Matty Wilkinson avoiding sharks somewhere on the mid-north coast.

Seeking a more creative route by which to arrive at the Quiksilver Pro, where the established top 45 waited, we decided to do a road trip up the east coast and profile a few of the young surfers from the facebook generation. Garrett Parkes, Matt Wilkinson, and Perth Standlick have all committed themselves to making it as pro surfers. Right now there are no fallback alternatives, or each-way bets on life. That’s a big call when you are on the tail end of your teenage years. Ironically we were also joined on the trip by Damian Wills. Dom, as he is better known, is ten years the senior of Matt, the eldest of the other three. Despite never having made a big impact professionally Dom has enjoyed a Peter Pan surfing existence and created an interesting parallel with the other three who are all aiming to have one of the numbers between 1 and 45 against their name one day. As we drove north under the spell of the east coast, the trip evolved into an opportunity to gain a revealing insight into the modern pro grommet. And it was also a chance to indulge in the kind of random times that only occur when you are on a road trip.

A few years ago a friend of mine made a decision to escape the rat race for a while. It wasn’t so much a sea change as a scrub change. The house he bought with a business partner a few miles inland from the beaches around seal rocks was buried behind bush at the end of a road less travelled. It needed some work but Roy was one of those guys with a knack for turning his hand to just about anything. He knew the place could become the classic big-deck country homestead if it was given just a little of the TLC it was crying out for. Six months of Aussie ingenuity, a token tee-pee and a few farm animals later and the farm had been transformed into the kind of picturesque semi-removed rural setting [with the coast in close proximity] that so many of us fantasize about escaping to. To keep the dream alive he started to rent it out whenever there was a demand for it. Meanwhile he’d stay in a humbler setting down by the river, leading a kind of Huckleberry Finn existence – fishing, surfing, and signing up for piecemeal work.

Garrett Parkes

Roy, who is also known as Marty, has since moved back to the city to open a restaurant/bar, which he simply called Roy’s. Instead of rising and falling with the sun he now spends his nights charming the patrons at his tapas venue. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t enjoy the life up the coast it was just time to apply that inclination for anything to a new challenge. But he didn’t let go of the house. It’s still there if he ever wants to step out of the grid again or just feels like some time away. When I knew we were doing this trip I initially thought we would get a place near the beach to keep the energiser bunny grommets happy. But there was nothing available so we ended up at Roy’s. Driving in through tyre-deep water, from the previous week’s rain, in the pitch black I wasn’t sure if we’d made the right call and I could sense the grommets were a little edgy. But the minute you pull up at the semi-rustic house, walk barefoot on to the big deck, inhale a breath of clean air and catch a glimpse of a star that has fallen from a full-cream milky way, it all seems worth it.

Kid Icarus

Given the amount of time he spends in the air, Matt Wilkinson is definitely worthy of the Icarus tag. But unlike the winged character from greek mythology, whose demise came about when he flew too close to the sun, Matt is refreshingly down to earth.

Kid Icarus flies through a stylish full rotation alley-oop. He made it.

When you pull into your new digs on the road, Matt is the first one to make a round of teas. Someone needs to be picked up from an airport to join in with the trip – don’t worry Wilko’s got it covered. Matt’s laconic, good natured act is totally at odds with the notion that the modern pro is over pampered and uncomfortable discussing subject matters other than themselves.

It would seem that in addition to his rare surfing ability he also has a gift for delivering a deadpan turn of phrase. One afternoon Matt catches me glaring with concern at his bumper bar, that is so rusty it’s starting to resemble a crumbling anzac biscuit. A wry sarcastic smile creases his face as he explains the decaying metal.

“Oh, yeah that ones a beauty, if you hit a kid with it they’ll get tetanus too.”

Garrett and Perth doing their best to keep all ten digits intact.

Later when we are at lunch Matt is a little disappointed with the wrap he’s been served up. As the thinly veiled contents begin to spill from his hands, he sighs and frankly states that “this is the worst wrap in ASP world history.”

On another occasion the boys are keen to have an angle with the girls at a local pub, but a little concerned that their collared shirt get ups might make them easy targets for some of the local lads. It’s alright suggests Wilko, we’ll tell them we’ve come from a wedding. There’s a maturity in the wit you might not normally expect from a twenty year old.

But the nonchalance on land should never be mistaken for a complacency in regards to his surfing. Salt water has a kind of super-hero transformation effect on Matt. When he hits it he just wants to fly. There’s a visible intensity to his approach in the surf. On one occasion I simply drop the word ‘rodeo’ in conversation while we are sitting in the lineup. Matt automatically becomes fixated with the move for a number of waves. It’s only two to three feet but on every attempt he goes pretty close to completion. The slack-limbed ease with which he can launch is the most striking aspect of his surfing. Once he gets an idea about a particular move in his mind he often won’t paddle in until he’s completed it.

Farmhouse Scenic

Between waves he’ll be visualising the turn or trick, trying to see himself making it.

Some have suggested that Matt’s departure from junior surfing was premature, that he should have spent his final two years dedicated to winning the Australian Series and a World Junior Title. But two years in the wilderness competing in the occasional WQS event have definitely enabled Matt to grow up. This year he is making a more committed run at the WQS tour. Between waves in one session I put it to him as plainly as possible. “Do you really want to qualify for the top tour?” His hound dog eyes light up and the deadpan wit is replaced with a deathly seriousness, “Fucken oath I do.” There’s nothing contrived or insincere in the response and one senses that Matt wants to be part of the pro surfing elite because being in that kind of environment will be the best way to cultivate his talent. He definitely has a fan base that want to see him among the top 45. Flicking through the pages of Waves Magazine I even notice there’s a shot of a girl at a contest with Wilko written vertically on her chest until the final letters disappear somewhere in her cleavage. Ahh, the spoils of a young pro surfer. But there seems little doubt that the tour could do with a surfer like Matt Wilkinson who’s a throwback to the era when being a pro surfer meant you had to have a good act in and out of the water.

Perth, kicking out the jams.

Come hither

When do you know you’re in an east coast town? Is it when you glance around a midday lineup on a good day and can’t hit double figures with a head count? Is it when you visit a fish and chip shop that features a fresh-catch window display that you know was caught on the same trawler you just saw drift slowly through the bar, shrouded in a flock of seagulls. Is it when you race out of the water on dark, surfed out and hungry; knowing there’s only a few places left open to fill the void in your guts. You miss the shops but with your wave quota way fuller than your stomach you’re happy to make do with a loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter. Those unique soulful moments might be what some of us are chasing when we bolt up or down the coast, but for grommets teetering on the outer edge of adolescence, the resonating cues are a little different. Take for example when you walk past a local bar in a group and your presence is duly noted by a group of local girls who are more than happy to see a few slender-framed bronze surfers from out of town. When we were in Foster one girl was particularly interested in the arrival of the four young surfers who were making there way down the path with their confident swaggers. As they strolled past local hot spot on dusk this girl felt it was too good an opportunity to let slip past. She marched out the door in her four inch heals and leggy black dress and shouted after the four surfing prodigies, “excuse me where are you all going tonight?” It was more a come hither command than a question and the grommets were instantly thrown into a state of hormone induced automation. The 30 buck door charge for the charity event they’d initially balked at suddenly came rocketing out of their pockets faster than a Mick Fanning cutback. Ben, Nathan and I left them to fend for themselves against the predatory females. Needless to say they returned the next morning with lurid tales. Yachts had been commandeered, naked girls had nearly been swept out to sea and someone had fallen victim to that high-heeled vixen in the short black dress who had initially cried come hither.

Laurie’s Town

Despite his size, Laurie has no problem gracing the sky

As you drive north of Grafton on the Pacific Highway there’s a moment where the surrounding landscape acquires an entirely storybook feel to it. Sugarcane plantations become a welcome interruption to the endless paddocks and the cottage-style homes, which pop up on the roadside seem to have captured everything you associte with the rural-life ideal. Cattle loll beneath the ample shade of broad-limbed trees and the Clarence river flanks the highway like an artery delivering life to the lush surrounds. Driving, you slip into a kind of naturally induced north coast narcosis and through a rarely experienced ambience realise why people have given away everything to come and live in this part of the world. Pulling up at Angourie in turn becomes akin to the arrival at the promised land itself. Cruising out to the point I notice a Roo that’s taken up residence in someone’s front yard, as if that were the most normal thing in the world. A bunch more are lazing on the town oval as we speed past. Few places in surfing are wrapped up in so much mystique and even though it may have become something of a cliché it’s hard not to imagine yourself as part of the setting in which Morning of the Earth unfolded over thirty year’s ago.

On the afternoon we arrive there are no waves. We’re not too concerned. Loads of surf time in the last few days and six hours on the road have created a kind of double up fatigue. We head straight to the Yamba backpackers where we are due to stay and prepare for the last leg of the journey – the quad-sapping walk up the hill to the Pacific hotel.

By the time we hit the pub the bistro is shut and the nearby restaurants are serving their last meals. I make do with the meaty texture of a few Coopers Pale Ales and a packet of crisps while the grommets wander off in search of something with a little more substance. There’s a girl from WA on stage with a wailing voice and an acoustic guitar that’s gentle on the ears after so many hours of car tunes. It’s Saturday night so most of the crowd have no work-tomorrow-thoughts to anchor their spirits and there’s a fair bit of self-expression going down on the dance floor. With the pub perched high on the edge of the cliff of the town beach the whole thing goes down against an inky Pacific Ocean backdrop. On the dark balcony the cindery glow of cigarettes and the more distant blinking of trawlers at sea compete for your eye’s attention. After the last drinks are served the whole setting will be periodically drowned in the adjacent lighthouse’s rotating beam; making interrupted sleep the price to pay for those who  wanted a pub room with a view.

Mid-way through the night Laurie Towner shows up. He’s heard we’re in town and is keen to catch up for a beer and a wave. Laurie’s now so tall that he looks as if he would be under threat from low spinning fans. It’s difficult to still consider him a grommet given his size and the nature of the waves he’s ridden. But he carries the lanky features well and displays a graceful presence for someone so large. He suggests there might be waves at a secret spot the next morning, so we [Ben, Nathan and I] eschew another vodka and soda and leave the grommets to do their best playing the pro-surfer card with a few of the local girls. By the time we make it down the hill we’re exhausted and collapse into a near comatose state.

Laurie, full-time charger, part-time water bogan.

We wake early to meet with Laurie the next morning at the secret spot. When we arrive the break’s potential is evident but the swell has dropped too much. His mate talks about coming to the scenic little spot to propose to his wife, while Laurie rials us with banter about the session he had here the day before. When we surf Iluka later Laurie joins us, but instead of driving in he flies across the river in his jet-cat. With his boat Laurie has fashioned for himself a desirable life aquatic. Between sets he talks about the time he hooked a tuna from the Iluka breakwall. He never landed the fish but recalls it giving him one of the best fights of his life. Laurie indicates he’s keen to spend more time around home and chasing waves in Australia. Like iconic Angourie figure, Dave Baddy Treloar, who is Laurie’s mentor, it seems Laurie has found the comfortable ocean-governed rhythm by which he wants to lead his life. If the waves are on Laurie will be the first one out, no matter how big, but if not, well, there’s always fish to catch.

Thanks to the Yamba YHA for putting us up while in town. Cool joint, cool people.