Down South

Down South

On the great surf beaches of Australia, surfers ride their boards, always searching for a bigger, better wave.

Mike and Ben are driving down a rocky track to a surf beach far from anywhere on the cold, southern coast of Victoria. They love the danger of the battle with wind and water, and are experienced surfers, ready for anything that the sea can throw at them…

‘That’s the strange thing,’ Mike says. ‘The other people in the show are believable. The one that doesn’t work is Jerry Seinfeld himself.’

‘What, are you serious?’ Ben says, putting on a New York accent.

‘Seinfeld can’t act. It’s a kind of stand-up comedy routine for him. He forgets he’s in a TV show.’

‘So you don’t like the show?’

‘No, I like the show, I just don’t like Jerry.’

‘Well, Jerry is the show. If you don’t like Jerry, you don’t like the show.’

Their Land Rover is powerful, but the road is difficult, and the car’s engine works extra hard. The back wheels slip sideways and mud shoots out across the bushes on either side. Rain is falling heavily, and the regular sound of the windscreen wipers is like the start of a Pink Floyd song. It’s warm inside the car. It’s icy outside.

‘My wetsuit’s wet,’ Mike says, miserably. ‘I hate getting into wet wetties.’

‘Everyone hates getting into wet wetties,’ Ben tells him.

‘Funny how you hate it so much, but it’s only a few minutes of being in the wet wettie, and then you’re in the water anyway.’

‘But if I could choose, I’d rather get into a dry wetsuit, then get wet,’ says Ben, happy at the thought of his bone dry wetsuit.

‘Get out and open the gate,’ Mike says angrily.

‘How much further, do you think? We must be close now,’ Ben says, pulling off his muddy boots and placing his feet over the heater on the dashboard.

‘Your feet stink!’ says Mike.

The car pushes its way up the narrow beach road and around a tight bend. Weatherbeaten bushes scratch at both sides, filling the car with a screaming noise, as the ocean finally shows itself.

‘Whoa! Plenty of swell!’ Ben says. ‘Got to be - six to eight feet?’

‘Bigger, I’d say,’ says Mike excitedly. ‘That’s a long way down there.’

‘Do we walk from here?’

‘Suppose.’

In the next ten minutes they move fast, getting boards out of covers and throwing clothes wildly into the back seat, as they prepare for their battle with wind and water.

‘AAARGH!’ Mike shouts noisily as he pushes a leg unwillingly into the cold wet wetsuit.

They make their way along the narrow path towards the sea. It’s only now that they realize the waves are considerably bigger than they first thought. The cold sand begins stealing the life from their toes, turning their feet into blocks of ice.

‘How big?’ Ben says, sounding unconfident.

‘Big enough. How do we get out there?’

All excitement has gone now, as they reach the shore. The ocean is grey and threatening. The wind blows past their ears angrily, racing out to sea to meet the huge waves breaking slowly in front of them. The ocean looks more alive than they feel. They are small and unimportant. There is danger in the air.

But they can’t go back now. Standing there in wetsuits on the edge of the shore, they see the waves push up the sand toward them, pulling at their feet.

Ben’s eyes search the first hundred metres of water for a way out.

‘Through there, I think,’ he says.

‘This doesn’t look like much fun,’ says Mike.

‘A good beating won’t hurt us.’

Ben takes a step forward, a step he can’t take back. Another step and a wave pushes past. He throws himself forward, lands on his board, and paddles fast.

Mike stares out to sea. Something’s not right. The sky is grey, the water is grey, his wet wetsuit is making him shiver. He takes a step, then another, then throws himself forward and lands on his board, pushing his way through the water behind Ben. Icy salt water enters his wetsuit, and the ocean heaves with delight.