Retro-spective

My earliest surfing memory involves both my parents paddling out at Glen beach. I was of course naked on the beach, being a baby, and sat by my 'uncles', who were very stoned and stoked out surfers.

My life as a child relied on the ebb and flow of the ocean, and the next day’s swell. No-one gave a crap about the weather. During rain, shine or gale-force winds, we dutifully waited for our parents to return from their surf.

Weekends were planned weeks in advance, or at the spur of the moment, depending on the swell forecast. Epic picnics were made, buckets and spades were at the ready, and boards were waxed. Then we were off in my dad’s old Nissan, with three Labradors in the back.

J-Bay, Glen Beach, the West Coast and the Crayfish Factory were my dad’s favourites. But we pretty much went everywhere.

In those days, ballies were ballies. You knew not to screw with them. Chicks wore g-strings, or they donned wetsuits. My mother did both. My father and his friends ruled Glen Beach. It was their territory. Groms paddled out of their way. There was respect. If there wasn’t, the kid got it knocked into him by the end of it.

I learnt early that these surf missions involved no comfort or luxury. We survived strong winds and a flooded tent. Everything was sopping wet. I ended up wearing my dad's old clothes. Our whole family squeezed onto a mattress to keep warm. I once woke up to a cow sticking its head into my tent.

Once at E-Bay, my mom had enough of baked beans in a tin with margarine on white bread. She insisted we go out for supper at a local restaurant, the most dingey establishment I have ever visited. She ordered me bobotie, which I found disgusting but ate it anyway. For the next two weeks I had the most violent food poisoning. There weren't any chemists to medicate me, and we continued to camp in the sand while my dad surfed until my mom went mental at him and we left, me chundering all the way home to Cape Town in the back of the bakkie.

Wherever we went, we went with a group of friends my parents have known since their twenties. Every year we booked the same camping spot in Cape St Francis. The dads made potjie kos that got more disgusting and inedible as they cooked it, adding more red wine with every stir and every Old Brown Sherry they knocked back.

I first learnt to surf in Cape St Francis at the Point. My dad took me out in some decent swell and pushed me out and up onto his board. It was awesome, I think I finished that session topless it was so rough, but my dad was really cool about it saying "They're just noombies and I made them." A bit awkward but totally forgotten when I managed to stand up. The thrill was electric through my body. Even today when I catch the odd wave, my whole body goes into complete, happy hysteria.

Not long after I learnt to surf I took one of my mates Pia, who was one of my dad's friend's kid, out for a surf at the same spot. We were about 14. The rip was strong and we got sucked out. Pia panicked but I remembered my dad telling me what to do in that situation; to stay on my board and keep paddling till I was safe. We made it back in, Pia in tears holding onto my board.

The point of this column is to say that I had the best childhood anyone could ever have asked for.

My parents were'nt rich and we didn't have a lot of stuff like kids do nowadays. But I have epic memories, good and bad, about our holidays along the coast.

I was taught respect for my elders and respect for nature, not to panic in a scary situation, to make do with difficult circumstances and to most importantly to just enjoy the adventure.