Waves of Wonder

Smiths Beach

Did you know that real surfers measure the height of a wave from the back? We learnt that because we stayed with a couple of them in Dunsborough, three hours south of Perth, a place that might be considered the gateway to some of Western Australia’s best surf. So when they talk about ten foot waves, it looks more like twenty foot to the punters on the beach. This means that all our surfing boasts of late can effectively be halved. (That massive dumper I told you about? Ok, so it was 18 inches and tickled my knees, but it felt big at the time, I promise you.) Despite the boys’ boundless enthusiasm and self-belief, we have not come here to master the surf. If my life-saving course taught me anything at all, it was not to trifle with the ocean, and according to our local friends, it takes months to master the art. Certainly, our experience so far testifies that it’s hard enough to stand up, let alone stay on.

Canal Rocks

But fortunately for us, the coast here offers much more than just high-octane surfing. At Geographe Bay, the water is still as glass and the boys stand waist deep and stir up the sand at their feet, making small fish crowd around to investigate. At Busselton, we jump from the old jetty and discover the marine life swirling around the stumps. At Yellingup and Canal Rocks, we simply watch, admiring the power of the waves pounding against the shore, while at Smiths Beach, the boys boogy-board for hours, whooping and crowing as they ride the surf right up to the tide mark, then hurl themselves back in, giddy and grinning like dash-board toys. At Conto’s beach we find dozens of crabs, some luminous orange and dusky purple, pincering their way across the rocks like girls in high heels, till sight of us sends them scuttling into the crevices.

Conto Crab

Moving just a little inland, this area around the Margaret River is also abundant with vineyards, over eighty within an hours’ drive, studding the landscape with grids of lush vines and countless tempting signs. Our budget doesn’t extend to winery lunches, but we do sprawl out on the grass of the Cape Mentelle Estate one evening with a picnic to watch The Muppets on their outdoor screen. The film was fun, but it was the stars above that really stole the show. Going underground, the stretch of coast along here boasts countless caves, one of which – Ngilgi Cave – became a tourist attraction way back in the nineteenth century, popular with honeymoon couples. Back then you had to travel several days by bumpy cart from Perth, crawl for ten hours through the cave with a burning torch, then find a quiet hollow under the trees to sleep the night. Romance clearly isn’t what it used to be. Thankfully, Ngilgi Cave is now kitted out with lights, stairs and boardwalks, and we are awed by the ancient formations, strange and hauntingly beautiful. We also visit the Naturaliste and Leeuwin lighthouses at the northern and southern tips of this butt of land, both named for early discovery ships, and take time in the deep, sweet green of the Boranup Forest.

Ngilgi Cave

But the highlight of this time for me must be Hamelin Bay, a sweep of white beach beside sea that deepens from turquoise to duck feather green to inky blue on the horizon. We camp under the peppermint trees behind the sand dunes and every day walk, run or swim at the beach, watching sunsets, making sand-castles and, best of all discovering the bay’s famous sting rays. There are many the size of Frisbees that drift in the shallows here, but half a dozen much larger ones come round the boat ramp morning and evening and ride the low waves. Gentle and inquisitive (and some as big as cartwheels) they coast right up to your ankles, sometimes letting you stroke their backs, as their wings ripple like dancers’ skirts. It is a shot of pure joy. As much as I would love to master surfing and tell tall tales about thirty foot waves (from the back!) I know I can leave Australia happy in the knowledge that I have touched the hem of the real kings of the surf.

Hamelin Bay

Sting Ray

Close Encounters

Surf’s Up

Cott, Scabs and Rotto may sound like infectious diseases or a trio of particularly nasty fighting dogs, but are, in fact, three of Perth’s most famous beaches.  The Australian insistence on reducing words to slang means Cottesloe, Scarborough and Rottnest Island have lost their full names, but none of their magnetism.  Much of the city’s life seems to flow to the beaches and it’s easy to see why.  With summer temperatures easily reaching 40°, the waters of the Indian Ocean are refreshing but not too cold, turquoise blue and wonderfully clear.

Trigg Beach

Right across the country, beaches have played a large part in shaping the Australian way of life, even for those who rarely visit them.  The majority of the population lives around the coasts and there are no private beaches, reflecting the nation’s strongly held egalitarian values.  Relaxed beach dress and behaviour influences the rest of the culture, too, which is determinedly casual, with people wandering around in skimpy clothes and flip-flops and refusing to speak properly.  But they’re also fabulously friendly, open and good-humoured.  (There’s nothing like being tossed about in the surf like flotsam to prevent anyone from taking themselves too seriously.)  People here smile readily, lend a hand and are onto first names immediately.  Real affection is signified when they mess up that name or pick something entirely new.  ‘Merryn’ rapidly became ‘Mezza’ when I was at Uni, and you could just as easily get Stubbo, Pog or Fizz, and for no apparent reason.  You might get Shorty if you’re tall, or Quick if you’re slow or, conversely, Caveman, in the case of my brother, for his body hair, Neanderthal brow and propensity to sit in a darkened room with only a computer screen for illumination.  I’m sure the grunting had nothing to do with it.

The Swing King swaps Ball for Board

But back to the beach.  Whilst in Perth, we spend some time with my mother’s side of the family who live just minutes from the water and take us down several times, to run the dog, swim and boogy board, and, of course, for the ubiquitous BBQ.  (I must say, by the way, that I have never ‘thrown a shrimp on the barbie’ nor ever witnessed anyone else doing it, though I believe it does happen outside Australian tourism commercials.)  On one of our trips, I swim out a fair way, enjoying the clear, shallow water and the gentle swell, but surface to shouts and furious arm-waving from my husband.  “Come back!” he yells and I duly comply.  Perhaps the sausages are done.  It transpires, however, that I have alarmed the Perth relatives by venturing out so far.  Shark attacks are on the rise and folks are advised to stay close to the shore, though this didn’t stop a man being taken in waist-deep water recently.  There are various theories: decreased fish stocks, change in currents, more people in the sea, but the reality is that infinitely more Australians die each year from drowning than from sharks.

With this in mind, and our tour of the south-west coast ahead, I undertake a two-day Bronze Medallion Life Saving Course in Fremantle – ‘Freo’ to the locals.  My instructor – ‘Trace’ – is a surfer with a drawl that not only drops syllables but lengthens and bends the remaining ones like melted cheese.  I’m told we do 30 ‘comps’ for 2 breaths, that I’ll ‘nuh-eed’ to renew my ‘quals’ every year, and, reassuringly, that I’ll have ‘na-oh probs.’  Course done, we throw camping gear, ‘cossies’ and the cricket bat into the back of the car and head south.  Life’s a ‘buh-eech’.

Busselton