When I was young, I used to read a surfing magazine called ‘Tracks’, a newspaper style surfing magazine. I would wait all month for the new edition to arrive at the newsagent and, like any young grommet, would pour over all week, reading every single article and gazing longingly at the beautiful blue waves, enjoying the adventures of those on surfing safaris to places like J-Bay, Baha or Sumatra, or the cold waters of Ireland where the break would be framed by standing stones or castles. I would cut out the pictures of sunsets and corduroy line ups and contact them to my school folders, and, like the other grommets around me (a grom is a young surfer), draw waves on the margins of the lined paper meant for mathematics or essays. The school bus used to drive along the Esplanade in Torquay in those days and we would see the swell from the window and lament that we couldn’t go surfing, dreaming for the days we’d be free. As we got older, as soon as we got to school we’d run through the back fence and get back on the highway and hitch hike back to the swell, where we’d grab our boards where they were stashed at a mates place and spend the day on the beach before trying to look like we hadn’t been sun-kissed and salt water blessed all day. Once, I remember explaining a sunburn to my Mum by saying we’d just been lying in the sun on the school oval. Why I never got caught, I don’t know.
I grew up in a surfing family. Dad started when he was 16 and he and his brothers used to surf all the time, at Bells Beach, Pt Impossible, Point Addis and other breaks along the SurfCoast.
I remember being on the beach as a young girl waiting for Dad to come in. We’d play in the sand dunes and in the tea trees at Bells with the famous windmill in the background (it’s not there any more – the rural Bells vibe is giving way to the anticipation of development, which they’re fighting hard to prevent) and saltwater started seeping into my blood. By the time I was 12 Dad was waking me up at 5.30 to go surfing with him and his enthusiasm, as well as the pull of the sea, would have me up like a flash. In those days, there was probably about 10 woman surfing on that coast, maybe a little more. In my memory there were less, because I just knew the other young girls that surfed – my best mate being one, the daughter of a local legend who had a break, Willy’s Left, named after him. Surfing was in her blood too. I never felt like I shouldn’t be surfing – the blokes were always really accommodating in that way and helped us to get out to the line up, surf better waves, and even give us waves. I never felt like a ‘chic that surfed’ – I just felt like a surfer.
Here is me at 16, with the board my Uncle shaped for me. Please don't judge the outfit. I love the enthusiasm and excitement on my face!
So as I started getting older, and more aware of what it was like to be a young woman in a man’s world, I started getting very aware that the woman in Tracks magazine weren’t surfers, they were bodies – butts and boobs and men ogling at them. These were the days of Big M ads and the woman in Tracks weren’t riding the glassy barrels – they were on the beaches gazing at the men in the barrels.
If they were on the waves, the comments, to my mind, were about their physique rather than their prowess. Affronted, and finding my voice as a feminist (thanks Mum!) I wrote in to the letters section, fully expected to be heard. I waited all month for Tracks to arrive at the newsagency, and tore it open to the letters section to find my little letter in there alright. It politely asked the magazine to be aware of how it was representing female surfers and that I wished it would celebrate what woman could do on waves rather than the phwwwoooarrr factor. For a moment – just a moment – I felt a thrill, that perhaps I could change the world. And then, the editor’s comment in bold, saying that my parents must have been hippies or something, and something equally dismissive that really broke my young heart. He was totally dissing me. I threw that paper in the bin, mortified, and never read that magazine again. I was so embarrassed. Part of me felt that maybe I was overreacting, and that I’d spoken out of turn. I wish I could find a copy of that letter and response – I can’t even remember the year now – and I’d love to know the name of the editor too. Would I give him a piece of my mind? Would he even care?
In the book and film Puberty Blues, the girls borrowed their boy’s boards at the risk of being labelled ‘femmos’. We had our own boards – the late 80’s, I guess, weren’t the 70’s. The boys loved us surfing, and to this day when I run into the crew I used to surf with they’d fondly remember me and talk about how much they’d respected us girls in the water.
We were smoking bongs in the sand dunes and watching Mad Wax videos with the best of them. I remember working the surf shops and fitting wetsuits to customers and sitting around watching surf movies in Rip Curl and we never, ever felt out of place. In fact I'd give anything for some of that magic wax to transport me back to those days of innocence and uncrowded line ups.
Therefore, I’m reluctant to say the ‘real’ surfing world is sexist, but it’s there. Look at the ad Billabong ran in 2017.
Karen Knowlton, of Woman 2.0, expressed her outrage like this. It strikes me that although better articulated, it’s exactly what I was trying to say to Tracks at 16 years old:
I have always felt I have had to prove I meant business. It seems that many woman only gain legitimacy from being incredibly good at what they do. In my heart, of course, I do belong out in the water - the ocean is my mother and calls me into her arms.
I wonder if I’ll ever be seen as a surfer. I’m not sure it matters that much to me any more but I still feel those quivers of outrage and indignation and general pissed-off ness because sometimes I’m treated unfairly in the water, like many woman are. Last weekend, I watched a female mal rider take off on the best wave of the day, stoked. A guy dropped in on her and couldn’t give a fuck. She threw up her hands in despair and I paddled over to her in solidarity. When I paddled past the guy I was like, what the fuck, dude, you have to follow the rules. He just looked at me and said he could get any wave he wanted, and what could I do about it? He was right. And he did – on purpose. I thought maybe he was just being a prick to everyone, but he wasn’t – he was only doing it to the woman. The worse thing is that the men often don’t believe that this happens or they don’t want to cause trouble, as if we should just suck it up. I was literally held down in the water by a guy who had dropped in on me because I’d called out: ‘hey man, my wave’ and he wasn’t having it. I was so scared. Most men just said ‘ah, agro just happens’. Oh okay, so being held down by a 6 foot guy and screamed at just happens? So, like the 16 year old girl that threw Tracks away in embarrassment, I just shut the fuck up and thought, well, par for the course. That’s how it goes.
Now I’m older – I’m 46 this year – I’m riding a stand up paddle board. I’ve ridden it for ten years as I got on it and just loved it. The first board I had was only 8’3, a super light backyard job that flew around like a short board. It had green go-faster flames and I rode that thing until it nearly broke in two.
I surf better than I ever have – I’m more aware of how my body moves and I’m fitter and stronger from years of yoga and paying attention to my physical fitness. I catch heaps of waves and I reduced my hours at work so I can surf more. I surf before work, after work. I dream about saltwater. If I can’t surf, I’m doing yoga. Yet at work, if I tell people I surf, they look right through me, as if I don’t fit the mould. The other guy I work with surfs and that’s the subject of conversation with him: ‘get out in the water, mate?’ ‘heard there was good surf at Bells mate, you must have loved that’.. ‘oh, bet you want to leave early to get some waves’ and I’m right next to him thinking – huh? Did you think I was bullshitting when I said I surfed? Then there’s the SUP thing – apparently they just think I paddle up rivers and don’t actually ride waves. I’m sure that’s because I’m a woman. After years of working with one colleague I told her I’ve surfed since I was a kid and she was amazed. Oh, she said, I thought you rode a stand up paddle board?
Then there’s the invisibility of age. There’s loads of amazing female surfers out there these days. I love it – they are graceful and strong and respected. Yet they barely look at me either – I’m older, and I just don’t rate. I love chatting to the old boys who have known me forever, because they get it – they know I’ve done the hard yards, know my roots. They’ll give me waves and hoot at me as I fly past them or chat to me on the beach. But the younger ones and the blow-ins won’t even look at me – I’m an invisible older woman on a SUP.
Do I give a fuck these days? Not really. I’m loving surfing still, and like my Dad, want to be doing it til I’m 70, despite my XX chromosome. The people that matter to me love surfing with me and I don't feel like a 'female surfer' with them. I just feel at one with the sea, the peace of the waves, the rolling surf, the salt water in my blood. But I do want the woman who call out sexism in the surfing world, and in the world in general, to be taken seriously.
I would love to hear your experiences as a surfer - please comment and connect!