Kitty Miller Bay Crescent Head
The Adventure Really Begins. Northward bound.
Above: On the fringes of Australia’s East Coast concreted ocean pools provide the perfect in-between of raw ocean power and man made safety. Plastered over rock shelfs in the intertidal zone, they’re embedded into the Aussie coastal zeitgeist as much as barbecue snags, thongs, and the red and yellow flags.
I’ve done Torquay a few times over the years, we used to take family holidays to the Surf Coast frequently, and the region is arguably the epicentre of Australian surf culture and birth place of the global surf industry. For these reasons, it’s comfortable, familiar, and the climate and landscapes feel somewhat familiar. Couple that with a few friends to orbit around and I’m on less of an adventure, and more of a quick trip. It’s time to explore.
The purpose of the road trip was to escape Tassie and get some much needed ocean time, much like the coastal trips we took as a family when I was a kid. Three times we explored the eastern coastline from Mallacoota to K’gari. Dad was diagnosed with brain cancer when I was nine and was given a few years at best. After a succesful surgery and a bout of chemotherapy he applied for as much leave as possible, modified a trailer as a camping rig, bought a green Toyota 4Runner, and took as all on the road. After three months away, we had to return to normal life — but when the cancer reared it’s ugly head again the following year, the cycle repeated, surgery, chemo, holiday, this time with a pretty schmick caravan. So began the new normal: dad’s headaches would begin and we’d all bunker down while life got hectic for a few months and we’d all hope he’d pull through again, then once given the all clear from the doctor we’d all pile into the car (now a white Mitsubishi Triton) and take the next ferry out of Tassie until mum and Dad ran out of leave, or money, or the school demanded me and my sister return to class (this usually took around three months). I think we ended up doing six cycles, doing Victoria annually and the East Coast every second year, making memories and spending quality time together.
I’ve done Torquay a few times over the years, we used to take family holidays to the Surf Coast frequently, and the region is arguably the epicentre of Australian surf culture and birth place of the global surf industry. For these reasons, it’s comfortable, familiar, and the climate and landscapes feel somewhat familiar. Couple that with a few friends to orbit around and I’m on less of an adventure, and more of a quick trip. It’s time to explore.
The purpose of the road trip was to escape Tassie and get some much needed ocean time, much like the coastal trips we took as a family when I was a kid. Three times we explored the eastern coastline from Mallacoota to K’gari. Dad was diagnosed with brain cancer when I was nine and was given a few years at best. After a succesful surgery and a bout of chemotherapy he applied for as much leave as possible, modified a trailer as a camping rig, bought a green Toyota 4Runner, and took as all on the road. After three months away, we had to return to normal life — but when the cancer reared it’s ugly head again the following year, the cycle repeated, surgery, chemo, holiday, this time with a pretty schmick caravan. So began the new normal: dad’s headaches would begin and we’d all bunker down while life got hectic for a few months and we’d all hope he’d pull through again, then once given the all clear from the doctor we’d all pile into the car (now a white Mitsubishi Triton) and take the next ferry out of Tassie until mum and Dad ran out of leave, or money, or the school demanded me and my sister return to class (this usually took around three months). I think we ended up doing six cycles, doing Victoria annually and the East Coast every second year, making memories and spending quality time together.
In the end, Dad stopped bouncing back from the surgeries as well as he had before, money ran tight, and school became more hectic and more reluctant to let us leave for a term at a time. Dad kicked cancers arse for ten years before it finally kicked his; and while the last two or three years were pretty gnarly for him, the family, and our friends, they never overshadowed the six years of real adventures we had as a family. I was 9 to 15 years old for those trips, now a 25 year old, I was unknowlingly pretty keen to relive those youthful experiences with some fresh eyes, refresh some memories, and get a feel for who I am as an adult.
All of the above is written in retrospect, I was never sure why I decided to turn East instead of West, but I suppose I figured it out on the road. Ironically, I must have been stewing on the realisation subconciously, as a diary entry from this week is as follows:
“THE SURF TRIP BEGINS!! I turned right onto the Princess Highway after leaving Mallacoota this morning. I’ve made this turn four times before, but this time Dad’s only with me out the drivers side window, sloshing around in the Pacific.”
So far its been fun, but the surf trip has felt like a grovel. But a developing low somewhere off Tassie’s East Coast is set to change all of that. As the swell arrives a small log wave appears in the middle of the bay, it doesn’t exactly have a wall, but its a 2ft burger that runs about 400m. I spend an hour having a play with it, learning where it runs and when to cut back to sit in the foam. Meanwhile a break called Cowries is starting to light up out back, running around the point. I paddle over and immediately I am pummelled by a 3ft slabbing left that has arrived out of nowhere. The swell is definitely filling in, because the second wave of the set is bigger again. The 3rd is bigger and heavier again, and it sucks me into the shelf. My log acts as a sea anchor and it drags me back into the impact zone for the next even bigger wave. It must have been a ten wave set, each building in size, each working me harder than the last and dragging me over the shallow shelf. This is not a log wave. I’m a kilometer from the beach, so it’s a long and dissapointing paddle back to shore, but a new wave has peaked up on the other side of left point which makes the paddle of shame sting a bit less.
As I drag my defeated body and board up the cliffs – dreading the paddle back out on a more suitable board – I find myself looking into the guts of a 5ft peeling right hander with only two people out. I barely have time to strap my board to the roof before I’m speeding eastward, looking for a carpark a few kilometres closer to this mythical wave. I find a road that looks like it branches towards the coastline and I pull into a carpark with at least 40 other cars, each sporting surfers in various states of preparation (most somewhere between pulling on wetsuits and waxing boards), and I realise that everyone else has been waiting for the tide to turn, which it seems like it’s doing now. Joke’s on them, my board is waxed and I’m already in a wetsuit from my previous (mis)adventure. I sprint to the beach, cramming a banana into my mouth as I overtake other surfers on the path – fuel for the marathon session ahead.
My first wave is a screamer, taking off behind the peak I feather the bottom turn as I feel my board threaten to lose traction, the barrelling takeoff runs ahead of me, but offers a steep pocket for a snap as I accelerate from behind the lip. My rail barely holds and my board jitters over ribs in the waves face before the fins release – an unexpected layback, my knees scream as I fight the board back under my centre of gravity. This is definitely the wrong board. I nurse a roundhouse through the next section and bail out before the shorey. The good news though is that I get to test out the new sled in the conditions it was made for. A quick sprint to the carpark and back and I have a marbled green 6’0” high performance thruster tucked under my arm. Made specifically for this trip, Finn sent it down to Torquay for me to pick up on the way through and I’m keen to put it through its paces (after a year with the board, I can attest to the fact that it’s fucking magic).
I wish I could say the first wave on the board was perfect, but I was too busy dodging the crowd to really get a feel for it. Overweight weekend warriors on midlengths, wannabe’s on fishes, and overseas blow-in’s on under/over-sized cheap epoxy’s crowd the lineup. They sit on the inside, battling for scraps, and putting themselves in harms way (and my way) when a set rolls in. The locals and old-dogs hold down the outside peak and their tenssion is palpabale, saying nothing for their vocal disdain for the kooky weekend crowd. I pick off a few average waves over the next few hours, before letting myself drift to the top of the peak.
Watching a sandbar out in the bay I see a set approaching, each getting bigger and approaching at a tighter angle. A minute later a second, bigger set closes out the bar; back to back sets, I count the number of waves in the second set. The first set arrives, and the pack scrambles for the horizon, I hold my spot at the top of the peak, just scraping over the biggest of them. The crowd thins, either catching waves or being washed to shore. A second pack sits wide, safely over the first set, but maybe unaware of what’s about to arrive. I’m in prime position and I’m alone. The rest of the pack is too disorientated or sitting too wide to even get in my way. I’m fucking boiling with the potential of what’s about to unfold.
The first set had the best waves at the end. They hugged the reef best and had a nice horseshoe bend to them, focusing the energy into the pocket. I count as I bob over the crest of each wave, each larger and more perfect than the last, my excitement rises as I prepare for the last wave of the set. The path is clear as I give the lineup one more glance before my wave emerges from behind another. There’s not a drop of water out of place.
Chin down, eyes up, dig deep. I’m under the lip and find myself on my feet with no real clue as to how it happens. My attention shifts to knifing the takeoff as my rail catches but the fins seem to drift, subconciously I apply more weight to the front foot and lean in closer to the face to engage the rail more. The barrel extends out ahead of me as I drive forward; gold in the afternoon light. The wave breaths and Huie (god of surfing) gives me an open-faced canvas to paint. Down-turning under the lip I have speed to burn as I accelerate off the bottom, dropping my right hand as a rear anchor I spray the heavens pushing hard on the back foot, the rail holds. Two pumps and I angle back over my shoulder to tag the lip in a drop-knee roundhouse. Wrestling with the foam underfoot, I stay glued atop my board and emerge into the flats, with just enough room for a vertical re-entry before the shorey tries to kill me.1 I paddle back out and surf until I can’t.
After two days of exhausting myself at this reef, the swell drops and the wind swings a bit more east. I have grand illusions of scoring Express Point (one of the regions best waves), but a morning surf check shows that the swell has already faded too much. I get a fun surf at Kitty Miller Bay again, flying over a shallow rocky reef, spying on the seaweed below. The water is crystal clear, the wind isn’t playing too much havoc with the wave, and the weekend crowds have thinned to three or four people. I get to unwind in a beautiful location before I shoot east toward Sydney.
There’s heavy rain on the long range forecast, so I aim to put down some kilometres and get north of it. I’ve figured I can get to Crescent Head in three days: Phillip Island, Lakes Entrance, Uladulla, Crescent – 1100km all up. I make good time on day one, postin up under a lighthouse at Lakes Entrance. Fruit Bats flap around overhead as I make dinner in the carpark. I drift off to sleep as the rain begins, lulled to sleep by the sweet, humid air and raindrops on the fiberglass roof.
I wake up to a glorious sunrise. Down on the beach small refracted peaks reflect the pink sky before dancing themselves into nothingness on the coarse yellow sand. I explore a stretch of coastline (reportably one of the regions best lefts breaks here, but there’s no evidence of it in the 1ft swell), eat museli, and do some much needed yoga as the sky fades to blue and the clouds begin to burn off. It’s forescast to reach 28°C, and the clouds have already dissapeared, replaced by clouds of ibis and white cockatoos, maybe I’ll enjoy the beach for a few hours before the drive. The water is warm, and there’s some grovelly peaks for the fish and I’ve finally reached a latitude allowing surfs in boardies, as long as I’m quick about it. To defrost I lay in the sun, reading Dusk by Robbie Arnott, drinking an iced coffee and eating half a watermelon. It’s 1pm when I finally hit the road, the Ranger’s already struggling aircon is pushed to the max.
On the way North, I stop in at the Mcmckenzie River Rainforest Walk. From the road it looks like a drop dunny and some graffitied tables, but something pulls me in and causes me to pull over for a squizz.
For 20 minutes I walk under Messmates, Lillie Pillies and Tree Ferns. Clematis climbs over moss adorned branches while “Wait a Whiles” reach out to find a host. Under the canopy the trees grow beards and sunlight dances, dappled through the mist. Spiderwebs catch dew drops and sparkle in the still air as water drips from the air, the trees, and my skin. I walk the track twice, full of whimsy, enjoying the swinging bridges. I think faeries must live here. -From the pages of my Diary. 25/04/2025
It’s so different to any rainforest I’ve been in back home. Cool and crisp, Tassie air is tangy and sharp. Wind whispers or rushes through the canopy, and birds and bugs make their presence known. Rain and water adds to the cacophony. But here, in a gully on the side of the Princess Highway, everything is different.
Sweet, heavy air, loaded with humidity, feels thick and I swim through it as much as I walk. It smothers movement and sound, and I notice the lack of animal sounds. Perhaps it is too hot, but something here feels ancient and primitive, and I half expect my eyes to adjust and reveal prehistoric creatures or mythical beasts through the mist. I can smell the decomposition – trillions of bugs and microrganisms returning organic matter to soil – it’s a faintly sweet and musty scent, and I can feel its process underfoot as I stir up the detritus. A ray of sunshine breaks through the canopy, where it illuminates a patch of the river. Flowing slowly, the river reflects the sunlight back through the mists and mosses, shimmering and sparkling as it does so. Enrapt, I stop here for at least half an hour, watching the shimmer, thouroughly interrupted by my own curiosity.
Returning to the car I make a coffee and then walk the track again. This time listening to Annie Hamilton in my headphones, because sparkly, pop-rock, witchy music seems like the vibe when having a moment in a rainforest.
Pulling into Mallacoota in the arvo, I stop at the IGA and one of nine bottleshops (first beers of the trip), drop a load of washing at the laundromat to collect in the morning, and look for a place to sleep.
I decide to park up out the edge of town and take my tent down to the beach, where a perfect little sand platform has formed in a rocky cove. It’s a warm night with no rain forecast, so I sleep without a fly. I awake at an unknown hour to scuffles and snuffles around the outside of my tent. Possums? In my half-asleep state I don’t give it any thought and don’t even turn on a torch to investigate, there’s no food in here they could be after – I tuck my knife and torch under my pillow and go back to sleep. A light sea mist awakens me early with a patter on the mesh of my tent, I feel awfully damp. I make a coffee on the jetboil while still in my sleeping bag, before packing up the internals of my tent. Undoing the zip, I am confronted by hundreds of large dog footprints surrounding my tent. It turns out that there was food in the tent: me!
I completely forgot that the mainland has dingos. If I had made a noise or turned on a light my surf trip could’ve been over then and there! Years of being habituated to the relative safety of the Tasmanian wilderness may have saved my stupid ass.
Anyway, after navigating this faux pas, I go into town to collect my washing and put it through the dryer. The rain has well and truly set in and I leave my tent and sleeping bag to dry in the laundromat. I sneak into the caravan park for a shower before going in hunt of hunt of a coffee. The yummiest carrot cake is served by the yuckiest lady, who won’t even accept a keep cup. Moving downhill (past five bottleshops2) to a coffee van, I recieve a coffee that tastes mostly like dirt. It’ll have to do. I grab my laundry and make my way out of town, stopping for a walk to a waterfall and look for koalas. I toss my coffee out of the cup on the side of the road. I’d rather be tired.
I pull into Ulladulla under a darkening navy sky, it’s not raining but the air is heavy and thunder rumbles out at sea. I eat defrosted daal for dinner and watch the fruit bats whirl across the sky, framed horizontally as I lay in bed with the canopy open. Silhouette’s of the bush skyline burst and fade as lightning shimmers and the Warden Head lighthouse sweeps north to south. I sleep with the canopy open and mozzie screen down.
Around 9am it starts to rain. I’m in the water, floating around on a shallow reef below a golf course, reminiscent of a similar ledge not far from home that breaks on a SE. Within minutes the downpour has isolated me from the other surfers, I can’t see five metres either side of me. Heavy drops of water splash seawater skyward and I’m struggling to tell up from down, let alone which way to shore. I let a few waves wash me to the shore and I get scraped accross the reef. Trudging back to my car, the footpath has become a river, and kids play in the stormwater drain as it swells into a whitewater rapid. Boogie boards and foamies become flotsam as the kids brave the brown street water, mouths open to screech with laughter. It looks like fun, but I the weather is predicted to stick around for three days, so I’m going to try and get north of it and stop to see a friend in Sydney.
Have you ever walked into someone’s family home and suddenly felt like you know them so much better? As if you’ve been handed a key that unlocks parts of them you never knew, or maybe just never saw. Walking into Les’s family home at Manly Beach had that exact effect on me. An unasumming grey-blue render on a 60’s style brick house mask’s an interior full of odds, ends, trinkets, and stories. Les invites me inside, she’s up from Hobart to visit her folks at the same time I’m passing through. A bookshelf runs from one end of the hallway to the other, filled with biographies, classics, and leather bound volumes I’ve never heard of. Exotic artwors covers walls, leans against furniture, and is nestled into corners. Oddities, trinkets, and knick-knacks adorn every nook and cranny, while plants grow well and wild in a varity of vessles. The walls are painted bright colours and timber features bring a natural feel.
The backyard is a mishmash of selected and free reign foliage growing over convict pavers to dip their tips into the crystaline salt water pool. A well tended veggie patch takes over the front terrace in the shade of a large citrus tree. You wouldn’t know you were in Sydney, and you wouldn’t know her parents were lawyers if it weren’t for the views down to Maroubra Beach. Free Palestine messages, pro-choice posters, first nations artworks, and feminist iconography is sprinkled through the house, adding another layer of juxtaposition to the location and career paths of these welcoming and lovely people. It makes me like Les a whole lot more. We head out to Surry Hills to have some beers at The Cricketers Arms Pub, public transport takes us in and we don’t even need a timetable (as a Taswegian this blows me away), and we stop in Oxford Street for a kebab. The home of the Sydney Mardi Gras, Oxford Street has so much love for the queer community, it’s literally painted underfoot. I couldn’t imagine the Hobart streetscape being so loud, proud, and supportive of the queer community back home until now, and it gives me hope for the future. A tram takes us home (for free, what the hell), and, in true surfer bum fashion I’ve been offered the couch!
I spend two days with Les, exploring op shops, walking the dogs (Chilli and Ginger), go to my first Aldi, and helping polish off the Easter left-overs. I surf Manly each morning, tip-toeing down the creaky stairs at Les’s to share the line-up with turtles and 200+ people. I find some of the best pastries and coffee I’ve ever had by avoiding activewear and looking for frayed denim and ciggarette smoke. The rain comes and goes in three hour cycles. Blue skies quickly give way to pouring downpours that cause the ceiling to creak. But, by day three, the rain abates to sun showers and I say my goodbyes. Back in the ute and heading north to Crescent Head. A non-stop drive through the city and out on the Princes Highway again, I arrive in Crescent after dark on a Wednesday. I grab a pint at the pub and promptly crash in the canopy in the RSL’s carpark. Sweet coastal air, ripe with pandanus takes me back to my childhood as I drift to sleep listening to pub chatter and swell in the bay.
Gallery
A song to amp up to. I found this on someone elses playlist and blasted it non-stop on the drive from Mallacoota to Ulladulla. If you want to surf hard, I’ve got some more recommendations; message me.
- I may have replayed this wave a few thousand times since ↩︎
- I’m not joking, Mallacoota has so many spots to buy a drink it isn’t funny. There’s the Golf Club, Food Works, IGA, BottleMart, Mallacoota Bistro drive through, Scallywags Bar, Bowl’s Club, and two take-away joints with liquor licensing, all within like 300 metres! ↩︎
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