Eight foot sets followed six foot sets and then occasionally, every 20 minutes or so, even bigger rogue waves would bully their way through the heads. “No beach break an hours drive of Sydney has the right to get this good,” I thought to myself as I sat up in silence aboard my trusty 6’10” after another seamless ride.

The magnificently dark emerald green waves were relentless. We wait years for conditions like this, still when it finally happens you’re never quite ready. It’s hard not to be a little apprehensive; powerful winter waves move faster and carry more girth than the wind swells we’re all used to.

The majority of the barren mountainsides made their way to the middle of the beach unmolested – only one in five clawed and scratched at by one of the lucky few paddlers loitering in the line up… If this was a rodeo, and the waves our steeds, the ocean was well ahead on points. But you can’t win the rodeo if the bull doesn’t buck.

The impact zone, was expansive enough to accommodate up to 25 surfers or more – yet there was as little as two, and never more than six holding position. This luxury of breathing space afforded us an unspoken ease with one another’s presence. When a fellow rider would turn against the wind to put it on the line they did so without the hindrance of a hungry horde– nor the annoyance of rookie body boarders jamming the tarmac. This was turning out to be one hell of a session.

Over the next few uncrowded hours the bank, which had been delivering perfect barrels for four days now, was holding up well, despite a shift in the swell’s direction from pure south to southeast.

And then the jetski turned up.

Although paddling into these waves successfully was a tough ask, the rewards were bountiful.

To say the sight of the ski took me aback would be gross understatement. I didn’t know how I felt? Was this thing going to ruin the moment, kill the pureness of what we’d been sharing?

The ski’s sole rider stood high in the saddle as he circled way outside. Then once he’d crept his way in closer he looked down at us like we were the aliens. A young local, who was charging the joint alone when I’d first paddled out, told me earlier in the session that he’d shared the rope of an unknown ski rider the day previous. I thought to myself, “Is this the Robin Hood of the tow world? A lover of jet power who turns up when paddling is a tall order and offers tired arms a free ride?”

Whatever ski-man’s good intentions may or may not be, truth is that before he had turned up I was getting my share of tube time and heart-in-the-mouth drops and selfishly I didn’t want a thing to change.

Pretty soon ski-man had unleashed his tow rope just beyond our line of defence and gestured to what seemed like no one in particular to grab it – baiting us like that creepy child catcher in the sixties film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It wasn’t long before he had his first victim. And victim he was. He was towed into a wave so bad that it refused to break and he refused to let go off the rope. Embarrassingly he was dragged through the line up atop a tiny three-foot wave... Funny stuff for the rest of us, but not so funny for old mate.

Fast-forward twenty minutes and Ski-man revealed himself to be a true Robin Hood by whipping a bloke into a set wave way, way, outside. I’d witnessed this surfer in question paddle into more set waves during the entire swell than any other, and the smile on his face as he flew by me at mach 10 was immense... He’d been quietly toiling away and now here he was on an absolute honker courtesy of ski-man. I couldn’t help, but pocket my indifference. Seeing worthy folk get a good one under any steam is always a buzz.

I clambered up the beach after my best and final wave – that smile still etched in my mind – although I don’t like the fumes or the cross wash, I can’t say it bothered me all that much ski-man turning up, at least he had the good sense to offer his services around. Maybe next time I’ll put my hand up too?