Chicks Do Surf: Part One

Over Christmas I went away for a month on a kickarse holiday to LA, Mexico and Ecuador. Highlights were hanging out with sassy, sexy lady friends I hadn’t seen in a while, occasionally being understood when I spoke Spanish and realising that me becoming the next Kelly Slater was highly likely. ‘¡Que!’ you say. Well, I discovered I had a natural talent for boogie boarding which I thought would easily translate into surfing.

It doesn’t.

My ole ego had a big boost in Montanita when I caught every single wave all the way into shore, skidding up the sand. On a boogie board. The locals were taking photos, clapping, giving me the thumbs up. Even the sizzling hot lifeguard had his binoculars trained on me. I took this as everyone was dazzled by my ability rather than what I realised later – my boobs were falling out of my bikini top and Latino girls look saucy in their g-strings on the beach knee deep in water and don’t scream with delight when catching a wave on a boogie board. But, riding the waves made me realise that the bruises and sore muscles was a whole other level of Operation: Hot Bitch and I had to get involved.

The stars were aligned when I returned home. My lady-body-idol-swimming-buddy had been up in Sydney touching her roots when she realised that she needed to take up surfing again. On an overcast afternoon in the medium swimming lane of Fitzroy pool, the Melbourne Chapter of ‘Chicks Do Surf’ was born. It was time to get this glamorous show on the road.



Unlike every other new pursuit I try, I decided it was necessary to take it slow and not throw myself into it too hard and injure myself/spend too much $$ on the equipment/get bored too quickly like I have done in the past. So we headed off down the Great Ocean Road to a surf hire shop and I rented myself a boogie board to ‘understand the movement of the waves’. My Kelly Slateresque ability did not shine through. Instead I was dumped and rolled in seaweed so often I felt like I’d been at a contemporary day spa. I developed a rash on my arms and legs. I was covered in bruises. But it was fun.

A few days later we went back and I borrowed lady-body-idol’s surfboard for about ten minutes thinking that surely I’d jump and pop up and glide past all the other beginner surfers popping out zumba moves on the way. Instead what happened was I screamed expletives when I saw a wave coming, screamed expletives as I paddled to try to catch the wave, then screamed expletives until I fell off the board. I was hoarse and covered in more bruises.

Like most things I am super enthusiastic about, I have talked about it so much that everyone who knows that as soon as I open my mouth I will start talking about my recent attempts at surfing, my thoughts on new accessories related to surfing, my latest dream about surfing, the smoking hot men I see when I’m surfing. I have even been accused of replacing gays with surfing as my new hobby.

I was lucky enough to have one of the publishers at work loan me her son’s beginner’s 7ft soft-top to use until I buy my own board. And lady-body-idol hooked me up with a wetsuit. So now I really feel the part. Even man-mountain-swimming-partner has offered to try to teach me surfing on the condition that I will be able to do 10 man push-ups. I need to start working out more.

My favourite parts of surfing so far are the following: the snacks for the drive, the music on the drive down, walking down to the beach with my surfboard tucked under my arm, wetsuit sexily half down exposing my yet-to-be-chiselled abs and sitting in the hamburger shop afterwards reading Tracks magazines. The surfing bit isn’t exactly fun. Yet. I’ve stopped screaming every time a wave comes and it has been replaced with Sasha Fierce-like concentration. My new mantra every day is: I will stand up. I will stand up. As Beyonce as my goddamn witness: I.WILL.STAND.UP.

Wish me luck for tomorrow.