warriewood in the day, an outsider’s view
When Bondi and Tamarama got a bit old in 1970 and the sand smelt bad a 3 bed in Warriewood was up for $21,000, about. High enough to see Long Reef, good enough to see where the swell was coming from if you stood on the top of the wall.
So then a fellow has to decide whether he wants to join the locals at the local beach. Warriewood. Whoever they may be.
– and whatever the place had to offer, usually a stinking mist of sewer cloud being driven ashore by the same wind that delivered the point’s best waves, we have come from Bondi’s shit pipe to Turrimetta’s. This means we will have to deal with hardnuts.
Surfing in the shitstream of the day, there they are, the hardnuts, getting out by jumping the ledges around the corner. Barnes and Staniford out there late one afternoon, paddling around the corner and into a set of big dark swells. Windless. Black and glassy. There were about three of us watching from the road, it was almost too dark to see them.
Introductions were done differently at Warriewood; take North Narrabeen for instance, down there the first thing they worried about when a new bloke came to town was the car he was driving, and did he have any choof in the boot. And was he good for a beer later, did he have any sisters, did he wear booties in winter – all that peripheral stuff.
Narrabeen wasn’t serious, cameras and competitions do that. Plus everyone was skinning off a little of Simon Anderson’s famous aura. I reckon that bloke has a hard time ordering a cheeseburger he hates talking that much. Narrabeen and Avalon, NNBC and NASA, the North Avalon Surfriders Association.
Try joining that mob if you surfride a waveski.
Warriewood did intros different. You had to paddle out to meet people.
Fellow I knew paddled out one day when he knew they were too big to catch, so big that only three local boys were out – at the time – and here he is sitting as far out and as wide as he ever had and watching that unholy trio of surf bums take everything being chucked at them.
And every time they paddled past this bloke suffering the terrors, they doffed him a smile and said g’day, everytime. Even Bean, although that little fucker was pretty tight about it. Like the time he was standing around a white Nissan 200sx parked in a Newport side street, him with a few mates.
Didn’t quite say g’day that time either.
So here’s to ye Boof old lad, a generation younger than me by miles, and a different life – Proud to have known you.