J-Bay, the wave. Photo: Byron Loker
There is no doubt on Earth about J-Bay, the wave. But with J-Bay, the place, I have always had a rather ambivalent relationship. It may have something to do with the architecture: those “luxury boutique hotels” that blight the point while brick monstrosities hulk seaward, the coast buffered only by soulless strip malls replicating someplace like Indiana or Bloubergstrand. It definitely has nothing to do with the people.
A few years back, I decided to head up during the Billabong Pro. I wanted to meet Kelly Slater and give him a copy of my then newly published book before it sank without a trace – as most newly published books do in South Africa.
I booked a ride on something called the Baz Bus, being that my beloved country lacks any kind of surf trip-friendly public transport. The Baz Bus’ first backpacker stop was on Kloof Neck Road, where I met Sarah Warple from Santa Barbara, CA. Once we were on the road, she asked, “Whose surfboard is that?” I looked back and told her the board was mine. She was also going to Jeffreys Bay, to surf.
At the second stop, a very pretty girl with just showered, apple-smelling hair, took the seat next to me and did her best to ignore me by taking out a novel. That Baz Bus was starting to look more and more like a damn good idea.
Many backpacker stops and very pretty traveling companions later, we arrived in J-Bay and I went off to survey brick monstrosities, hoping to find the B&B I’d booked online. The dear owner had assured me it was “close to Supers,” but I found myself hauling up a long hill, the prospect of a date arranged with Sarah Warple dwindling with every step further into the suburban hinterland.
After eventually finding the place and a chairing a discussion on the relativity of distance (apparently, I should have told the owner I was arriving on foot), I hoofed back down to Surfpackers. It was late, but Sarah was still amenable and we walked across to the bar nearest Supertubes. It’s called something else now, but then, it was called The Reef. We arrived just at that time of the night when underage drinkers start giving each other piggyback rides around the dance floor and spraying each other with Black Label. This is always an endearing experience for a newly arrived American tourist being squired around by a local who’s eager to have his guest fall in love with his country and its people. One of them, anyway.
We missed the band, but we watched a rock star couple – boy and girl – pick up an impromptu set on a left-over guitar and mic. When Sarah suggested we call it a night, I walked her to the backpackers and we made a plan for a surf the next day. I went off again in search of my B&B.
Sarah and I surfed the point. It was only about two to three feet, but clean and fast and powerful. And seriously cold; I’d never experienced J-Bay that icy before. She declined a lunch date, so I took myself to Café Dulce and ordered the biggest breakfast on the menu. I overheard the guys at the next table saying that Bustin’ Down the Door was showing across the way, at the little cinema that used to dignify the mall there. When I stood up to leave, it so happened that Shaun and Rabbit were at the table behind me.
I took one of two copies of my book from my pocket and wrote an inscription to Shaun. As I got over to the table, a call came through on his cell phone. I said “Howzit” to Rabbit and stood there like a groupie waiting for an autograph. What I should have done was ask Rabbit for his autograph, or about the browning 6’0” single-fin I’d picked up in the second-hand surf shop in Fish Hoek. It had a Rabbit Bartholomew Bugs Bunny sticker on it.
“Would you mind giving this to Shaun?” I asked Rabbit after a bit, sliding the book across the table.
“He won’t be long, mate,” Rabbit offered, so I waited. Shaun hung up and I said, “Howzit, Shaun, I’d like to give you this. It has some surfing stories in it.”
Shaun said, “Thanks very much, man.”
I called Sarah and asked her if she’d like to go with me to the movie. She said, “Yeah, we’re thinking of heading over.”
“OK,” I said and wondered who “we” was.
He turned out to be Corey, also from Santa Barbara–the same college, in fact, that Sarah attended, UCSB. After the movie I asked, “Are you guys heading back to the backpackers? How about a drink?”
“Yeah,” Sarah said, meaning everything about heading back to the backpackers but nothing much about the drink.
I took myself off down to The Reef to see how many beers it would take to lift my spirits.
