers. They gave us classics such as "Blue Sky Mine", “The Dead Heart” and “US Forces”. With the exception of the Prodigy, I’ve never experienced a more energetic live performance that captured surfing’s zeitgeist so aptly.
But therein lies the beauty of music and surfing; each to his own. Pinning a particular genre or style of music to surfing is absurd. Wave riding is far too mercurial an activity to be pigeonholed, and what would surfing be without the reverb of Dub, or the chainsaw scream of a classic Metal solo? Even Rap has its place; LL Cool J doesn’t surf but I can’t help imagine him tearing into the New Pier bowl, and perhaps a fisherman or two.
However, much like going SUPPING in a speedo, a few cautionary notes are in order. Avoid the pompous electro musings of Radiohead or bleating “bubblegum in your hair” sounds of the Jonas Brothers or Justin Bieber. Listening to “musicians” of their ilk will lead to inevitable stylistic disaster in the water.
Yet surfers will continue to caress long point waves to the sublime art of Mozart, and tear onshore bowls apart to the dissonant genius of the Aphix Twins. From duct-taped Kombis swaying to a stretched cassette recording of LKJ’s “Forces of Victory” to Landcruisers with Blu-Ray players popping the latest bubblegum, it’s all about those spaces in between the notes and how they affect you; just you.
Yes, the hills are alive with the Sound of Music, but I somehow doubt you’ll be encountering Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp brood at the backline anytime soon. Now go surf!
With songs they have sung for a thousand years.
The hills fill my heart with the sound of music.
My heart wants to sing every song it hears.”
The Sound of Music - 1965
You’ve reached the backline, your arms feel like linguini and your brain is looping a tune that refuses to budge. Again and again the chorus dances circles around that numb spot in your head. Bumps on the horizon hit the pause button, bringing a brief respite, but it’s not long before the bass line starts to throb, throwing jabs and uppercuts at 160 beats per minute against your cranium. Your ice-cream headache pounds in 2/4 time. You should have worn a hood, but that thought cross-fades into the ether as a perfect left wails your name to the strains of “that song” wedged between your Frontal and Parietal lobes.
Old Davy Jones has been rocking, jiving, rapping, swinging and getting jiggy to every style of music known to man and the odd alien visitor since humans first took to riding waves? The ocean is imbued with a natural sense of rhythm, and our tunes are a mere embellishment.
Half the fun of surfing is getting there, and what would our path to the beach be without a soundtrack? Music fuels our passion, anticipation and imagination, creating dreamscapes where we pull off impossible moves backed by a ditty of our choice. Our musical fingerprints are evident in the lines we draw or sometimes smudge across the waves we ride. Surfing and music are inextricable; from strumming ukuleles to spinning discs, it was love at first sight for surfers and music.
Our sport has attracted all sorts of musical charlatans and wannabe rockers, including some of the most cacophonous cowboys and tepid songsters imaginable. Perhaps the 90s and a 21st century groundswell of political correctness are to blame for the current dearth. Musical integrity spiralled out of control in the 90s into a yawing blur of white noise. Watch a 90s VHS surf movie and prepare for an aural epiphany of the worst kind. Embarrassing stuff, that’s best left to gather dust in a very dark corner next to that crystallised tub of neon zinc.
Surfing royalty, including style maestro Tom Curren and übermensch King Kelly have pottered about the hallowed halls rock stardom. His HRH Kelly teamed up with Pearl Jam frontman Eddie Vedder for a quid pro quo of skills. Curren’s “Light Becomes a Fire” and “Ocean Wide” are worth a listen; including eclectic hints of Country music and shades of John Mayer.
However, from here on a precipitous downhill awaits. Retro single fins, an unkempt Donovan Frankenreiter, Brushfire records and the saturated hues of 16mm analogue film presented surfers with the musical equivalent of the sedative benzodiazepine; Jack Johnson. It escapes me how Jackie boy, a respected North Shore surfer, conquered the genre and reduced the irreverent energy of surf music to a formulaic fireside warble.
Clearly Jack has applied the “safety through repetition” rule to his compositions providing his fan base with the essence of predictability. A post-pubescent music critic recently likened one of Captain Jack’s “variations of a theme” to a seminal moment in 20th century popular music, The Beach Boys “Pet Sounds” album. Sorry bru, but that’s like comparing a rubbery jelly baby to a sumptuous Chocolate Mousse.
If you’re a die-hard Jack fan give Israel Kamakawiwo a listen. Not unlike Jack, he strummed his way from the islands and is the unchallenged Eddie Van Halen of ukuleles. Sadly, Israel passed away in 1997 but his interpretation of “Somewhere of the Rainbow” is an unassuming classic.
Yes, post-surf fireside troubadours have their place, but those sensitive strummers, and there are legions of them out there, are galaxies apart from the raw vigour of a band like Midnight Oil. Peter Garrett and the Oils hailed from Sydney, and performed for the local surf community at Narrabeen and the Bondi Lifesaver Club. They were uncompromising, took no prisoners and spoke the same language as surfers. They gave us classics such as "Blue Sky Mine", “The Dead Heart” and “US Forces”. With the exception of the Prodigy, I’ve never experienced a more energetic live performance that captured surfing’s zeitgeist so aptly.
But therein lies the beauty of music and surfing; each to his own. Pinning a particular genre or style of music to surfing is absurd. Wave riding is far too mercurial an activity to be pigeonholed, and what would surfing be without the reverb of Dub, or the chainsaw scream of a classic Metal solo? Even Rap has its place; LL Cool J doesn’t surf but I can’t help imagine him tearing into the New Pier bowl, and perhaps a fisherman or two.
However, much like going SUPPING in a speedo, a few cautionary notes are in order. Avoid the pompous electro musings of Radiohead or bleating “bubblegum in your hair” sounds of the Jonas Brothers or Justin Bieber. Listening to “musicians” of their ilk will lead to inevitable stylistic disaster in the water.
Yet surfers will continue to caress long point waves to the sublime art of Mozart, and tear onshore bowls apart to the dissonant genius of the Aphix Twins. From duct-taped Kombis swaying to a stretched cassette recording of LKJ’s “Forces of Victory” to Landcruisers with Blu-Ray players popping the latest bubblegum, it’s all about those spaces in between the notes and how they affect you; just you.
Yes, the hills are alive with the Sound of Music, but I somehow doubt you’ll be encountering Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp brood at the backline anytime soon. Now go surf!
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