While Monty Webber’s memoir Bondi Days centres around a golden era for surfing in Bondi, it’s also the kind of coming of age tale every surfer can relate to. Spanning the late 60s through to the 80s, the book elegantly captures a trajectory many of us may be familiar with – an innocent enchantment with the ocean gives way to a blinding obsession with riding waves and ultimately leads to a full-blown immersion in a subculture that was at its hedonistic heights in the 80s. Told with unflinching honesty, Bondi Days is a charming, hilarious and at times confronting story about the rites of passage through which surfers pass in pursuit of an identity and a place in the local hierarchy. The mystique of surfboards, the tendency to idolise particular figures and the desperate desire to keep up in a competitive, hyper-masculine scene are all reoccurring themes in Bondi Days. However, throughout the book the wonder of surfing is never lost.
Webber makes astute observations about the quirks of surf culture and indeed the unique psychological transformations a young surfer’s mind undertakes. “I became aware of the many coexisting rhythms in surfing. I developed what I thought of as a seventh sense… I also realised that I had an inner clock that timed things. My awareness was heightened and I guessed where the next swell was likely to come from. I saw how far away all of the other surfers were from me and adjusted where I was in relation to them and the likely next wave. … ”
As part of a surf scene populated by a kaleidoscope of curious characters, Webber also has a real knack for capturing the eccentricities and quirks of his urban, surf tribe. “These guys became more than just heroes to us. The saints and sinners down South were adored like archetypal characters in a Wild West Hollywood production. It was like living in a Sergio Leone film. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly meets Endless Summer. Once Upon a Time in Bondi.” ‘Bondi Days’ is available for purchase here.
It’s also crucial to note that the book takes place in an era of Bondi where the quality of your cutback mattered more than the car you drove or the size of your bank balance. The concrete jungle of the 80s was not the gentrified playground for the rich and famous that it is today. Take for example the book’s description of an average night at The Astra, one of Bondi’s most notorious venues.
“Along with the Maoris, Westies, speed freaks, bikers, hippies, pissheads, junkies and those just passing through, blonde-haired Bondi boys wandered the Astra’s five floors of sin, sex and surf music as if exploring the many levels of hell. Every drug imaginable was available and hookers came and went, upstairs and downstairs, like promotional girls with trays of contraband. Occasionally, illegal gambling took place on the 7th floor; Cards, Craps and Roulette Wheels.”
Although the story doesn’t depend on big names it is given an added layer of intrigue by the presence of certain surfing luminaries. Monty Webber grew up alongside his talented, surfing/shaping brothers, and amongst surfers like Cheyne Horan and Richard Cram who soon had a presence in a nascent pro-surfing scene; driven to new heights by the intensely competitive arena in which they surfed on a daily basis.
At 127 pages Bondi Days is certainly not an indulgent memoir, but its slim binding belies the wisdom and wit it contains within. You will read it fast, you will be entertained and more than once along the way you will pause to ponder a section and think, ‘Wow, that really captured the essence of what it was like to grow up as a surfer in Australia in the 70s and 80s.’
Below is a brief excerpt from the book where Monty talks about witnessing the ascendance of a young Cheyne Horan at close quarters.
The best surfers of my generation in Bondi in the mid ‘70s were Dion Gatty, Richard Cram, Ant Corrigan and Joe Engle; until Cheyne showed up. The older two tribes had united briefly and formed a surf team called Panache and decided to hold a surf comp for grommets with a view to starting a juniors club called Zephyr. I came third behind Cheyne (1st) and Dion (2nd). This was the best placing I ever achieved in a surfing competition. Greg told me Steve Corro was scoring me well for my hang fives so I went nuts hanging five on every wave I caught. I pretty much retired from surf comps after that as I felt I’d already peaked. I was 13.
Out in the water Cheyne was something else altogether. He rode a blue Barry Bennett like I dreamed of surfing. The surfboard went wherever he wanted it to. After one extraordinary right-hander, which included vertical re-entries and stylish cutbacks, he swung left in on the shore break and then right again and pulled into a tube on the sand. It was a virtuoso performance and we all had to re-think what was possible as young surfers.
Soon after winning the Zephyr contest, Cheyne hopped on the 322 I was on after school one day. He sat opposite me and we were the only two kids on the bus with surfboards. We started talking and he told me that he and his mother and brother had moved into a place on Murriverie Road. When we got off the bus Cheyne asked me where I sat on the beach. I pointed to some friends sitting at the Wall. Cheyne ambled up to the Hill and let his board slide down onto the ground and started talking to Buster Farlow. I couldn’t believe how smoothly he slotted into the top echelon of the beach. There was no doubt in my mind that he deserved to be there.
