Surfing with the Postie

In my early surfing days I was a bit of a drifter. What I mean by that is that I was always on the lookout to hook up with someone who wanted to surf as much as I did. So when I began surfing, the guys I started with were older, and eventually they became more interested in sheilas than surfing. I used to get annoyed hanging around, waiting for them to come and pick me up as I was still very young and had no means of transport. They on the other hand were quite content to wait around while their girlfriends got themselves all tizzied up to go to the beach. By the time the next winter came around I gave up footy and took up surfing full on, with a couple of blokes that I’d met during the summer. Ron Smith, Des Rudd, his brother Mick and a number of others who seemed more serious about their surfing became my constant companions for the next year or so.

I remember one particular occasion quite clearly at "The Dump" when there were four of us out there surfing, Des Rudd, John Creighton, Peter Ulstrup and myself. It wasn’t that big, perhaps about head high but breaking fairly nicely for a change. Peter and myself quite enjoyed the session and stayed out there until it was nearly dark, while the other two went in rather early. When we eventually came in the other two were quite animated about the session they had saying, ‘This is too dangerous a spot for anybody to surf at’ and ‘I’m never going to surf this hell hole of a place again’. Peter and I just looked at each other dumbfounded, that these two blokes could say such things about this break. We never even bothered to argue the point, realising that there was no way we could change their opinion. Instead we decided that this would be the last time that we would ever surf with these guys and that was the end of that. From then on Peter Ulstrup and myself started surfing with two other guys who had the same surfing appetite as us, and that was Craig Thompson and Bob Parman. Bob and I had plenty in common, seeing both of us were postmen and loved our surfing with the same passion, so we started to hang around together.

Imagine a summer’s day or better still a summer morning when the surfing conditions are just ideal. You’ve been sleeping by a fire all night with the sounds of the sea sending you to sleep, with blissfulness that only the few of us who are fortunate and are in tune with their environment can appreciate.

You awake and have an early morning session and although one cannot remember how good that session was, one can remember in the finest details of how the surrounding atmosphere was. You’ve got your mates, some canned tucker and the promise of another good wave before the heat of the day delivers the persistent summer south easterlies to put an end to any more surfing until a similar morning.

Without being reminded someone always stoked the fire up just right, to put a can of spaghetti and snags on the fire for that early morning intake of sustenance before venturing out for another session.

It was on one of these days that I had just come out of the water after an early morning session and was drying myself off while my mate Bob was fiddling around like an old chook, cooking himself some fine cuisine over the fire. All of a sudden he started with his ridiculous chortling. I looked at him and thought to my self and even said as much, "now what the hell are you carrying on about now?" It took me quite some time to get some sense out of him, as he couldn’t stop laughing. I kept on repeating. "What the hell are you laughing about Bob?" and all he could do was bend over and show me what had happened. I looked, and right in the middle of his soon to be balding patch was a white and grey splatter of seagull shit. At the time I didn’t think it was very funny, as he was in no hurry to get rid of the offending substance, which was enough to make me spew. Looking back now it was more than the fact that some local creature had shat on him and he didn’t lose his cool, but saw the whole episode as something quite funny. You see Bob at times had a fearsome temper at times and for him to have that sort of reaction to something like that I found more remarkable than funny at the time.

It was a Monday afternoon that two young surfers by the name of Bob (the postie) and Ron (the postie) went down to Seaford to hopefully find a wave after a weekend of 6 ft surf in the Midcoast. Unfortunately there was no surf but they were approached by a police patrol car. Apparently a person had gone missing in the surf at Moana on the previous Sunday and they were patrolling the coast, trying to locate the body. With the aid of binoculars they could see something bobbing up and down in the water out past the Seaford reef to the right. They asked the two surfers to paddle out with a length of rope and attach it to the mystery object and tow it in. Bob, being a little bit more heroic than his mate, agreed and with a great deal of trepidation paddled out towards the object. Meanwhile the remaining trio watched and waited as Bob paddled out, tied the rope around the object and made his way back to shore. Finally, when the object was pulled up onto the beach, it was found to be just an empty fruit crate. The police seemed to be a little bit disappointed but to be sure, Bob and Ron were relieved. To this day it remains a mystery exactly what happened to the unfortunate swimmer as the body was never recovered.

A trip with the Postie

It was June 1963 when Bob and I did our first trip up the East Coast together and I only remember that, because it was the same year the "Beatles" toured Australia. Of course we went in Bob’s car, as I was only seventeen and too young to own one, in fact I had my birthday while we were away. How could I ever forget that car: It was an early model Holden, and Bob was always talking about getting a new "short" motor for it. He talked about that subject incessantly to each and everyone who came within earshot, it nearly drove me nuts. I remember one summer night we had parked at the top of the hill at Moana to sleep. He was in the back with a blanket, while I was in the front with just a damp towel to cover me. It came in very cold that evening and we were dive-bombed by mosquitos all night. I remember his final words before he went to sleep; ‘do you think I should get a short motor for the car?’ which was the last thing I wanted to hear.

Anyway, I digress. The trip to Sydney would normally take about 20 hours non-stop but with Bob’s old bomb it took about a day and a half. You see, it used more oil than petrol and every time we pulled into a garage it was a matter of saying to the attendant, ‘top up the gas and fill up the oil’. It was running so bad that we carried a large container of sump oil just in case it ran out, and it did. Just outside of Wagga Wagga on an extremely cold and frosty morning it gave up the ghost and after a bit of swearing and cursing, along with a bit of early morning sun the thing started running again. God only knows how! We took turns in driving and when it was mine, Bob said, ‘keep the speedo on 50 miles per hour’. I thought at this rate it would take us a week to get to Sydney, so while he was lying in the back having a rest, I’d press my foot down on the accelerator. Just about every time I did this he’d lean over the seat and tap me on the shoulder and say, ‘hey mister! Keep the speed down!’

We arrived on the outskirts of Sydney late in the day to find it pouring with rain and wouldn’t you know it, the car packed it in again. We got out and opened the bonnet and stood there with screwdrivers and spanners in hand, staring at the motor and hoping that this would fix the problem. I’m afraid I knew more about motors than Bob did and I knew nothing. If the air wasn’t full of tension and electricity enough from the storm that was raging around us then it was growing from the tension within. It was then, that Bob asked a silly question, ‘Do you know where we are?’ I exploded with, ‘How the Fuck! do I know where we are, Bob! I’ve never been to Sydney before’. He came right back at me with something I can’t remember, and then it was screwdrivers and spanners at two paces. I don’t know how, but somehow commonsense took over and we continued our journey. The place we were going to stay at was a house in Guildford, in the Western suburbs. Bob had a way with people; he made friends with just about everyone he met, so it came as no surprise to me that he knew a friend of a friend who knew a friend’s place we could stay at while in Sydney. We eventually found this friend’s place, late that night and were offered the garage to sleep in. This was ok, until it came time to go surfing each day, as we had to travel quite a few kilometres through peak hour traffic, each way, to and from the surf.

Another thing I distinctly remember is that it rained nearly every day for the three weeks we were there. As anyone will tell you who’s done a surf trip of any length of time it’s always better to have more than two people on the trip. With only the two of us there was bound to be some friction and every little annoying habit that we both had was magnified ten fold. But I’m pleased to say that there were no more violent episodes between us other than the one, just outside Sydney.

The next day I believe was a Saturday, as it was the first time both of us had ever seen the East Coast. And the only way we could have found it was with this friend’s aid and one of his companions. We must have travelled to a number of the northern beaches to find the surf fairly small at most of them and finally found a small wave at Palm Beach. It wasn’t much of a wave but I was completely surprised how much warmer the water was, in comparison to that at home in Adelaide. Also this was the smallest that we ever saw the surf on the whole trip, as it got bigger from that day on, and was just as consistent as the never-ending rain. The following day, Sunday, we went down to Manly where it was huge and the only guys who were out surfing were a handful at the Fairy Bower. Right throughout the next week we made the long pilgrimage from Guildford to the coast, where we wandered from beach to beach, riding all the breaks that looked good even if we never knew their names.

The next weekend, the young bloke whose house we were staying at planned to take us to one of his favourite surfing spots, which was somewhere up the North Coast called Seal Rocks. We left the city on the Friday night, arriving there late and spent the night sleeping in the back of our two vehicles. In the morning we were greeted by a glorious sunrise over the sea and a near perfect 6-foot wave breaking out from, what was almost a point. We paddled out and for a short while we had it to ourselves, until another group of surfers joined us. I daresay that I got the distinct impression that these newcomers thought that some of us were just another bunch of South Australian eggs. And that we had very little surfing ability but it wasn't until we got some pretty good rides that showed them what we were made of and earned their respect.

I really loved Seal Rocks, for years afterwards I would daydream about those crystal clear waters where the waves peeled in perfectly, to finally break on a pristine sandy beach. The backdrop scenery was also pleasant with the mountains and forest that went on forever, with the grassy dunes over to the right that looked like they had been groomed regularly by the almighty gardener. Another lasting memory of that trip was the huge amount of floodwater lying on each side of the road, it seems that this area really took most of the heaviest rains that hit NSW during this period.

All during the next week the rain continued and so did the quality of the surf. I was fascinated by the way the surf worked here, if the wind wasn’t quite right at one break you’d travel a mile or two and find a spot where it was working just perfect. On one particular day we were driving along a road that ran parallel with Long Reef when we spotted a right hander that looked good, so Bob went out first while I decided to shoot some film of him surfing. At first he was out there by himself but it wasn’t too much later that he was joined by two other surfers. I remember this day and break so clearly because I got really annoyed with the way Bob was surfing. He looked just like a cop giving a signal for a traffic stop with his hand upraised so often on his rides that I just had to turn the camera away in my petulance.

The week progressed with our touring all the way up and down the main Sydney City beaches, to places like the ‘Bare Island Bombora’ at La Peruse to the cold and bitter looking breaks around the infamous Pentridge Prison. The memories might be a little dim with the passing of so much time but how could I ever forget that single surfer, paddling out into some huge surf at Manly Beach on a wintry Monday as if he’d been doing it his life. He probably had.

One thing I must say is that the people we stayed with were extremely hospitable and even to this day that attitude of the New South Welsh People have left an indelible impression on me. We had been staying in their back shed, which was quite comfortable, and adequate for us. But I guess that they felt a bit sorry for us, having to put up with the atrocious weather conditions and such, by their standards but not by ours, and so one night they invited us in for the family meal. Bob ate just about everything that was put down in front of him, including the pattern on the plates, while I just ate the meat and a few roast spuds, not caring about the green vegies too much.

After the main course was over, the lady of the house said, "Who wants dessert?" without the need for another request I stuck my hand up an said, "Me!" Within an instant of my approval she fired back at me. "How the devil could you be hungry now when you couldn’t finish the main meal with the vegies?" Smart woman! Had me worked out to a tee!

On the 19^th of June that year I had my seventeenth birthday and for that occasion the young bloke we were staying with decided to take us/me for a big night out. First we hit the old "Manly Pacific Hotel" and I had about 1000 free beers, seeing Bob was a teetotaller, someone had to make up for his lack of support. After making a total mess of my current standing as a fine young South Aussie gentleman, the boys decided to throw me off the wrong side of the Manly pier. These blokes had no consideration for the local wildlife, given that this side of the pier was shark infested. After getting me out of the drink some smart bastard decided to change all the clocks around for the arrivals and departures of the Manly Ferries. About all I can remember of this little episode is some bloke wearing an official uniform, chasing after us and uttering obscenities, while Bob was walking along quite causally with his annoying little guffaw. My memory after that is a little bit vague, as we seemed to hit just about every going show in town. And at some stage I believe we even crashed a church social somewhere up on the Hawkesbury River, where Bob danced with some Sheila and promised to be faithful to her forever.

The next day all of us were feeling quite sickly except for Bob, as he was the only one of us who remained sober. You see, Bob never drank and got his jollies by going to the old "Wonderland" Ballroom in Adelaide and loved spending Saturday nights dancing and chatting up the ladies, what a smart bloke he was!

Like all trips, good and bad this one came to an end and on the evening before our departure for home the local crew organised a farewell party. One has to remember that interstate travel was not an everyday occurrence as it is today and our hosts were very much aware of all the many miles we had travelled and were about to again. During the course of this goodbye evening someone presented Bob with a gift of a large container filled with sump oil, as they found out that it almost cost us more in filling his old bomb with oil than petrol. I’ll never forget that and laughed so hard I was nearly violently ill.

We left early the next morning and if I thought the trip over was long, then getting home was going to take forever. Bob’s car was really starting to get tired and at one stage when I was driving he leaned over the seat and said, "You can go a little faster than that!" I replied, "I’ve got my foot flat to the floor and that’s about as fast as we’re ever going to go!" So we limped home at the speedy rate of 35 miles per hour and it took us nearly two full days.

What made that trip home even longer was one of Bob’s habits that really started to get to me. He had a way of, sort of sucking on his teeth all the time, which nearly drove me, nuts.

I never went on a surf trip again with Bob and that wasn’t anything to do with any unpleasant events or anything else that happened on that trip. Later that year something else happened that I won’t go into detail here that caused the parting of our ways for many years and the next time I saw Bob was in 1993.

Out of all the blokes I surfed with, Bob was the most genuine and giving person I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. He was always there when a young bloke like myself was in need of a friend, and I mean that sincerely.

Just in closing I would like to inform the reader that Bob died last year from what I believe was a Melanoma skin cancer on April 17^th 1999. He was about 62. I often think about Bob, how much he loved the ocean and talking about surfing and I still find it hard to come to terms with the fact that I can’t talk to him again. I miss you Mate!

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