What The Water Brings

Crescent Head to Valla Hall

Growing up and coming home. Sorta.

Above: When I was 11, Crescent was a grommets paradise. 14 years later, does it still hold the magic?

As a grom I spent a lot of time in Crescent Head, and the place has captivated my imagination since I was last here at age 14. I remember riding my bike around town, learning to drop in on what felt like the sketchiest half pipe in the world¹, I remember walking the beach fishing or looking for pelicans, I remember the old gravel road down to Point Plomer, the bakery used to do the best vanilla slice in the country (they had a sign that said so), I used to boogyboard down the green during heavy rains, I remember the year we got flooded in and spent 10 days cut off from the outside world, while all the points in the area cranked, it’s even the place I got my first barrel! Waking up at 5:30am on the first day back, after pulling in after dark, the memories came flooding in like a tide, slowly at first,trickling in from the reaches of my brain, but faster and faster until I was submerged in nostalgia.

Leaving my car in the carpark in front of the pub/surfshop, I walk down to the beach, a 1000m or so trip down the proverbial memory lane, a man with a log under his arm walks ahead of me, his white triple stringered glider glows translucent – only just visible through the dim early night. Someone else’s bare feet pad the concrete behind me, and a grom on a bike with a loaded board rack peddles past with an audibly loose chain, a few cars roll down the road beside us: the morning pilgrimage is in full swing. Finally gazing upon the surf as I walk past the caravan park, I’m confused by the number of people waxing up, it’s barely 2ft and looking a little sickly.

As the sun rises higher, more memories illuminate themselves in the reaches of my brain. Everything the sun touches sparks a recollection as I wake up with the world. I walk through the sleepy town back to my car and make up my mind to explore south to Big Hill and Point Plomer, hoping for better surf, but also impatient to explore something I’ve waited so long for.

The old gravel road south has been paved since I was last here, a mate (let’s call him John because that’s his name) told me they were going to bitumen it about three months before it happened, I started making plans to head up before the development devalued what made the area so special; the last 10km stretch of East Australian coastline that still felt like the stories the old guys prattle on about. Unfortunately, development reared its ugly head somewhere in China and put humans in close proximity to a new zoonotic disease, thereby pushing my travel window back about five years through a series of other developments². Anyway, enough tangents, the paving of the road didn’t seem to have impacted the area as much as I had feared, the road south still felt wild and new, the forest creeped overhead through valleys as I drove along, sundrops raced up my windscreen in the morning light. 2ft point breaks peeled to the right out of my left window, and each headland teased a new wave. After 10 minutes of winding my way along the pacific, I found myself at Big Hill.

Big Hill was the first wave I ever truly fell in love with. I remember surfing here with dad, the lagoon had been dug open by a huge turquoise excavator, and the elevator rip had sculpted a perfect sandbank while also providing a zero-paddle-dry-haired-express-lane to the takeoff; about as close to a ski lift as a surfer will ever find. I wasn’t really able to do anything but go top to bottom at that age, snaking my way along the wave, but I was frothing so much at such a long wave, peeling over sand, with no real work needed. At that point of my surfing career, rocks still scared me³. I wasn’t confident enough to be pummelled by a shorey, and the work-ethic required for surfing hadn’t really developed itself yet; and so, my first few surfs at Big Hill were instrumental in giving me the itch.

As I pull into the carpark, foot and a half wedges break from the corner and race themselves down a sandbar. The Water Is Green as the sun begins to shimmer as a sliver over the horizon. I consider the log, but ultimately opt for the fishy thing Seymonster made for me back when all the developments were happening. (Stay tuned, there’s a story about that one as well, I’ll link it here when it’s done), the poor yellow board has a few cracks and spiderwebs that need some love, so I spend 10 minutes with the orbital sander and apply some Solarez, neglecting that it needs UV light to set – a scarcity at 6:30am – and so I spend an hour fixing (see: doing something properly after rushing it the first time) some wiring for a light in the canopy while I wait for the resin to kick. Dolphins play in the closeouts as the pandanus shiver in the morning breeze that soothes the chatter on the oceans surface. I paddle out in boardies and a wettie top at about 8:30am. Caffeinated, I am wide awake and tuned in, I don’t think I could’ve made the sections if I wasn’t. The wedges are fun, but require a lot of speed, maybe I should’ve taken the log – the tree-frog-green colouring would’ve fit with the green theme of the early morning and would have put me in the water sooner. Alas, I had a lovely morning anyway, and topped it off by making a smoothie and going for a rainforest walk around the headland as the sweet and salty air grew thicker and warmer.

The Crescent Council is pretty gnarly about free camping, having already tested the limits, ruled out a few spots, and in desperate need of a washing machine, I roll into the Waves campground and try and scab a night’s stay using shrapnel from the cupholder. Somehow I scrounge $22.00 worth of silver, and save a few golds for the laundry. When planning this holiday (in true Tommy fashion, there was no planning at all. I didn’t know if I was going East or West. I just booked a one way ticket on the Spirit and got the car serviced.), I didn’t realise that using up leave would negate my weekend rates, and so my budget has plummeted about 500 bucks a fortnight below the expected income, so finding this much value under the coffee cup was a like finding a cold beer in a desert.

A 3ft long black and white striped snake coils the EFTPOS on the front counter, the owner, a short Asian lady with an okka accent and leathered complexion seems nonplussed while her backpacker employee appears disturbed. The older woman seems to take a cheeky amount of glee from her counterpart’s discomfort. I get to chatting about the area with the owner – an hour later, a free pack of indo ciggies, an offer to “meet” her daughter, a taste test from the snake (not quite a bite but more than a lick), and another offer to run the campground for a few weeks while she visits family in Indo, I end up getting my money back in exchange for hanging a door (the darts were thrown in because I said hanging a door was worth at least a fifty). She shows me to my site and points to a pile of rocks in the corner, “for dingoes” she explains matter-of-factly, then thinks for a moment and adds “… and hippies”. As she waddles off, a trail of clove-laden cigarette smoke behind her, I decide that it’s going to take more than a layer of bitumen to cover up what makes this joint special.

I put on a load of washing and fix a leaky showerhead with Teflon tape I had in the ute, before arming myself with a hippie deterrent and climbing into the hammock for an arvo siesta. When I wake up, my washing has been mysteriously hung up by the laundry, and a warming bottle of beer sits on my campsite table forming a ringed puddle that drips off the uneven treated pine. Deciding that my jobs for the day are done, I go for a wander and watch the local First Nation lads go beach fishing with four wheel drives. One bloke tows a net around a school of mullet using a flat-bottomed tinny, he punches through the waves before beaching himself and racing to hook up the net to a rusted GQ Patrol on the waters edge. At the other end, a maroon 80 series blows soot as it takes up the slack , before both vehicles throw up rooster tails of sand as they haul the net and its contents onto the beach. Birds go ballistic as the catch reaches the shallows, dive-bombing in the hopes of an easy feed. Young kids in colourful singlets dart around to try and scare them off before its all hands on deck to release any bycatch and throw the mullet into a waiting trailer.

I watch from the dunes until the bonnet pops up on the 80 and a bunch of men look at the engine perplexed while another guy tries and fails to turn it over. I walk down and lend my expertise as a man who knows sweet-fuck-all about cars: “I hope it’s not electric”. I’m met with a bunch of mumbles, grumbles, and murmurs of agreement. I run back to my car and grab a multimeter and jumper leads; through half an hour of troubleshooting we find an earth lead off the engine which has rusted off the bolt that grounds it to the chassis. Tommy to the rescue again, with a box of spare bolts, a drill, and easy-outs – we are successful with the repair and the boys reward me with a few fish for my trouble! Thoroughly exhausted from my day of doing jobs, I treat myself to a surf, taking my log out to Racecourses, a point slightly north of the campground which is peeling quickly down the rocks and then slowing down through the inside gutter. A beautiful, calm sunset rounds out the day, and I cook up some of the fish with a lemon stolen from a front yard and thyme stolen from the pub carpark before going to bed with an anti-hippy device tucked safely within arms reach.

I wake up and beeline for Crescent during the twilight hours. It’s meant to be 25̊  today, at least until the wind swings and the rain kicks in. I slow down for a dawny check at the spots on the way, but I have a feeling Crescent is the spot to be. When I arrive it’s a bit morning sick, and I can still see my breath. So despite the early start, I get stuck in a scroll hole, again, watching god-knows-what. Eventually, thankfully, my need for actually fucking doing something wins out against my desire for short term satisfaction, I grab my newly repaired Seymonster-fishy-grovel-thing and paddle out, following the familiar rock-shelf out to the lineup. My feet know where they’re taking me, and instinct is a powerful guide, steering me around dead-ends, rockpools, and sharp rocks until I’m at the rock-off I don’t even remember looking for. Funny how it all comes together.

My first wave rolls around the headland, maybe a small three footer, but I can see what it’s going to do down the line long before it happens. I take off over a boil I don’t think I ever took off over as a kid, but it feels like the right spot. The intuition pays off, and the seeds planted as a teenager have germinated as an adult, I know where to burn speed, where to gain it, without thinking I know where I can put in a top turn, vs a cutback, vs a roundhouse, I know where the reef is shallow and needs to be avoided with a highline trim and where I can throw a bit more caution to the wind and go a bit more vertical. As much fun as I’m having, I’m well aware that I have less volume underfoot than everyone, and that the lack of foam is forcing me to work a lot harder for speed and manoeuvrability. This really is a wave for midlengths, mals, and kids. However, the rose-tinted-glasses are on, the sun is shining, and I’m ecstatic to be back.

I go in after a few hours for a coffee and breakfast, a crew of P-platers in immaculate semi-classic cars and designer boho-chic clothes adorn the headland, each with 9ft+ logs that cost as much as my six board quiver. Byron kids with money. As much as I hate gatekeeping, I have to fight the urge to chat back as some yuppie kid calls me a poser for wearing a cardigan. I make a mental note to burn the fuck out of him if I get the chance⁴.

Two more surfs follow, punctuated by coffees and a few local sproggets who con me into buying homemade lemonade using the last of my gold coins, I gladly pay up with the private acknowledgment that it was probably their front yard I stole lemons from the day before. By the time the sun starts to set and the clouds begin to threaten rain overhead – I am truly surfed out for the first time in a long time.

The next day I get my chance to mess with the mouthy yuppie kid. It’s my second surf of the day, and we’re both sitting around the curl of the point, he’s spent all morning paddling out wide, burning people, and snaking. With 10ft of glider under him, he paddles fast and catch waves way before anyone else. It’s nearly four foot and I’ve been out for a few hours, the shivers are setting in and I’m ready to leave. We paddle for the same wave, with the extra foam he gets to his feet first, but I’m way deeper – in almost anyone’s book, mine included, it’s my wave. He starts to cut back and flails as he realises he’s about to run me over as I drive up the inside. I grab his rail to tip him off, but a better idea presents itself as I realise the kook doesn’t have a leash⁵, I tip him off, but hold onto his board as I ride 100m down the point. Hoots from the carpark confirm that I may not be the only person he’s been pissing off. I dump his board out into deep water just in time for a turn and head-dip through the shallow section. I ride the wave all the way to the estuary, crossing a line of foam where the water changes from warm and green to cold and brown (and smelly) – stratification from the rain. I pull into shore right in-front of my car, throw the board in the back, and drive out of town before he can even swim down to his board. I may be vindictive, I may have somewhat self-rightous ideas about justice, I may even be asking for a fight. But, he has more friends – and I don’t want to be writing cheques I can’t cash.

With the wind due to swing, heavy rain on the horizon, and a legal requirment to vote at the nearest polling booth that will let in a Tasmanian like me, I head north again. There’s a gig I want to see in Valla in two nights time, and with only 100km to get there, I’ll take it slow. I pull in at a small beach for a cuppa and to finish my book, go vote, and then try and make it to Scotts Head before sundown. I only ended up spending four days in Crescent and its surrounds. I think the magic is still there, but I just have to look harder to find it, now buried under the hustle and bustle accompanying every coastal town in the country. If the waves were more east, the weather a few degrees warmer, and the crowds a bit thinner, I have no doubt that I would stay longer. But, as it stands, I have reasons to move on, and I need to save some magic for next time.

Something that I always forget about Tassie is how small your world-view can become. I mean that in multiple ways. Sure, we have a lot of people who think only of themselves, people who vote and petition for policies that harm rather then help, people who see everyone else as the other. But in this respect I literally mean a small worldview. Go anywhere in Tasmania, and you’re hemmed in by hills, mountains, peaks, headlands, forests, cliffs, and rivers. The phrase “as far as the eye can see” means nothing, because at best you may be able to see 30km before some geographical feature gets in your way. While 30km is much further than you or I can see from sea level due to the curvature of the planet we call home, being able to see a mountain 30km away also reduces the amount of sky we can see (maths are in the footnotes⁶). Even when you look to sea, the horizon is hemmed in by headlands and other features all around you, framing the little stretch of ocean horizon you do see, the effect of a gradual horizon only rarely leaks in. You never wonder what’s over the horizon as it dips away, because nothing ever dissapears slowly behind it, there is an abrupt cutoff over mountain ridges and hills. A fish in a pond only knows the boundaries of its environment. But a fish in a stream – even if it lives its whole life in one eddy or hole – understands that both upstream and down there is more to its world than it knows. Or maybe not, it is just a fish after all.

I ponder this as I drive, thinking about how large the sky is here, how much bigger the world view. Clouds tower skyward, with no geological references they are immense. Trees, houses, and the road dissapear in my rear view mirrors, as new features roll into view ahead. I am surrounded by 180.04° of sky, and only 179.96° of Earth, out here, I am more of sky than I am of Earth, and as the flat grassy plains fall away from me on all sides I am on top of the world. The vastness of the universe begins to glitter all around me as they sky fades blue to black.

I wake up in a gravel carpark near a beach on the way to nowhere in particular. I pulled in to Scotts Head late, and there was nowhere good to park up, make dinner, and sleep without making a nuisance of myself. This little carpark was good when I found it, but halfway through making daal, two pairs of eyes glint gold from the bushes. Dingoes. I keep my eyes locked on them until I’ve made dinner and packed up, then I eat in the back of the ute, finally lulled to sleep by the patter of rain on the roof.

When I finally roll out of bed, the rain has settled into a thick fog, the wind is light but east, and the beachie looks hairy and gross. Hopping over the headland, I’m greeted by a point/sandbar combo thats running a few hundred metres. I have a dag on the low tide while it rains. It’s four foot but hard to surf. Steep and fast sections need to be navigated at full speed, driving hard, foot to the floor. But then you make it through the fast section and instead of finding a wide open canvas with speed to burn, the wave fattens out to the point that you can barely stay on it before the cycle repeats. I didn’t get many turns in, but holy shit I was going fast.

I go in for lunch and chat to the old geezers on the hill. We shelter from the drizzle under the fragrant pandanus trees, water dripping from the pointed tips of their fronds. Cigarette smoke and Thermos’s of coffee add to the coastal aroma. These guys have been checking the surf from this spot since my parents were in nappies. Sentinels of a bygone era – past their prime, but full of stories, eyes alive. They’ve watched this place change from small wooden shacks, to a giant caravan park and three story “architectural” homes that look like a sneezed rubics cube. They tell stories of how they used to pile 8 guys and boards into a five seater holden station wagon and drive up the coast from Newcastle or even Sydney for the weekend. How they ate nothing but bananas and tinned beans and slept under their cars. Fires on the beach and wild parties punctuated the era of exploration.
“Remember that swell the time they brought in daylight savings? We had no radio and we forgot to change the clocks! We all rocked up to work late!”
“Not me.”
“You didn’t have a job!”
“That was a wild swell though, we surfed Angourie at 8ft and only a dozen blokes on the beach”
“God that road sucked”
One bloke rolls up his trouser leg to show an impressive shark smile scar, “that was out here.” he points seaward with a toothy smile of his own, “’78, you should’ve seen the other guy!”

After another surf on the high tide (it does what you’d expect, turning the whole wave fat), I head inland under a brooding sky to Valla Hall to watch Jack Davies and the Bush Chooks play, my windscreen wipers play their own beat accompanied by the hum of mud tyres on the road.

Clouds blanket the Community Hall, diminishing even the moonlight. Pizza ovens burn wood and flour, toasting the air as the building’s windows begin to glow. People trickle in as the rain trickles down. A rented Prado pulls up next to my car and the band tumble out. I say “g’day”, pull a bottle of wine out of the canopy and pass it around as we all make small talk – all of us out-of-towners.

The nicotine curls around me, inside and out, mixed with red wine and I begin to warm from my fingertips inward. The band plays all the hits to a mellow yet enraptured crowd. I’m at least a bottle deep by the time the last chords echo around the hall and the applause subsides. Buying a record, I join Jack and his band in the smokers and we swap stories of the road. The violinist from Jack’s solo project is housemates of some of my good friends back home, with three degrees of seperation we may as well be mates. More bottles of wine come out, and the pizza guy finishes off the dough with the leftover ingredients “on the house”. As the discussion drifts, we come to the conclusion that we aren’t where we’re supposed to be, but feel welcome nonetheless. The Valla community seems warm and inclusive, we imagine the town must be beautiful despite only passing by in the dark. The second Jack in the band says he has self seeded potatoes in his tomato patch back home, out of place but welcome nonetheless. Maybe we’re all just spuds – I hope I’m a kennebec.

Sunlight streams in through gaps in the fiberglass canopy. I am painted in oranges and reds -strewn through the brake and indicator light cutouts – as if the morning’s sun is looking at me through a stained glass window.. Feeling dusty but complete, I crawl out of the canopy on the side of the road in the Valla highlands. Cows continue to chew grass undisturbed across the fence, as if they see hungover straw-haired men emerge from Ford Rangers on a regular basis. Driving slightly down the road, I find a small cul-de-sac near a creek to make a coffee and brush my teeth. Sandwiched between lush green pasture, and hemmed in by barbed wire, the creekbed crawls with a tangled web of life. Birds chip and chirp and insects zip and zap amongst the overgrowth while the cows watch on, chewing their cud with no appreciation, yet with nothing better to do. Feeling much the same, I force water and food into my red wine inhibited body before rolling downhill to the coast.

Gallery

1. I can confirm, it’s as bad as I remember. ↩︎
2. As a Taswegian, we were so bloody spoilt when it came to COVID, I genuinely had an incredible few months while the rest of the world ground to a halt and descended into chaos. I might complain about the developments but I know that so many people had it so much worse ↩︎
3. They still do, just not as much. ↩︎
4. I sound like a grumpy old man, shit, is this how it starts? ↩︎
5. I’m no longboard expert, but I can cross-step, nose ride, and pirouette with a leash on, people who don’t wear them when it’s busy are posers who care more about their appearance than other peoples safety. If you ask me. ↩︎
6. Imagine you’re standing at Park Beach, Dodges Ferry, my local spot. Mount Wellington is 30km away, and stands 1271m tall. Behind you, the sand dunes, cliffs, and houses are 150m behind you, and 30m tall. Assuming the earth is a perfect circle, you should have 180.04° of sky horizon to horizon. Some back of the paper math shows that you’ve lost 8% of your sky between the hill behind you and mountain ahead of you. Some quick experiments at home show that I have about 55° of upward vertical view and 75° of view down, so the realistic value is that sky now only makes up 37% of my total field of view. If I could see horizon to horizon it would be 42.3%. That’s a difference of 13%, which doesn’t seem like much, but at the winter and summer solstice, that’s an hour and four minutes and two hours respectively of lost direct sunlight! ↩︎