A South African Surf Film: ‘Where the Air is Thick with Glory’
Two identical 5 ’11 Spiders sat like spears between us as we sped along the coast towards llandudno. It had long since become a ritual to hold our ‘board meetings’ en route to the surf and this day was no different. ‘I’ve got a really sick idea for a new film,’ said Dave – his excitement audible. “I think we should make something similar to ‘The Ugly Duckling’ – a slower, higher quality edit where we focus on getting proper shots, and try to capture some of what surfing at home means to us.” “Sounds sick,” I said, intrigued by the idea but not yet captivated enough to give it some serious thought.
A week later, Dave doubled down, “bru I’m really gassed on this film idea, I’ve been scheming and I rate we could make something really sick!” “Ya bru, it’s just such a mission filming,” I retorted, feeling my typical reluctance eroding at the thought of making something ‘proper’. Our discussions continued over the following weeks, fleshing out the concept and discussing the practicalities of making something like this happen. Where did we want to shoot it? Could we hire someone back home to film us? how long did we need in KZN to guarantee pumping waves? etc.
We were two weeks away from trading Bantry Bay for Blue Lagoon when we had one final discussion – were we serious about giving this thing a crack? I’d become increasingly excited by the thought of making a high quality film – something to mark this moment in time and ‘immortalise’ the magnificence of home. So when Dave emphasised the significant sacrifice needed to make this film a success, I didn’t hesitate, “I’m keen, let’s do it,” I said, knowing full well that we were signing up for hours of beach-bound agony behind the lens – a nauseating side-effect of our ‘rotation system’.
Mozambique
Much to our relief, we’d be spared the dreaded rotation for our first week filming at ‘home’. Sam had agreed to man the lens for as long as we were in the land of prawns and peri peri. While not strictly our ‘local’, the stretch of sand in front of our parents’ Mozambican beach cottage, and the surrounding sites and scenery had all the hallmarks of home – the peace it brought us, the familiarity it possessed, and the spectacular sessions it served up. As a result, it’s inclusion was a no-brainer, and we were relieved to have a week at the house in prime surf season – when spring tides coincided with offshore morning breezes and consistent swell.
Despite all this, we’d come to know that Mozambique was never a sure thing – inconsistent forecasting and erratic winds make it impossible to guarantee good surf. We’d learnt that the best way to score this stretch – between Kosi Bay and Ponta Mamoli – was to go and see. And so we did, undeterred by the meagre forecast.
It wasn’t until the third morning of the trip that our resilience was rewarded. What was wind-swept and washy, had transformed over night into manicured peaks, groomed by the gentle offshore breeze. A flurry of board waxing and camera configuring ensued – rushing to get everything ready as the draining tide continued to improve conditions.
It didn’t take us long to start stacking clips – the waves bigger and more hollow than they’d looked from the beach. Three waves into the session I slid down the face straight into a perfect backside tube, sneaking out of the doggy-door as the wave closed out behind me. Half an hour later, I found another barrel, chasing down a thick, hollow left-hander that gifted me an exit. It wasn’t five minutes later when Dave dropped into a bomb. I yelled him on as he hooked into a backside tube of his own. It’s cooking, we agreed, reconvening out the back – several nuggets under our collective belt. We paddled in some hours later, supremely satisfied – a feeling we’ve come to associate with scoring waves there – and one amplified by the knowledge that we’d captured the whole session on film.
As if crafted perfectly for our purposes, the swell tapered over the coming days, allowing us to shift from tubes to turns. Dave was on a tear, hammering closeout sections and linking manoeuvres with power and flow while I did my best to keep up. When the three day run had relented, we reviewed the clips, confirming our suspicions that we’d both compiled enough waves for part one. But they revealed more than that. They reminded us of the immaculate conditions, the bright blue waters, and the rare opportunity to score it all alone. But most importantly, they reminded us why we’d attempted this project in the first place – to serve as something for us to look back on and remember. Something that will forever be home, and our shared experience of it.
Was it all gonna be this easy? we wondered, bouncing our way along one of many rudimentary sand roads that wound its way back to the Kosi Bay border post. Mozambique couldn’t have run more smoothly, and we headed back to KZN under illusions that it would all be plain sailing, oblivious to the unsuccessful attempts that would come to characterise much of the rest of our winter.
KZN
“Flip bru, it really needs to come right soon,” said Dave in reference to the complete lack of sand across the entire north coast. While home to a host of incredible, frighteningly hollow waves, this zone is entirely sand dependent. The result – no wave breaks exactly the same year on year, and no spot is ever a sure thing. This comes with some serious benefits – if you’re willing to scour the coast on a good year you’re likely to find a secluded patch of sand that decided to deliver for the season. But it’s not without its challenges. When the usual stream of winter storms fails to line the many points and coves along the east coast, it spells disaster for the A-grade setups we’ve come to love.
We quickly realised that it was one of those years. With each mediocre morning session at one of our ‘usuals’, it became obvious that the severe lack of sand was not an isolated issue. Despite our growing concern, we continued our relentless search. Morning after morning we woke, journeying further up the coast, tripod in hand. Eventually after weeks of misfortune we decided to change tack, looking south. We quickly discovered that this was a more fruitful direction, eyeing a number of spots with good banks.
About a week later, ‘the day’ arrived. 3-4 foot at 13 seconds with a lingering offshore breeze. More exciting than the stellar forecast was the perfectly primed setup we’d found a few days prior. A spot we often check and hardly surf was, we discovered, full of sand – banks primed to deliver world class waves.
The sun had just risen when we got our first glimpse. Not only was it bigger than we’d expected, it was perfectly lined-up and completely empty. I spent the first half hour serving time behind the lens, the viewfinder revealing with agonising clarity just how good the waves were. Dave and Chris were on fire, making the most of the hundred metre rides and stacking multiple clips in the first fifteen minutes. When our friend Guy eventually drifted in and relieved me of the filming duties, I was chomping at the bit. Thankfully, an empty lineup and endless sets meant unending opportunities, and it wasn’t long before I had a couple of nuggets under my belt. Where else in the world can you get this, I thought, as the draining tide continued to improve conditions. It had been over an hour-and-a-half and still not one other surfer in the lineup. Sand-bottomed, point-break perfection is rare; empty, sand-bottomed, point-break perfection is unheard of. Another hour of windless glory ensued before the easterly finally kicked up – a welcome excuse for exhausted arms to relent.
Relieved, that’s how we felt skipping over the train tracks on our way back to the parking lot as the implications of our session sunk in. We’d narrowly escaped the clutches of an almighty skunking, renewing our faith in the project and the possibility of finishing the film. And yet, with only two of the three sessions filmed, it was far from finished.
Cape Town
Let’s wrap it up in Cape Town, we decided, agreeing that our new home town was a fitting location for the final act. A desperately fruitless month in KZN had left us gun shy, and we returned to the Cape with an acute awareness of the frustratingly difficult reality of shooting surf in a timeframe. Learning from our mistakes, we agreed to carve out two-and-a-half months with the aim of scoring one epic day. In one of the world’s most swell-rich zones, this was a lifetime. Or so we thought…
Two months passed and we’d hardly stacked a clip, let alone a session. Ten’s of hours of sand blasting, tripod carrying, and an ever-growing risk of surfers ear and what did we have to show for it? a couple of average waves from a cross-shore day at Llands – not really finishing with a flurry. Eventually we saw a bump on the charts big enough to bring the spot we had in mind to life.
Looking from the notoriously unrevealing viewpoint, signs were pointing to smaller, and less groomed conditions than we’d hoped. If we hadn’t already committed to Mata – the water photographer we’d hired for the session – we probably would’ve turned around and headed home. But we were locked in, and we desperately needed to get something on film. So, we made the long, winding walk along the trail, hoping for a pleasant surprise. We arrived to disheartening confirmation of what we’d feared – too small, with a swirling wind.
One or two bigger sets swung our way and we managed to weave through a couple of little tubes, but it wasn’t what we were after. Sadly, we were running out of time. I was leaving for Amsterdam a week later and I wouldn’t be back for six weeks. Maybe today’s clips will come out nicely, we half-heartedly agreed, knowing full well that it was too small to feature as a meaningful end section. Nonetheless, Dave threw the clips together, slowed them all the way down, and sent through ‘the final section’. “It’s not bad,” he said, sounding unconvinced. My heart sank a little as I watched it – we’d envisioned perfect windswept tubes and this wasn’t it.
A scan of the charts revealed one last chance – a mid-sized westerly swell and strong south easterly winds were forecast for Thursday, three days before my flight. With the swell predicted to die off as quickly as it arrived, we knew that this was well and truly our last chance, and so, we made our plans. The sand at Llands was perfect, and we’d been surfing there pretty much exclusively over the previous month, making it an obvious choice.
When Thursday rolled around, we were up early, frantically clicking through ads to get a look at the Surfline cam. By the time Dave called, I’d seen enough to know that it was kak – straight-handers galore. Dave was in agreement and we aired our frustrations before ending the call, despondent. Let me just check the cam, I thought, dreaming about a wave that had long since fallen out of our usual rotation. We hadn’t surfed it in over a year, all but forgetting about it as an option, despite its obvious pedigree. Five minutes later, I was back on the phone with Dave. “It looks on bru!” I said, “light offshore and decent size.” “Let me check the cam quick,” Dave replied. “Juss, it does look pretty good hey, should we give it a crack?” “I think we have to, it’s our last chance.” So, at 9:30 am in the middle of the work week, we made the one hour drive to a wave we hadn’t laid eyes on in over a year. We’d been battered enough through the process of making this film to know that hope is a dangerous thing, and yet, neither of us could hide the feeling – that flutter in your stomach telling you that today might be the day. It wasn’t until we crossed paths with a bunch of returning surfers that our hope soared. “It’s cooking,” the one guy chimed, “pits!!”
We ran the next five hundred metre stretch, itching to see if it had really arrived – that long awaited day of days. Sure enough, there it was, staring us in the face. Four foot walls peaked on an exquisitely manicured bank – left and right-hand tubes accentuated by the offshore breeze. Endless waves rolled in, producing barrel after barrel. Being out the back revealed that it was just as good as it looked – the perfect combination of roll-in takeoffs into hollow tubes. The barrels came to us that day, pristine right-handers seeking us out wherever we sat – final confirmation that ‘the day’ had come.
Written by Murray Armstrong
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