‘A Magic You Can’t Quite Put Your Finger On’

Surfing World 421

The first shot of Bryce Young gives the best hint for what to expect from the rest of the film: a seamless blend of past and present held between a carve & cross-step on a Ryan Burch-shaped picklefork board. Young combines the kind of style and poise many of us could only dream of possessing. And for a lanky person like me, it serves as a reminder that a low centre of gravity isn’t everything when it comes to riding waves.

Back in SW415 Derek Hynd wrote “Torren Martyn’s Lost Track Atlantic is online a week after Olympics surfing and before WSL’s Ultimate Surfer teaser. It is the greatest juxtaposition of any point in time in surfing…Episode 3, 25 years after Litmus and 50 after MOTE, is sheer poetry” 

Following the Fall Line has kept the magic of Lost Track alive. The latest in a series of profile films backed by Ryan Scanlon – the founder of needessentials and creative director on the film – it appears to have carried on the winning formula by allowing the protagonist in each film the freedom to write their own story; each tale imbued with a tangible sense of the person in front of the lens. There’s no brand strategy or marketing agenda to see here. Just surfing, pure and simple. At a time when edits are getting shorter and our attention-spans are dwindling under the spell of our smartphones Following the Fall Line draws you in and holds you for the better part of an hour – no mean feat in today’s world.

With the refined cinematography of Milo Inglis screening the beauty of Bryce’s home in the Northern Rivers of NSW we’re treated to some mind-melting surfing in the variety of waves on offer – everything from beachies & points to serious slabs. Bryce jumps faultlessly from one craft to the next and rips in a way that’s hard to put your finger on. This film confirms what I’ve long suspected: he’s one of the leaders in redefining the way surf craft can be ridden, particularly sans fins.

Whether riding his self-shaped alaias crafted from Paulownia wood, futuristic high-performance shapes from Ryan Burch or trimming on boards over 9ft, Young dances across the face as if echoing his fabled inheritance; the matching hand-me-downs of skating and surfing acquired from his mother & father. One thing is clear: Bryce Young was destined to be a world-class surfer. Nat Young met Tye Deaton-Young on the set of the original Fall Line, Bryce explains to David Scales on the Surf Splendor podcast. Nat was on the hunt for a female skater at the time and found Tye. “It’s the only reason I’m here at all” says Bryce, laughing.

Family has no doubt moulded Bryce Young’s surfing. But it’s also clear that a “chance encounter” with Ryan Burch in Indonesia has shaped his approach to surfing and shaping and left a significant impact. “I watched him catch 15 waves in a row, over two hours, and was straight-up gobsmacked.” Some of this surfing, featured in the film, comes from a 5-minute clip on YouTube that I reckon I’ve watched about 100 times by now. The short is titled “The Rush of Continuous Rhythm” and judging by the surfing in Following the Fall Line, it’s safe to say both Burch and Young are chasing that rush every time they stand up. The pair are considered the best surfers in the world by more than a few in the surfing community and their mastery of crafts all shapes and sizes, in waves ranging from 1ft to 10ft, adds a bit of fuel to that fire. 

The story of Bryce Young wouldn’t be complete without mention of the flames that engulfed his family home during the fateful Black Summer that, after years of rain, feels like a lifetime ago to many. Those of us jaded by 40-hour work-weeks and an average surfing ability may find it easy to envy the life of someone who’s paid to be a freesurfer. But to lose your family home – described by Bryce as a “palace” – to an inferno is something I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. Built by his father and some friends, the house was ravaged by fires that burnt almost half of the Clarence Valley to ash. Ultimately he seems at peace: “I’ll never lose the place fully”

It’s clear that Bryce Young’s focus has sharpened to exploring new realms within the surfing experience. With the backing of needessentials, he’s been gifted the time and space to chase the innermost limits of pure fun. As he says in the film: “Following the fall line is following the best feeling. The optimal line is gonna give you the best feeling, so if followed you’re gonna have the most fun” Bryce Young looks like he’s having a lot of fun riding waves at the moment.

‘Cry Me A River’

Revive the Northern Rivers

If it's true that all roads lead to Rome, then it's fair to say that all water policy in eastern Australia eventually leads you to the Murray-Baaka/Darling. While you have to travel west from the Northern Rivers and over the Great Dividing Range to find yourself within its incredibly vast catchment, water policy on the Murray-Baaka/Darling has ramifications for the rest of new south wales & australia more generally.

Back in 2020, acclaimed journalist Margaret Simons penned a piece for the Quarterly Essay titled Cry Me A River: The Tragedy of the Murray-Darling Basin of which you can read an extract here. To read the whole lot, you'll have to buy the book and we highly recommend doing so. Because the story of the Murray-Darling is a tragedy that makes Shakespeare's works seem petty; the enormity of the problem and the constant failures of governance is enough to bring anyone to tears. Simply put: the lifeblood system that is Murray-Darling has paid the ultimate price through finding itself right at the confluence of colonisation, capitalism, global economics & the politics of water. It is undoubtedly Australia's most contested river.

As Margaret Simons says in the essay:

"The story of the Murray-Darling Basin, and the Plan that is our modern attempt to manage it, is a story of our nation, the things that join and divide us. It asks whether our current systems – our society and its communities – can possibly meet the needs of the nation and the certainty of change. Is the Plan an honest compact, and is it fair? Can it work? Are our politics up to the task? And what happens when the abstracts, the macro policy, the plumbing, the schemes, the "events" or the lack of them hit the realities of the landscape and the figures within it?"

Without diminishing the careful crafting of this compelling essay, Cry Me A River reads as a bit of a Dummies Guide to the Murray-Darling. Simons attempts to explain the mind-bendingly complex arrangement of plans across the river system that determine who gets water, when and where. She finds herself being made aware, after a few beers at local taverns across the Murray-Darling, of the ease with which these regulations can be cheated or loopholes found. It's amazing what people will admit under the guise of anonymity. Simons also paints a picture of the water engineers – who speak in bureaucratic language devoid of life during their dealings with a system that is undoubtedly gasping for air. It's yet another example of modern humanity's strange approach to the environment: we first attempt to remove ourselves from the orbit of the ecosystems that sustain us, in order to make decisions about their future and our own, and then scratch our heads and wonder why it doesn't work.

Three years on from the publication of Cry Me A River, in March of this year, people in the town of Menindee woke to yet another mass fish kill. Estimates suggested in excess of 30 million fish had died. It was yet another stark reminder of a river on life support, and the enusing coverage – most notably and consistently from Guardian Australia – yet again put the Murray-Darling in the spotlight.

At this point, you might be wondering what this has to do with the Northern Rivers. Although the main river systems of our region – the Tweed, Brunswick, Richmond & Clarence – couldn't be more different to the Murray-Darling, a reading of Cry Me A River draws ugly parallels to the surface like a dead Murray Cod.

In the end it all comes back to politics.

As the supposed advocates for farmers, the pervasive politics of the National Party emerge in both places. Margaret Simons likens their behaviour in the Upper Murray-Darling to having a drunk-driver behind the wheel, particularly in relation to Barnaby Joyce in his time as the Minister for Water. If you listen to the political rhetoric of someone like the Federal Member for Page Kevin Hogan speak about flood mitigation or water policy in our region, you start to wonder if he's in the same boat. After a few years floating around in river circles, it becomes clear to anyone who's listening that the very same political party was primarily responsible for the gutting and disintegration of Catchment Management Authorities in nsw, before replacing them with a relatively toothless approach to riparian & water management with the creation of Local Land Services. That is not to say that LLS doesn't have some good policies, or great people working within its ranks, but the movement away from water policy focused on catchment-wide decision making is clearly more than a few steps in the wrong direction. The momentum, at least at the public sector, is not flowing downstream.

Another curious comparison between the two regions is that of unexpected alliances. Simons delves into friendships and cooperation in unexpected places of australia's inland east. Like the progressive think-tank The Australia Institute teaming up with lobby groups run by irrigators to challenge the validity of the Plan on the Murray River. The same can be said back here, where relationships have been formed in all kinds of surprising ways. This was particularly evident in the wake of the 2022 floods, which instigated a form of musical chairs – finding friends in unexpected places – when it came to the future of our rivers. Water may be divisive, but it's also the great connector.

Margaret Simons appears to have done what so many have been unable to acheive: to condense the social, cultural, environmental & political elements of the Murray-Darling into a piece of work that will stand the test of time. In doing so, Simons conveys the vastness, beauty and fragility of our largest river system in a way that is both poetic and lyrical. Unlike the water engineers' language, it incorporates human emotion. Simons does what any good journalist should and leaves you with more questions. The answers to those questions, unsurprisingly, are fair from simple. When water allocations lead farmers to be involved in futures trading on the stockmarket, you've got to wonder how much more abstract it could possibly get. The fallacy of a free market being able to effectively manage our most precious resource and the inescapable myth of trickle-down economics has led us into a quagmire that provides no easy exit. It also poses another question: if a rising tide lifts all boats, then what happens when the water disappears?

There are many conclusions that can be drawn from reading Cry Me A River. This is but one: as climate change brings with it more uncertainty & an increased frequency of extreme events to the driest inhabited continent on earth, water policy will only become more controversial. If we are to learn from the mistakes of our past, try to remediate the worst of the damage, and move towards a system that prioritises the health of our rivers as the lifeblood of our society, there will be winners and there will be losers. And some of those losers will have very, very loud voices.

Rivers have helped to gift australia an unimaginable wealth. But these living systems have paid an insurmountable price and many are now cheating death. The Barkindji people along the Barka (Darling) River, much like the Bundjalung on the Richmond, understand that water represents life in every form. This isn't a figurative idea but a literal one.

If state and federal political structures and institutions are the answer to the enormous crisis of water policy in this country, then maybe we're asking the wrong question.

‘Peter’s Last Voyage: A Pacific Odyssey’

Surfing World 416

“That doesn’t look right,” I say to Shaya. I’m looking out toward the river’s entrance. A small yacht keels violently from side-to-side in the turbulent brown water. Large waves smash into the end of North Wall, sending spray high into the air. The river is expelling floodwaters from rain that has lashed its catchment for months now. The tide’s also going out. The yacht’s diesel motor is no match for the torrent of water flowing into the ocean. Unease circles my stomach. The yacht is now being pounded into the southern breakwall. Where are the crew? Are they still on there?

“Call triple-zero,” I say, reaching for my phone but finding empty pockets.

“I don’t have mine either,’ says Shaya.

“Fuck. Okay.” I ask a stranger nearby. “Excuse me? Has someone called triple-zero?”

“Yep. They’re on their way,” the lady responds with a worried look on her face.

On the beach tucked inside the breakwall, I see a man wading backwards in waist-deep water. He’s pulling a lifeless figure from the water. He reaches dry sand and drops the body. Three bystanders appear on the beach. I’m sprinting before my feet hit the sand. Okay, stay calm. I pass a young boy sitting in a lifejacket staring vacantly out to sea. He hugs his knees to his chest. Not far away an elderly man lies motionless on the sand with the biggest belly I’ve ever seen. Seawater. Bloating. Shit. The guy who hauled him in finishes the first round of chest compressions. “We need to roll him,” I say, kneeling down without introducing myself. His skin is cold and clammy. I reach for his hip and together we roll him on his side. Seawater gushes out onto the sand.

*

The man’s name, I’d learn later that night, was Peter Warner, a legendary skipper and adventurer. He was a three-time Sydney-to-Hobart winner and a man with over 70 years’ experience sailing on the open ocean all over the world. But he’d become famous in recent years as the sailor who in 1966 had rescued six Tongan teenagers stranded on a remote island in the Pacific. The story of the boys’ survival and their rescue had become the stuff of legend. Only a few months earlier I’d listened to author Rutger Bremen on ABC Radio recount the story, which had become known as “the real-life Lord of the Flies.”

The six Tongan teenagers – Sione, Stephen, Kolo, David, Luke and Mano – were students at a Catholic boarding school in the Tongan capital of Nuku’alofa. Unhappy there, the boys – aged between 13 and 16 – hatched an ambitious plan to escape by boat to Fiji or even New Zealand.

One evening in June 1965 the boys “borrowed” a 24-foot sailing boat from Nuku’alofa harbour and set sail with minimal supplies – two sacks of bananas, a few coconuts and a small gas burner were all they thought necessary for the voyage. As Mano later recounted, the boys found themselves in the middle of a storm on the very first night. Before long the sail was torn to shreds and the rudder of their boat had snapped. The boys then drifted without food or water – attempting to catch fish and collect rainwater in hollowed-out coconut shells.

After eight days a miracle occurred. Well, sort of. The horizon revealed a lump which turned out to be the remote, uninhabited island of ‘Ata. The Tongan teens hadn’t arrived on a postcard-like deserted island lined with coconut trees that sway in the breeze and white sandy beaches. ‘Ata is a giant volcanic rock protruding from the middle of the Pacific Ocean – think stark, sharp ridgelines jutting straight out of the sea. A quick search on a map, however, shows how lucky they really were to find it. ‘Ata lies over 150 kilometres southwest of Nuku’alofa and appears as a tiny speck of land in the immense seascape of the South Pacific. Miss it and your next stop is New Zealand – almost 2000 kilometres further south.

*

Peter Warner was born in Melbourne in 1931 to Arthur and Ethel Warner. By the time he came into the world his father had already built a large manufacturing and media empire, making him one of Australia’s wealthiest men at the time. Arthur’s son lived in the shadow of his father’s expectation and would, eventually, continue the family legacy. But in his teens Peter appeared disinterested at the prospect and at just 17 ran away from home to join a ship’s crew. Returning a year later he was forced into study before high-tailing it out of his father’s grasp again – mostly sailing on Swedish and Norwegian ships in the Atlantic. He quickly gained experience on the high seas.

Warner won the Sydney-to-Hobart yacht race in the early ‘60s before purchasing a fleet of crayfish boats which he operated in Tasmania. His fishing exploits slowly drew him eastwards and further into the Pacific. It was this series of events that led him to be setting traps a few miles off the remote island of ‘Ata in September of 1966.

On the day of the rescue, the story goes that Warner’s curiosity was initially piqued by patches of burnt vegetation he saw through his binoculars. “I thought, that’s strange that a fire should start in the tropics on an uninhabited island,” Peter told an earlier interview. “So, we decided to investigate further.” They headed in for a closer look. As the boat approached the island Peter noticed some figures heading down a cliff and into the sea, where they started swimming toward the boat. Unsure of their motives he asked his crew to load the rifles and to be “prepared for anything.” Stephen was the first to reach side of the boat and in perfect English explained their situation. “I am one of six castaways. We think we have been here for one-and-a-half years.”

Peter was initially suspicious of their story but thought better of it and dropped the boarding ladder to let the naked teenagers aboard, describing them as “looking completely wild.” After further explanation Warner was still in disbelief and asked them to write their names down on a piece of paper. He then made a radio call to the operator in Nuku’alofa and asked them to call Saint Andrews College – the school the boys had attended. Twenty minutes later a tearful operator came back on the radio and told him it was true. The boys had been given up for dead and funerals had already been held.

The teens’ survival on the island was attributed in part to some good fortune. A century earlier ‘Ata was home to around 350 people before a British slave trader kidnapped half the population of the island in 1863. The Tongan King at the time then relocated the rest of the population from ‘Ata to another island where they could be protected. After surviving for the initial months on raw fish, seabirds and their eggs, the boys stumbled upon the ruins of an abandoned village. It was located high up in a crater on the inner part of the island that was difficult to access. It proved to be a lifesaver. In the village the boys found a machete, domesticated taro plants and a flock of chickens that had survived for generations and continued to live on the island. Kolo even managed to fashion a guitar from some driftwood and six wires he salvaged from the wreckage of their boat.

On his return to Tonga with the boys, Peter Warner was welcomed as a hero and offered a reward from the King. His sole request from King Taufa’ahau Tupou IV was to reverse an earlier decision to deny Peter fishing rights around the Tongan archipelago. When Peter’s request was granted, he moved his family to Tonga where they lived for 30 years. All six of the rescued boys were hired as crew members on his fishing boats and Warner became especially close with Mano Totau. The two men eventually relocated to Australia – Mano to Brisbane and Peter to a banana farm in Tullera, in Northern NSW. They continued to sail in Warner’s boat – often heading out to sea via the Richmond River to sail up and down the east coast.

*

Even at 90, Peter Warner had no intention of slowing down. I have no doubt he understood the conditions on the Ballina bar that morning in April earlier this year. But maybe that’s how his story was meant to play out – with the sea reclaiming one of its own. Sailing was Peter Warner’s first love. It came to be his last, too.