New wave - a 1960s beach revolution

Author Graeme Lay. Photo / Supplied

Sun, sea and the birth of surfing: the second part of a four-part story by Graeme Lay.

In Kaimara, the news that there was a bunch of young guys from out of town who were renting a bach down at the beach and who rode surfboards, spread fast. It was early summer of the year 1961.

'So, what's new about that?' some asked. 'We've always ridden surfboards.' By this they meant planks of dressed, one-inch thick timber, rounded at one end. You lay on them, flung yourself forward onto a wave and it carried you, lying down, in to the beach.

'No, not those boards,' people who had seen the surfers explained. 'These are boards you can stand up on. And these guys paddle them right out to the reef and catch the waves there. Their boards are made from polystyrene, so they're really buoyant. The surfers come from somewhere up north. You should watch them.'

People from the town gathered on the cliff-top to watch. The five young men would carry their big boards down to the water. Then, kneeling on them, they'd paddle out through the waves to the reef. When the right wave came they'd launch themselves forward, get to their feet and ride it across the bay. They'd slide down the face of the wave, then shoot up again, performing all kinds of tricks: twisting, turning and walking to the very end of their boards. If they slipped and fell, or were crunched by a closing-out wave, they were faced with a long swim in to the beach, but as soon as rider and board were reunited, off they paddled out to sea again.

Nineteen-year-old Stephen Lowe and his mates from the Kaimara Surf Club, Marty Chambers and Barry Jordan, sat on the cliff-top watching. It was late afternoon and they were on their way to surf club practice on the beach. The waves were extra big today, peeling away from the headland, held up by a steady off-shore wind. Two of the `surfies', as the town now called them, were out in the bay. Rob, the tall fair-headed one, and Blondie, the little guy with peroxided hair, were `out the back', waiting for the right wave.

Rob went first, thrusting himself forward until the wave picked him up, then springing to his feet and cutting across its face. Moments later he was at the base of the wave. There he turned, and his long board turned with him. He soared to the crest of the wave, then cut across its face again. In this manner, standing like a statue, then crouching just under the break, he stayed on the wave until it collapsed into white water and carried him in to the beach.

Stephen got to his feet. `That guy's so cool,' he said.

`The little guy's pretty good too,' said Barry. `Really fast on his feet.'

Marty looked at the other two. `So, when are we going to have a go?' he asked.

`When we get a board,' said Barry.

`Think those guys would let us borrow one of theirs?' said Stephen.

There was a pause before Barry said, `They've got enough of them. Why don't we ask?'

Suddenly, from behind them, a car horn blasted. Turning, they saw the Zephyr 6 of Lance Jackson, the Kaimara Surf Club coach. He got out, strode up to them and tapped his watch face. `Practice is at five o'clock,' he declared. It was five to five. `Why aren't you down at the clubhouse?'

`We're watching the surfies,' Stephen said. `They're amazing.'

The coach's face darkened. `Amazing? What can they do that a bodysurfer can't?'

`Well, you can't bodysurf right out on the reef,' Marty suggested.

`Because there's no bloody need to,' the coach retorted. `People don't swim out there.'

He grunted derisively. 'It's just a fad, that board riding. It'll never replace lifesaving with a line and reel.' He opened the car door. 'Now hop in and I'll give you a ride. The New Year's carnival's only a fortnight away.'

The others obeyed, but gave each other meaningful glances when the coach's back was turned. There was no way they weren't going to try board riding.

The short guy with sharp features and the peroxided crew cut - Blondie - showed them what to do. He had strange bumps on his knees and the tops of his feet, Stephen noticed. He pointed down at the board. 'Kneel about there,' he told the others. 'Not too far forward, not too far back. Get your point of balance. Then when you've got it, paddle with the wave.'

'When do you stand up?' asked Stephen.

'When you feel the wave taking you with it.' Blondie chuckled. `You'll soon get it.'

They didn't.

It took three spills and three long swims after his borrowed board before Stephen could stand up on it and stay there. Marty was much worse. His broad-shouldered frame, so well suited to swimming, made him top-heavy on a board, and his feet were slow to move. Barry was more nimble, and after a couple of falls he too was standing up. Once, he and Stephen caught the same wave. Whooping with delight, they rode it together across the bay, keeping their boards on a steady, side-by-side course. They agreed that it was a thrill like nothing they had ever experienced before. After just one session, they were hooked.

It wasn't just the board riding, either. The surfies had a great way of life, the local boys realised. From somewhere called Piha, they were travelling around New Zealand in their converted hearse (`Carried some famous stiffs, including that old Prime Minister, Sid Holland,' Rob told them), they stopped off wherever they felt like it. They worked for a while, pooled their savings, then set off again in search of more great wave spots.

It now seemed to the lads of the Kaimara Surf Lifesaving Club that their way of life was seriously old-fashioned. It wasn't just that the newcomers had brought board riding to the beach, the surfing nomads were showing the boys of Kaimara another way to live, and its appeal was instant.

Marching on the sand wearing what looked like girls' swimming togs and little caps, lugging a surf reel down the beach and paying out the line in formation and swimming with a canvas harness on: how could that compare with living freely by the sea and riding the great waves of Kaimara on a board until they exhausted you?

By Christmas the free and fearless surfies were the talk of the town, especially Rob Taylor, the tall fair-haired one with a body like a Greek god, who deliberately sought out the very biggest waves.

As New Year approached, the surfies from Piha were admired by nearly everyone in Kaimara.

But not by Lance Jackson and the other old guys on the Surf Club committee. With regional surf life-saving competitions looming and the need for marching, drilling and swimming practice constant, board riding and surf life-saving at Kaimara beach were on a collision course.

Stephen and Barry sat on the cliff-top, waiting for club practice to begin. Both had tried board riding, both were adept at it, both had borrowed boards from the Piha boys and kept them under the bach the visitors were renting. Stephen pointed out into the bay. 'Look at that. Five feet and glassy.' They had already picked up the surfies' argot. Barry sighed. 'Yeah, they're too much all right.'

The waves were holding up beautifully as they peeled away from the headland, and out in the bay the board riders were in their element, twisting and turning among the waves like dolphins. Stephen and Barry watched powerfully built Rob Taylor pick up a beautifully formed wave and ride it all the way across the bay. 'That guy's too much, I reckon,' Barry said. `Yeah, he's stoked all right,' Stephen agreed. He sighed. 'Those waves are fantastic.' He looked levelly at Barry. 'Let's get out there too ...'

Barry looked startled. `What about marching practice?'

'Bugger marching practice. Those waves are too good to miss.' He stood up. `C'mon, let's get among 'em.'

It was a perfect late afternoon, warm, with no wind, and the swells were building up into shapely waves after they passed over the reef. The five Piha surfies, along with Stephen and Barry, gathered out the back, waiting for the right wave. But this was a day when every wave was right - not huge, but five to six feet high and perfectly shaped.

With every wave he caught, Stephen's confidence grew. He now knew just when to leap up as the wave carried him forward, how to turn and how to straighten up to avoid the wave taking him down. One ride took him right across the bay, and when at last the wave closed out and he turned to paddle back out again, he saw Rob and Blondie both give him the thumbs-up sign. He felt then that he had been admitted to a very exclusive club. Board riding was fantastic, like nothing else he had ever done, and with every ride he felt the exhilaration growing. From now on, he decided, this was what he wanted to do - ride the waves, of Kaimara and anywhere else. He'd save up for a decent board of his own, too. Rob had told him about some guy in Auckland who had started making them, in a garage. He'd get one, and soon.

Then, growing over-confident, he attempted to make his board swerve, the way he had seen Blondie doing it. But Stephen's board was thick and heavy - a 'dunger', Rob called it - and it turned too sluggishly. The wave collapsed, taking Stephen down with it, and he was tossed from the board. As the wave carried it in towards the beach, Stephen swam after it, unconcerned. One more wave, then he'd go in. Reaching the shallows, he sloshed through the water to pick up the beached board.

He looked up. There, at the water's edge, was Lance, the Kaimara club coach. Hands-on-hips, red-faced, he began to shout.

`What the hell do you think you're doing?'

Stephen braced himself. He'd been expecting something like this. 'Catching a few waves, Lance,' he replied.

'Catching a few waves.' The coach's voice was scathing. 'What about marching practice? What about the team?'

Stephen shrugged. `Well, one practice isn't going to make that much difference, is it?'

The coach glared at him. `Listen, son. I want you and your mate Barry to report to the clubhouse immediately, to explain yourselves.' He looked down at Stephen's board, and sneered. `And don't bother bringing this piece of junk with you. Take it back to wherever it came from.'

The team members sat on the sand in front of the clubhouse, staring down, avoiding the coach's eyes as he addressed them.

'I've been a member of this lifesaving club since 1947. I've been a beltman, a surf skier and I've carried the club banner in dozens of march-pasts. I'm proud of the Kaimara Surf Lifesaving Club and all it stands for. Next year - 1962 - is going to be the biggest in the club's history. We've got the swimmers, and we know our drill. Marty here' - he flicked his thumb at big Marty Chambers – 'is a fine beltman, a winner, for sure.' The coach took a deep breath, then thrust out his chest. Stephen thought he was to explode.

`But we won't win anything without training. That's why it riles me that two of our team members are not only associating with those delinquents from Piha, those scruffy buggers who need putting through a sheep dip - but they're now dodging team practice and riding bloody surfboards themselves.' He glared down at Stephen and Barry. 'So, what have you two got to say for yourselves?'

Barry stood up. Visibly abashed, he said. 'Sorry Lance, sorry fellas.'

Stephen got to his feet. 'Sorry Lance, sorry guys,' he muttered.

But he wasn't sorry at all, really. All he could think about now was how he could join the surfies' fraternity.

- Continued next week.