New wave - a 1960s beach revolution

Photo / NZ Herald

Three kaimara Surf Club members, Stephen, Barry and Marty, watched as visiting Piha surfie Rob Taylor made his way out through the raging surf, kneeling on his long board. The summer storm of the night before had passed, but had left the sea a maelstrom. The waves being too powerful to push through while kneeling on his longboard, Rob instead paddled up to each one, flipped his board over and, gripping the board's rails, dived beneath it. Seconds later he emerged in the churning white water on the other side. Once there he clambered back on to his board and resumed paddling seaward, towards the next incoming wave. In this manner, he gradually made his way towards the distant reef.

"He's getting there," said Stephen.

"Just hope he's got enough energy left to catch a wave when he does," added Barry.

"Hey, fellas, how's it goin?"

They turned and saw Rob's surfie mates, Blondie, Dave, Pete and Grem, who had walked up to the cliff-top from the bach they were renting at the beach. Barefoot and unshaven, wearing baggy shorts and T-shirts, the Piha boys looked as if they had just got out of bed. Which indeed they had.

The others greeted them. Then Stephen said, "You guys aren't going out then?"

"Nah," said Blondie. "Too rough for me, mate."

"And me," agreed Dave, scratching his chin. "Couldn't keep Rob away, though. Look at 'im, the mad bugger."

Rob had made it to beyond the last line of breakers. Now, kneeling on his long board, he was paddling his way towards the reef. His strategy was obvious: edge around the swells, then enter them from the back, where the sea was relatively calm.

The others watched in silence as the huge swells rose, then rolled forward into the bay. Rob had now positioned himself between the headland and the reef, where the water was unbroken. There he waited, a tiny figure seated on his board, obviously regaining his breath after the long journey out from the beach. Then, a few minutes later, he began to paddle into the path of the giant swells.

Straightening his board, glancing behind him, Rob and his board were now pointing landward. He began to dig hard with his hands, his head bobbing as he paddled. Then the magic moment occurred: he and his board began to slide downwards, carried forward by the growing swell. Leaping to his feet, Rob raised his arms high as he and the board were carried across the face of the wave. On the cliff-top the others began to shout. "You beauty, Rob," called Blondie. "Stoked, man," cried Grem. The others joined in. "Ten foot, man," called Pete. "And rising," echoed Dave. And indeed it did seem that the wave was growing as it passed across the reef, Rob's board carving a gouge into its face as it bore him along, just ahead of the break.

On and on Rob rode, right across the bay. Until, sensing the wave closing out, he swerved and turned the big board back and over the break. For a few seconds he disappeared before emerging again, paddling back over the swells, heading seaward once more. On the cliff-top, Blondie was looking at Dave ruefully. "That was some ride, man. Reckon I might join 'im. What do you say, guys?" The other Piha boys nodded, but the Kaimara ones didn't. As novice board riders, these waves were right out of their league. "Let's watch Rob for a bit longer, then head out too," said Dave. The others nodded.

Again Rob positioned himself at the side of the swells, again he moved in amongst them, again he began to paddle forward. As the massive swell built up he dug deep, was picked up and began to glide downward and across its face. But this time, as the wave rose higher, its centre began to close out. Glancing over his right shoulder, Rob saw what was happening. He tried to straighten up so that he could ride the white water but had gained too much momentum and the board did not respond in time. Instead it plunged downward like a lance, hurling board and rider into the broken water. "Oh shit," Blondie gasped, "he's lost it."

Holding their breath, they all stared at the place where board and rider had plunged. Seconds later the board shot from the water like a rocket, hovered for a moment, then fell back. The next breaking wave gathered it up like a piece of driftwood and began to bear it away from its thrown rider and towards the beach.

Their eyes searched desperately for the thrown rider, until at last Rob's head and shoulders appeared, just a dot among the swells. Stephen winced. "It's a bloody long swim in," he said, voicing the thoughts of them all. As he spoke Rob began to stroke steadily, arms rising and falling. "He's a strong swimmer," Blondie assured them. "And he'll pick up a wave on the way in." "It's right that he's heading for the beach," Dave concluded.

But the three locals _ Stephen, Barry and Marty _ remained anxious. As surf lifesavers they were aware that after a south-westerly storm the coastal currents always ran strongly north. As they stared, this view was confirmed _ although Rob was swimming in one direction, the current was taking him in another. And further out to sea. It was Marty who first voiced what they were all thinking. "He's not going to make it back in," he said, grimly, his mind churning. Somehow, they would have to go out and get him.

"I'll go out on my board," Blondie said, decisively. "I'll pick him up." "I'll come too," said Pete. "We'll all go out for him," added Grem. They could see that Rob had stopped swimming Although this was conserving his energy, he was now being carried towards the bay's northern headland. Stephen spoke up. "He's going out too fast, you wouldn't get to him in time."

"So what the hell do we do?' Grem blurted out. "Watch him drown?'

Marty stared at the sea. "Course not." He paused. "The way he's going, I reckon he'll drift around to Carrington's Bay. If he holds out, we might be able to get to him from there."

"How?' demanded Dave. "With our boards?"

Marty shook his head. "No. You can't launch a board from Carrington's, it's too dangerous. We'd end up with all of you drowned." He swallowed, hard. "I'll swim out for him."

Blondie was incredulous. "What? In that sea?"

Marty nodded. "Yeah. With a belt and line. We'll get a reel from the clubhouse.' He turned to Blondie. "We'll take it round to Carrington's Bay in your wagon, okay?"

They looked seaward once more, to where Rob's head and shoulders were still just visible, moving out towards the headland. Then, without another word, they began to race down the track towards the clubhouse. While the Piha boys got the hearse, Stephen, Marty and Barry opened the clubhouse. They threw a lifesaving reel into the back of the hearse, then all seven crammed into the wagon.

With Blondie at the wheel, they took the short drive around the edge of the town to neighbouring Carrington's Bay, passing the town cemetery on the way. All were dreading that by the time that they arrived, Rob would have succumbed to the sea. At the cliff-top above the bay they all scrambled out of the hearse and scanned the sea. The waters of the bay were heaving and waves were dumping brutally on to its steeply shelving beach.

Eyes fixed, they all stared out to sea. If he had survived, he should be visible by now. But there was no sign of Rob, just the surging sea and its rearing, ugly waves. Then Barry pointed towards the headland and exclaimed. "There he is."

A tiny figure appeared among the waves, a head and shoulders, moving slowly, borne along by the current. The head disappeared behind a wave, then moments later came into sight again. Rob was still not attempting to swim, he was just going with the flow. "Come on," Stephen urged, "get the gear down there."

The surf reel was placed on the sand, well above the waves. While Marty put on the rescue belt, Barry and Stephen paid out some of the line and stood Blondie, Grem, Dave and Pete in a row. "Pay it out overhead," Stephen instructed, "and not too fast."

"We know how," said Pete, a little defensively. "We used to watch our dads doing it at Piha."

"Okay then," said Stephen. "You work the reel, Barry. I'll go round the rocks and point to where he is, Marty. Watch for my hand signals, okay?"

Marty, harness on, was already sprinting towards the water, trailing the line behind him. Swimming with strong, clawing strokes, Marty powered out into the bay. Every few minutes he paused, to glance over at Stephen, who pointed repeatedly in the direction of the small figure. Can he see us? They were all wondering, knowing that if he could it might give him the strength to keep going.

Marty ploughed on through the water, Stephen kept signalling, the linesmen kept paying out. Barry looked down at the reel, anxiously. The line was running low on the drum. There was only three hundred yards of line on it altogether. Would that be enough?

If it wasn't, there was nothing else that could be done.

For a few minutes, those on the shore could see nothing except churning water. The line had gone slack. Not only Rob, but Marty had vanished. The linesmen stopped and looked at each other, desperately. Had they both gone down?

Then from the rocks they heard a shout. Stephen was waving, calling. "He's got him. He's got him. Pull them in." He began leaping from rock to rock, making his way back to the beach.

Blondie, Grem, Dave and Pete hauled on the line, hand over hand, while Barry reeled it in, working the handle steadily. Fifteen minutes later, two figures appeared, just beyond the wave break. Marty was on his back, his left arm around Rob, who was also lying down. As a wave picked them both up and dumped them down unceremoniously on the sand, the line went slack. Whooping with relief the others ran down to meet them.

They lay on the grass in front of the bach, beer cans in their hands. Bobby Darin's Mack the Knife was playing on a portable record player. Only Blondie was absent, he'd gone for a walk on the beach. Rob, his face still bleached with cold, was wrapped in a blanket. He raised his can to the others. "Marty, Steve, Barry, I want to thank you guys. At one stage there, I didn't think I'd make it."

Stephen nodded. "We didn't think so either." He looked at Marty. "Just as well we had the best surf swimmer in the province, eh?" Clutching his beer can in one massive hand, Marty looked down at the grass, embarrassed.

Rob laughed, drily. "The biggest wave I've ever caught, and I let the bloody thing throw me." Then he looked around. "Hey, what happened to my board? Did anyone get it?" The others shook their heads. The board had been the least of their worries.

Then they saw Blondie approaching. He was grinning. Under each arm he carried something. They saw what it was: two long pieces of shattered surfboard, its white inner foam exposed. Blondie handed them to Rob. "I found these on the rocks."

Rob took the piece, shaking his head. "Shit. My Malibu. Totally stuffed."

"Could have been worse," said Stephen. "Could have been you broken in half."

They all laughed. Then an air of inexpressible relief, and something like contentment, settled on the group. The revolution had come, but no lives had been lost. And they all now knew that the old beach rescue method still had its uses and that board riding and surf lifesaving could, and would from now on, live in peaceful co-existence.