Nov 11, 2022
Life interpreted through fiction…
Here’s the question: can you really surf in Devonport?
CRUISING DOWN the highway tonight. Heading east. Cassandra Wilson soulfully singing Red River Valley. The van’s lights shining off a windswept landscape, what I can see of it anyway. Full moon. A bright Jupiter for company. What more could you want?
I’d spent a few days with Yvette, one-time partner and now-time close friend these past couple decades. She had simultaneously invited and cajoled me into driving up for her tent raising afternoon tea event. That happens this time every year. Her tent — she lets it out to visitors who find it on AirBnB or who hear of it by word of mouth. It’s one of those big canvas bell tents with a tall centre pole and guy lines around the low wall. It is stable in strong wind because of its shape and hasn’t blown down on anyone yet. That—wind resistance—is important up there in her ridgetop eyrie, although the ridge blocks most of the westerlies though not the southerlies that can come in just as strong. Yvette caters to the bottom end of the market and tells me that AirBnB don’t like cheap accommodation providers like her because they want to cater to upmarket types. I say its because they are a profit-driven global corporation that has commodified peoples’ spare rooms and they don’t make enough money from people like her.
So, we get her tent up no trouble. I guess that should have been expected because there were five of us there at her tent-raising afternoon. Mostly, we just sat around and ate the sumptuous fare Yvette prepared, and talked the afternoon away. She might not do it now, but she hasn’t lost the skills of the caterer she was until only a few years ago.
It was while working my way through my second or was it my third glass of wine— I lost count because Yvette has a bad habit of topping up peoples’ glasses when they are down only a little—that I got to talking to a woman whose dark brown hair fell loosely to her shoulder blades and whose complexion you could only describe as weathered. Weathered in a good way, I mean, for someone maybe only a few years from middle age.
How come you know Yvette, I ask. Met her just a couple days ago, she replies, at a cafe where we were sitting at neighbouring tables. Typical, I thought. Yvette is one of those sociable people who will talk to anyone. Occasionally, like now, she invites them home.
This woman, she was from further along the coast. Turners Beach. It’s near Ulverstone, she tells me. That’s not all she tells me there that lazy afternoon around the table. As well as being a nurse she claims to be a surfer. Now, Turners Beach is on the shore of Bass Strait and Bass Strait isn’t exactly known as the place anyone would bother carting a surfboard to. When it’s not in storm the Strait is more like a lake. But, yes, she and a group of locals really do surf there. In Devonport. Should I believe her? Maybe not.
By this time I’m thinking this woman has had a few more wines than I thought or has consumed the wrong sort of mushrooms in Yvette’s salad, or, maybe, she is just trying to fool me because she might be the sort of woman who likes doing that. She wasn’t. And she said if you don’t believe me then come over to Devonport because tomorrow is when we usually meet. And bring your surfboard.
It is fortunate that I usually carry my trusty, dinged and scratched old mini-mal in the van. And my wetsuit. Just in case. And this time is one of those just in cases.
I sleep on the couch in Yvette’s living room that night. It’s something I’ve done many times over the years and, like most of those times we talk into the night after everyone has gone, and after having even more food and wine and a coffee before calling it quits close to midnight.
Morning. I follow the Turners Beach woman down the driveway and all the way to Devonport. It is not a fast journey. She drives an old Mitsubishi van and they are not known for speed. I peeked a look into it before we left and saw that she has built a sleeping platform in the back with storage below. A rumpled sleeping bag and a pillow probably in need of a spin in the washing machine rest on it. A few items of were clothing scattered around. A wetsuit hung from a hook. And, on top, is her surfboard scuffed with multiple applications of wax. It is like so many surfers’ vans I have seen over the years. DIY fitouts made with as little cost as possible. Basic, for sure, but more than adequate as accommodation behind the beach and as a refuge as the rain comes down.
We park near the heads. Her friends are there and so is a collection of longboards. She introduces me. I look around. Yes, there’s the river and there’s the local excuse for a beach. But waves? None to be seen anywhere. What is this?
A large freighter is about to enter the river. I think its the ship that carries cargo to and from Melbourne. Suit up and get your board, she tells me. What? As a compliant and generally agreeable sort of person I do as ordered then rejoin the other wetsuit clad figures on the shore. I’m still looking for any sign of surf off this beach. Nope. None. So what is going on here?
Let’s go, calls one of the guys. And with that they zip up their wetsuits, pick up their boards but they don’t head to the nearby beach— that would be a pointless thing to do as it is completely lacking in even the smallest of swells. Instead, and to my amazement, they plunge into the brown waters of the river.
I follow, confused. We sit around for a few minutes to keep out of the way of the freighter. The ship cruises past, its powerful diesels making an ominous throbbing sound. Then they start paddling at an angle to the direction of the ship. The bow waves pick them up and accelerates them until they stand on their boards for what is only a short ride. But a short ride is better than no ride. I catch one of the last waves.
So, this is how they surf in Devonport. She knew it would be a surprise, which is why the Turners Beach woman was tight lipped about where she surfed when we were talking yesterday afternoon.
Big waves? No. But a boat wave is surely better than a wave pool.
End note
- yes, Cassandra Wilson does a moody version of Red River Valley
- yes, I have a friend who with with the coming of spring erects her bell tent that she lets out as basic, short-term accommodation
- yes, my van’s lights did shine off a windswept landscape under a full moon with a bright Jupiter for company, only I was Hobart, not Devonport bound
- do people surf ship wakes in Devonport? It has been done.
It can be useful to scribble down or photograph moments from everyday life, as I did, to use later in fiction stories.
A bit more shortform fiction on PacificEdge…
