The coastline near Yallingup, Western Australia.
Yallingup, April 14thFrom the terrace garden of Yungarra Estate I can see the distant Indian Ocean. This is the furthest inland I've been since arriving in Western Australia on April Fools' Day, and the most civilized I'll get. After two weeks surfing, I've gone feral.Wendy Atherden, the co-owner of the winery, has kindly let me in under the wire as I arrived barefoot, limping and starving, hoping to rest and write in the garden. Today I smashed a fin off my board, cut my wetsuit and mangled my leg into a black and blue pate. The trip is ending. Wendy attends to the close of business before holidays tomorrow in Pemberton. The kitchen is closed, but I've been served a platter of smoked trout, fruit and scones to compliment the Yungarra chardonnay. The dusty track to the vineyard was well worth the petrol.
Time, the game I've been stalking along with waves, is in my crosshairs. Parrots pose in red bottlebrush and gouldian finches adorn flowers I cannot name. Closer to my heart and my unabashed bare feet, a field mouse waits attentively for crumbs. Wendy is no hurry and chats leisurely about her holiday plans. So I toss scone crumbs to the mouse, order a glass of Royal Port, and go another page in the journal...
The Camp of the MoonMy first glimpse of wild Western Australia was in an old Surfer calendar. The caption described remote camps where surfers keen to stay subsisted on grubs, begging fresh water from newcomers. Years later when I finally made the pilgrimage, I packed my suitcase with a stove, billycan, miso, cereal, green tea and California wild rice in case of eminent starvation.Margaret RiverThe custom's agent at Sydney International agonized politely about confiscating my rice. When I told her I planned on camping, she decided it was a menace.
"It could get it away. It might grow," she declared.I imagined an entire economy destroyed by a side dish of wild rice.My first week was spent with two fellow surfers at a wild estate of karri forest, blackboy palms and orchids. Moth, a UNIX engineer from Perth, devolved into a feral animal after a mere hour in the country. Trevor was never less than a full bushman. An electrician building a guest lodge with Oz Lotto winnings, he disappeared from the unfinished mansion for predawn surf checks when he wasn't sleeping all night in the "beach bush".The Cave SpringsFood was not rare, but getting the surf animals into town was. In a township so small it makes Mendocino look like urban sprawl, I finally experienced culture shock. Stepping off the curb into leftside traffic after carefully checking the wrong way, I felt like a endangered species. Yet we needed stubbies, veggies and fish to fuel the surfing.
At the River Fresh Supa Valu market, Moth stalled.
"I can't go in, you go."Then I respectfully tackled some of the finest local produce on the planet and requisitioned the butcher's stock of freshwater groper."I can't either, I lost my sandals," I whined, wondering how I ever finessed San Francisco.
That night we feasted around Trevor's jarra table: my lentils and oven-fries, Trev's fish dusted in cornmeal and chili, and a french vignarette salad Moth had studiously acquired from the girls in Lyons. The meal was interrupted by a scuttle of field mice clamoring up the stove pipes to my upstairs guestroom. Trev's eyes sparked gleefully as he apologized, "They lived here before I built."
The day after Easter I thanked the boys for the leftside driving lessons, the hospitality and the hints if not outright directions and set off to camp alone. Some of my queries about surf spots had been downright stonewalled with "That's a good question," but Trevor gave me directions to a campsite that boasted a fresh waterfall from subterranean caves.Today"Don't forget," they reminded me, "there's more to Oz than the coast. Be sure to see the forests in Pemberton."I thought hard but not long about provisions. What did I really need to survive? Air is free, water a precious commodity. Fire is optional: a teabag in a cup of tepid water works as surely as a kettle. Bush manna was all I needed, the feral in me reasoned. No fire, no ice. Who needs rice when there's bread; soup when there's rainwater?My final assault on the Supa Valu was inspired: a bucket, knife, cutting board, bottled rainwater, bakery bread and fig jam, granola, apples, berries, peanut butter, trash bags, matches...and a bottle of Yalumba Noble Botriytus in case I needed to wash down some grubs.
On a high bluff above the ocean I found the deserted camp Trev described, a groomed white sand lot and a firepit piled high with sandalwood. I dined on a fig jam sandwich under a canopy of stars so thick I couldn't find the constellations.
Three days later, I woke to see a kangaroo staring at me. I stared back at a roaring ten foot swell. Stuffing granola in my mouth, swallowing without chewing, I abandoned camp and headed north. Isolation no longer mattered, Mother Ocean would thin the crowds. I surfed Cowaramup and then took up residence in a carpark, celebrating with the same feast of Oysters Rockefeller, Red Emperor and Semillion at the beachfront Gnarabup Cafe every night... and the swell pumped five days.
On my biggest wave I took a freefell down the waveface, landing on the fins. Whether the board hurt more than I is hard to tell, but I clearly heard the Indian Ocean whisper "Pemberton"...
Back at YallingupWendy brings me the glass of garnet port, a 'taste' for which I'm not charged. She draws a map to Pemberton which I'll keep though I doubt if I'll ever get there. Tonight I'll eat jam sandwiches by the sea and listen to the swell greet the reefs while I dream.