I’m driving through the Gold Coast on dusk watching those big neon signs blink to life. I’m no motor journalist; no Top Gear tragic, but like most surfers I dig a mode of transport that delivers a smooth ride. My borrowed Jeep Compass feels like a twin fin on a buttery right point, it glides down the highway and holds a perfect line. Inside it’s lounge-room comfortable and my favourite playlist is a crisply delivered miracle of audio engineering. There’s a fabulous day of pro surfing to distil and a few waves of my own at Greenmount to reflect on. My still-dripping board has plenty of leg-rope room in the back, and I’m heading to a dinner at a fine dining restaurant where Jordy Smith and Malia Manuel are the guests of honour. Yes, this job has its perks. I should never really complain.
As I cruise towards Burleigh, hotels and motels announce their presence in those thick, curly fonts and everything feels perfectly beachy. Some claim the Gold Coast lacks style but I’m a sucker for its kitsch aesthetics and unpretentious architecture. Maybe it’s just the sweet scent of nostalgia at work because I spent much of my childhood roaming these same streets on my little red bike. A time of sun-drenched innocence when all you needed was two wheels and some kind of surf craft and life was good. I chuckle at the thought of that same BMX- riding beach rat who is now behind the wheel of a luxury vehicle en route to dinner with two of the world’s best surfers. No, I never went on to live that pro-surfing dream but I guess, just like the famed Tracks tag line, this is surely The Next Best Thing.
Dinner is at Rick Shores at Burleigh, a stylish, low-lit joint where the waves break so close you can hear the boulders rattle in a big swell and you half wonder if a set might wash through and deposit a seaweed salad on your plate as a first course. Just up the point is where I first fell under pro surfing’s spell – a six-year-old holding on to dad’s arm as we skipped across the rocks to get a good view of The Stubbies contest. I looked out and marveled at wizards performing magic on waves, I looked back and saw the Burleigh headland painted in a throng of fluoro-splashed humanity. It was the early 80s, colour was in and the Gold Coast was flagrantly brighter than most locales. Add the briny scent of slippery rocks and for a kid it was pure sensory overload. How could you not fall in love with the whole spectacle?
When I see Jordy at the restaurant bar he kindly greets me with polite flattery. “I saw you get a wave at Greenmount this afternoon Luke.” In truth I hadn’t enjoyed the greatest of surfs, but Jordy’s acknowledgement puts a brighter shade on the memory. A freshly poured Balter on tap is handed to me and I relish the first sip; then take it slowly because tonight I’m only allowed one.
A few minutes later our group is seated at a long table, barely two legropes away from the waves, which crash beyond the restaurant’s eastern wall. I am seated opposite the charming Malia Manuel, who, like Jordy, is another of Jeep’s official world tour ambassadors. Malia informs me that she must be up at four am the next morning to surf her heat in the Roxy Pro. Malia is a well-rounded kinda gal – whip-smart and sincere – and the quality of her conversation does not suffer at the expense of the impending pressures of competition. She talks of an idyllic upbringing on Kauai and explains how she reinvented her approach to surfing after coming back from injury; then tells me that making a coffee in the morning gives her a sense of accomplishment and makes me feel better about my own love of the roasted beans.
Plates of food appear – king prawns, whole snapper, a tray of rare-cooked meat that resembles something from a medievil feast. Again my mind jumps back to the boy who would come down to Burleigh for salt-sprinkled hot chips in butcher paper.
After dinner I return to the QT in Surfers Paradise. The aesthetics of the sophisticated hotel celebrate the Gold Coast’s glossy history while giving them a classy touch. Sleep comes easily to a contented soul. The next morning I stand on my balcony some fifteen floors up and marvel at the surrounding forest of Surfers Paradise skyscrapers; thinking back to the times as a kid when we would sneak into all the big hotel pools. Between the buildings I spy an empty right rip bowl and five minutes later I’m out there alone, chasing down shifting peaks; relieved to have a lineup to myself after the superbank battleground.
Breakfast at the QT is an overwhelming buffet of hot and cold delights. After a cup of Kelly Slater pudding (Chia Pudding) as my friend likes to call it, I hit the omelette bar. The omelette maker is a genius who tells me he will toss and fold 60 eggy delights on a busy day.
As I walk out of the QT’s slickly designed foyer with the rustic floorboards, I flash back to the fibro beach shack my family lived in down the road at Broadbreach – 90 bucks a week for a little slice of Nirvana. And then I’m back in my delightful Jeep, driving through the memories of a grommet’s past; driving towards Coolangatta and unknown but much anticipated surfing future. Grateful to be arriving there in style. Thanks to Jeep for the experience.
