Surfari Highway - episode fifteen
- Distance travelled:
- 9648km
- Location:
- The Great Australina Bight, SA
- Travel dates:
- May 10
- Status:
- Last stop of our South Australian leg.
- Surf:
- Three to five foot right hand reefbreak.
- Swell direction:
- South-west
- Wind:
- Light north-west
- Weather:
- Fine sunny mild days, cold nights.
- Tides:
- High tide 4.47 am, low tide 9.45 am.
Our next stop is a rustic desert camp, shrouded in mystic since surfers first stumbled upon it in the '60s. It's remote location, a reputation for heavy localism, abundant sharks and harsh conditions on land have helped keep it largely unchanged since the first crude camp was founded there in the early '70s. Only the most basic amenities, pit toilets, bore water, as well as the ever-present flies, dust, howling winds, searing Summer weather and freezing nights keep all but the most determined visitors at bay. A memorial plaque to a shark attack victim on a wooden bench overlooking one surf spot is a grim reminder of the risks here.
I have no idea what to expect as we cruise in through the salt plains, past the peculiar pink lake, approaching those astonishing sand dunes that tower over the otherwise flat and almost featureless landscape. Nirvana Unplugged on the iPod only adds to the eerie vibe. There has not been a single sign to indicate the presence of this legendary surf spot, not at the turn off from the highway, or all along the road in. The closest you get is a vague, "Beach this way," sign that I briefly suspect is a red herring.
We eventually find our way to the coastal campground, swing open the gate and shut it behind us, and cruise the meanderings dirt road through the low shrubs in search of a vacant campsite. Even out of holidays, mid-week, it is surprisingly busy. There are old caravans that look like permanent fixtures, smart camper-trailers, old school canvas tents, even a teepee. Here and there, crudely built limestone walls have been constructed to provide a wind shelter around a metal fireplace, or a pit toilet. We find a spacious site to accommodate us and I reverse the van into place, then bolt down a beach track to check the surf. It's pumping, three to five feet, offshore, a handful of guys out, maybe two hours of light left.
I drive out to the point, not sure where I'm going, and emerge on a flat dirt plain and a rocky foreshore overlooking the lineup. Big old four-wheel drives are lined up in rows. A few good old boys are gathered around a fire on heavy wooden benches, billows of smoke arising from their circle. A modern-day midden of oyster shells forms an enormous pile next to them, testament to innumerable afternoons of beers and oysters at the point.
I get excited when I see a promising dirt road winding off through the low coastal scrub and figure this is a likely trail. I emerge on to a small, rough car park right on the beach and am confronted by a heaving stretch of South Straddy-style beachbreaks - as smooth as glass with just the gentlest offshore breeze. Again, this is a bitter-sweet discovery. Surfing alone has lost its novelty and I am desperate for company.
It's a precarious tiptoe across a shallow rock ledge covered in thick weed. I expect it to be flat under the weed but it's sharp and uneven and I nearly stub my toe several times. The last thing I need is to paddle out here bleeding.
The vibe in the water is mellow. Everyone's taking it in turns and there seem to be plenty of waves to go round. The wave is an utter joy, a long wrapping right that keeps bending back at you just asking to be belted. The sun is getting low in the west, just where the vast stretch of desert coast and the ocean meet the horizon - a vast pie chart of land, sea and sky. Those majestic dunes dominate the foreshore. Everything is bathed in the most exquisite golden light.
I surf for an hour, keen to get back to camp and light a fire before it gets too cold, to ensure the family are happy and content and prepared to stay here a while. I get back to camp and discover they're all well on their way to falling under the desert's beguiling spell. We cook over open fires, have a bunch of cool neighbours, there are other kids for ours to play with and they form their own rolling posse.
The wizened old camp manager drives round in his battered yellow ute on dusk, with his little curly white-haired dog Cherry in tow, delivering small piles of wood to each fireplace. He reckons by today's prices he's carted $400,000 worth of firewood into this place over the past 25 years. That'd take a while to recoup at the $10 he charges per adult per night. He's like a Zen high priest, quietly tending to the needs of his surfing guests, chopping wood and carrying water.
Of all the places we've visited, this feels like a holy place. In a rapidly changing world, it'd be nice to think this is one surf spot that could stay the same
Culinary highlight: Fresh oysters and garfish from the Ceduna Oyster Bar on the highway on the way out of town.
Local tip: The local surfers here are a territorial lot. Mind your manners in the surf , slow down and wait your turn.
Travel advice: Consume all your fresh produce and honey before you cross the SA/WA as it will be confiscated by quarantine inspectors.