Tucked in a small bay underneath a mountain peak is where this story takes place. ‘Spite And Soul’ by Marc Rogatschnig is another excellent entry into Write To Surf, Zag’s surf journo competition with some epic prizes by Billabong up for grabs (see details below).
SPITE AND SOUL – by Marc Rogatschnig
The searching is relentless. It pushes some surf explorers to the edges of the land mass, and even beyond civilisation. They all become geographers and map hoarders. They stare at magnified bays and enlarged, pixelated screen shots. Google Earth is open permanently in the background. They track weather systems, wave charts and discount travel agents. They’re on permanent standby and do all that in the pursuit of the ultimate discovery – the secret spot.
That wanderlust is powered by a social phobia that evolves into a moody annoyance with crowds. It seems that the more skilled a surfer becomes, the more awkward and restless they behave. In the beginning, they all feed off the hooting, cheering, splash clapping and broad smiles of others. That early euphoria is an essential predictor of a kook’s graduation to the next levels of wave riding. It fuels determination and persistence. It sustains a willingness to fail and fall and endure the frustratingly slow pace of improvement.
If there ever was a surfer’s classroom, then the rounded benches of a gentle Muizenberg wave is surely it. It is the epitome of bare-toothed, brimming delight. It’s a playground, open to all and any. It’s a hallowed nursery, and pulses to a different set of rules. Pretty much everything and anything goes there. The pursuit of learning requires that freedom, and eventually we all graduate from there.
Then there are waves that could cradle the crowds, but don’t. They are accessible to anyone, often easily visible too. But the gates of entry are clearly marked for a select few. There is usually nothing blocking the masses from descending into the water, other than the menace of the way the sea moves there, and the surfers that have earned the right to call it theirs. Kalk Bay Reef is such a place. It is the antithesis of the Berg, but sits high up the pecking order of Cape Town. It too is a classroom of sorts, but more the University of Surf.
I passed Muizenberg on the train, and not far down the track, I tipped my board under the archway of Kalk Bay station. I stood for a moment in the doorway. I had seen the reef from my sea facing window, but had no idea of how to get to it.
“It’s the mountain,” said a leather-faced blonde. He was all beard and wisps of long hair, “It’s the mountain that does it, that makes it like this, so still”
“Sorry,” I said with surprise.
“No worries bru, just follow those wet foot prints, they’ll take you where you want to be. It’s what you are looking for, but just watch out for the trains”
The south easter had fumed all week. It was day six in a row. Muizenberg had been blown white. They had all said I should try Kalk Bay. Same train, two stops down. Easy, but tricky. I didn’t know what they meant.
“Thanks, but what do you mean about that mountain,” I asked.
“It’s the inversion bra, ever heard of that?”
He pointed at the crest of the mountain in front of me and then rolled his arm back in a circle and pushed his palm over the sea.
I shrugged my shoulders ambiguously to suggest ‘maybe I had heard of it, or maybe I hadn’t’. My geography had always sucked, but I wanted to make him think I wasn’t a newbie in the village.
“The wind hits that cliff and then bounces back. It drops a gentle breeze over this sleepy place, and puffs an offshore wind onto the wave. It’s a ripping south easter everywhere else except in this bay,” he said with a wink; “and remember bru, watch out for the trains.”
To my right were descending steps to the fabled Brass Bell; to my left was a long walk to the harbour. The smell was a mix of fish, and beer and urine. The place is gritty and blanketed by fine salt and a fresh, sea air. I walked, board in hand, down the main road. I dodged ice cream explosions on the pavement and smiled at the 9 year-old playing bobbejaan klim die berg with shells in a plastic bottle. I sniffed the americano I really wanted as it blasted out the espresso valve at the open air café.
Nothing, at all, gave the place away as a surf destination. I could see no surfers, no images, no signs, no brands; just normal people, mixed and motley. I may as well have been walking through Observatory.
I needed that coffee more than I realised. So I meandered through the antique fittings of an outdoor furniture store towards an unimpeded view of the reef and the wave that hugged it.
“You know, it’s not how it used to be,” said a Bermuda shirt guy, lifting his scruffy tyre tread sandal onto my bench. “No ways man, it’s all changed!”
I hadn’t seen him pull up, but he made himself comfortable. He was drawn to my surfboard, he must have been a member of the tribe.
“You surfed it?” I asked stupidly, unsure of where to begin or end the conversation. He chuckled, and smiled.
“That wave saved my life, brother.”
We watched two waves squeeze the swells and fold quickly over the reef. We both nodded. We appreciated it all, entranced by the black figurines stealing a space in the barrel and sneaking out before closing time.
“There was a crew here, and we surfed this place every day,” he reminisced. “We all knew each other and with all the shit going on in our lives on land, we made peace with ourselves at sea, you know what I am saying?”
Cars purred along the street all the time I sat there. You could see the wave from that main road, but I doubted many actually looked for it. Most didn’t even know it existed. It was a Trojan horse of a wave. It plundered the reef day after day and framed many perfect images that spread across the surfing universe. Somehow that small, elite clique in the water kept it almost invisible. There were no long lines of black wetsuit dots, or multiple peaks. No car park swirling with surfers. There was just a lot of kelp. If you weren’t looking for people, it all looked like seaweed.
“So now the crowds are an issue,” he said, his face as cobbled as the roads around us. “But I still take charge out there. They know me, it’s my wave you know, that’s what you get at my age at least – respect.”
“So, how do I get out there?”
“Over the railway line, just down the road; but watch out for the trains, just keep alert man,” he warned, “you never surfed here before then?”
“Nope, first time!” I frowned, sensing that might have been the wrong answer.
“You any good?”
“Average, but I love it, I just can’t get enough of it.”
“Goofy or natural?”
“Natural, but working hard on my lefts.”
He raised his eyebrows, like a traffic officer about to fail a learner driver.
“That reef deserves respect, brother. It’s got spite and soul, but it has no sympathy for passion, it respects only skill. You sure you want to? Backhand, dredging and very local. Are you sure you are up to it?”
It felt like an invisible gate was being closed by the keeper of the reef. I nodded and smiled respectfully. A shot of adrenalin made my hands sweat. Doubt crept in.
“Maybe I’ll just have a look, and then decide.”
He smiled. It was time for us to part ways.
“A lot may have changed brother,” he said as I was leaving, “but that wave has remained exactly the same. It’s like that mountain, always there.”
He paused; “comforting isn’t it?”
I looked away from the sea for the first time since I had sat down, and noticed three stories up in an apartment block across the street there was a window lined with surfboard fins. Dozens, maybe 30, maybe more, neatly placed, in a multi-coloured row. In all sizes and from all eras. It was my first sign that surfers were in fact here. The entire window frame looked like the gaping jaws of a great white shark. Maybe welcome was not the message after all. I suddenly felt edgy and unsafe, both in and outside the water. I tracked the train lines, left and right, but nothing came.
I waited at the fence, peering across the tracks and into the huddled hoods out there. Another fresh-faced surfer pulled up. He was distracted. He looked at the sky, at the horizon and behind him. He looked at everything, but not the sea, nor the wave. A train then blasted a metallic screech as it braked into the station and momentarily blocked our view. It came unannounced and startled us both. He finally looked at me, but with nothing to say.
“It’s because of the mountain you know,” I said.
He smiled at me and folded his arms.
“It’s the wind, and it reflects off that mountain, and back out to sea,” I said stumbling over my words with a nagging nervousness.
He then opened his arms and waved them slowly around his head. He stared at the wave and then pointed to the ground where he stood.
“Bra, in Cape Town, it’s always about the mountain isn’t it?”
Click here to check out all the published stories from our Write To Surf competition.
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THE FINEPRINT:
Send your stories to calvin@zigzag.co.za. One submission will be selected every six weeks to appear in Zigzag magazine. The selected submission will also receive a hamper from Billabong. At the end of the year, we will select and send one aspirant journalist from the competition on an all expenses paid assignment for a major feature in Zigzag. Zigzag retains the right to use any work submitted for the Zag Surf Journo competition on zigzag.co.za as outlined in the rules and terms of the competition. Zigzag reserves the right not to award a published winner in the magazine every six weeks, depending on the quality of entries. Zigzag is not obligated to run any and all entries submitted, either online or in print. Zigzag retains the right to edit all work submitted for brevity and / or clarity. Please note: Prize hampers will only be delivered within South Africa.
The Billabong prize hamper includes: 1 x Billabong Wetsuit; 1 x Billabong Hoodie; 1 x Billabong Cap; 1 x Von Zipper Sunnies; 2 x Da Kine traction pads.
