A Split Peak: Post-Apocalyptic Western Australia in the 22nd Century

Guerilla surfers. Sleep by day, surf by night. Screenshot: Surf Nazis Must Die 

Part I: Surf Rats

It’s been almost a year since the government banned surfing in Western Australia. When shark attacks became excessively pervasive and overpopulation turned beaches into heaving messes of surfer-infested wastelands, the government decided to ban people from entering the water. They netted off a few flat bays for swimmers, but fenced off the rest of the coast. With unemployment reaching all-time highs, what little money was left for public services was carelessly expended to set up patrols by “Surf Nazis” along the entire coast.

In seeing perfect pitching barrels roll through all day with no one out, you can’t help but feel that overwhelming sense of nostalgia for the time when everyone more or less coexisted. I remember sitting out the back with my Pops on a cheap hand-me-down board between my legs and listening to the barnacled-covered locals tell stories of winters past. I remember screaming myself hoarse as a mate dropped into a wall of water that reared up like the jaws of a gnashing monster, chasing him along the shallow reef until he flies out of the tube and taunts it with a two-handed salute. I also remember drinking a beer with my old man on the first day we paddled out when it was too much for him to handle. These were all rites of passage for many surfers in WA.

Now we sleep in until midday so we don’t have to watch the offshore breeze grooming the empty waves into a perfect curl. And we sometimes work till after dark to avoid the sun setting over the ocean, as it reminds us of the void inside. It’s that, or say, “Fuck it,” and paddle out. You might get a few waves but it’s not worth it. I don’t know what the Surf Nazis are offering, but somehow everyone’s a narc these days.

Some of the boys here suggested we tool up and take our protest to the streets. But that’s not who we are. We adapted instead. We’re guerrilla surfers now. We surf under the moonlight. We rig generators to flood lights on remote beaches that not even the most psychotic of surfers would have considered surfing before the ban. Before the ban we all dreamed of empty waves and no crowds, but now we’re struggling to get the numbers to run the operation.

Our government was smart about the ban. There were no piss-weak sentences like the ones they have in place for drinking and driving. Three months in the pen for your first offense and three years for the next. A mate of mine got done after his neighor spotted his wetsuit drying on the line. His name is Slats and he received a hefty beating before being thrown in the can for the next three years. I’ve never met anyone who loves surfing enough to risk a third strike, so I don’t know what comes next. My guess is a lobotomy or something.

Our night missions began to deteriorate. Society’s rejects, outcasts, criminals and thieves made surfing at night too dangerous. Not to mention the shark attacks. I have since then spent my days planning. I’m going to get out of this backward country soon, but not without one last wave heist. We’re going to surf Main Break during the day, right in front of those snotty little Surf Nazis.

Part II: Surf Nazis

Everybody thinks that working for the Surf Patrol Unit means that you’re a Surf Nazi. It’s not so black and white. It doesn’t mean that I hate surfing. I don’t hate Margaret River. I don’t deserve to be spit on the streets or have bricks thrown through my windows.

Margaret River was a surf town. When they gated off access with reinforced barbed wire, people just stopped coming. Since tourists were keeping our business afloat, the ban had put income opportunities six feet underground. For six months we scraped out an existence until my wife said it was enough. We had to move. But my mother would never leave this place. She could never leave behind everything my father loved. And I couldn’t leave her. So I put my tail between my legs and took up the only job with decent pay: Surf Patrol.

I’m not an idiot. I know the surf rats are still surfing. I’ve seen them walking around town with their red eyes and sandy hair flaunting like a badge of honor. I don’t how or where they’re doing it, and I don’t begrudge them for it. In fact, I wish I were out there with them, ducking under a massive set and racing the lip down the line. I won’t be the one tracking them down, but someone will.

Today the breeze is offshore, the waves smoking, and, of course, no one is out. I fill up my coffee cup from the machine and take a big gulp. Coffee is the only thing that gets me through the day. Today is eerily quiet. No one is in the lounge room and I don’t hear a single crack out of the pool cue. I walked into the back room and found two fellow employees lying prone on the floor with their limbs tied and mouths duct-taped. They were the same ones who beat that Slats fellow and broke his board just before throwing him in jail. I realize they’re still breathing and decide I’m too tired to deal with this shit.

I walk back to the viewing window and there they are – a group of surf rats yelling, plashing, and shouting as they eagerly make their way to the lineup. I rub my eyes in disbelief. But they’re still there. One pulls into a monster barrel, only just making the drop. I smile, take another sip of coffee, and slump to the floor.