I was on a podcast talking about my struggle with and recovery from sugar addiction.
Seeking moderation is the accepted treatment for all types of disordered eating, which is ideal when it works. But what if it doesn’t? For some of us, letting go of our ‘drug’ of choice completely is the only path to freedom. It is the antithesis of ‘restriction.’ Our lives could not be more restricted than when we are engaged in the obsessive and compulsive throes of active addiction.
Here is a link to my episode on Netta Gorman’s Life After Sugar podcast:
Consistently engaging in the things I love — Skating, surfing, swimming, writing, paddling — has only been made possible through the stability of recovery. One day at a time.
At a time when Salt-N-Pepa were urging mobs to Push it on the dancefloor, an eclectic bunch of hungry surfing women were truly pushin’ it against the status quo of the 1980s surf world. Pushing for a place in the lineup. And pushing for a place — a legitimate place — in pro surfing. Because they were told overtly they didn’t belong. Girls can’t surf after all.
The recently released Girls Can’t Surf tells the story of these women: Pam Burridge, Jodie Cooper, Pauline Menzcer, Layne Beachley, Frieda Zamba and Wendy Botha. And it is a cracker.
The beauty of this film lies in the willingness of the women featured to really go there. A dive into the chauvinistic echo chamber of 80s surf culture is bolstered by intimate personal narratives; a film and book could and should be made and written about each woman alone. Jodie Cooper’s sexuality. Pam Burridge’s alcoholism and anorexia. Pauline Menczer’s rheumatoid arthritis. They get real in a way that’s entirely relatable for viewers of all ages and backgrounds. You don’t have to be a fan of surfing to enjoy this movie. Just a fan of human perseverance.
Their candid remarks about surfing against each other is a highlight. This is hysterical and the still simmering tensions palpable. Here’s voting for a World Master’s Championship heat between Layne and Lisa.
I’ll stop short of re-hashing the movie’s narrative here. The thing is: you should go see it. It is brilliant storytelling and Producers Chris Nelius and Mikaela Perske have made a fundamentally important contribution to surfing culture.
Instead I’m keener to explore questions the movie’s release raises for me. Like, why is there a huge void when it comes to the documentation of women from surfing’s past? How does this relate to who is telling the stories of women’s surf history? And what needs to change in this regard?
In the film, Nick Carroll and Jamie Brisick voice their perceptions as legitimate authorities on surf culture. Both men are acutely intelligent and empathetic, and their observations add tremendous value to the movie. Nick said in a recent episode of The Lineup podcast that when asked he was initially apprehensive to be involved in the movie as it wasn’t his story to tell. But he was a valid and obvious choice having been a veteran surf writer who observed these women up close over many years.
Why not feature a woman surf writer? Because there were none. All of surfing’s experts are men. The editors, writers, historians, movie makers, photographers and storytellers. The loudest voices belong to men. Nick. Jamie. Matt Warshaw. Tim Baker. Sean Doherty. Phil Jarratt. Derek Hynd.
There is nothing inherently wrong with that. Men can and should tell the stories of women and women that of men. But the absence of women contributors over many decades is a big part of why women in surf history are so poorly documented and why there is so little footage of women surfing in the 70s, 80s and even 90s in comparison to men. It’s unlikely a calculated exclusion, it’s just that at the editing table of a surf mag women were — and to some degree still are — mostly an afterthought.
Even today, women have very little presence as storytellers in the mainstream surf media platforms that have broad audiences. A lot of women have taken matters into their own hands with a surge in independent magazines, films and social media accounts that focus on sharing women’s stories. But take a look at the big forecasting sites with lots of traffic and see how many women contributors you can find in regard writers and photographers. Then take a look at the surf magazine websites. You’ll find some. But percentage wise it’s very low. And this does matter.
We need more diversity in the creators of content. Not only is this reflected in a lack of gender diversity in subjects we see, but it can impact the way a story is told. The success of Girls Can’t Surf relies on the featured women having the space to tell their own stories. The spotlight is squarely on them. But what about when the storyteller projects their own gendered biases and ignorance onto their subject? It’s dangerous territory which can misrepresent the truth and legacy of surfing women.
One example of this would be Phil Jarratt’s portrayal of Isma Amor — one of Australia’s first women surfers — in his book Surfing Australia: A Complete History of Surfboard Riding in Australia. Jarratt is a respected surf writer and historian whose work is frequently cited. He describes fifteen year old Isma as a “sultry seductress.” He sexualises an adolescent and defines her in relationship to men. And that’s the extent of his description. No details about Amor surfing, what type of board she rode etc. What was his portrayal based on? Not facts that’s for certain. The baseless narrative he chose to present is a harmful one.
And Jarratt’s blunder is an acute one. But having stories told over and over through the male lens can lead to more subtle biases in depiction. There are certain angles of thought that will not occur to men because it is not within the realm of their lived experience. I’ve read articles by high profile male surf writers in the last year proclaiming that equality is here; women are now being paid equally in the pro ranks and when they look around in the lineup numbers of women match that of men. It’s a rather simplistic view of a complex topic. I, like many women have felt wholly equal in certain lineups and contexts and conversely, I’ve had experiences where I have felt like anything but. The last thing I want to read is a bloke telling me what fantastic egalitarianism I am experiencing in the surf when that is not always the case.
Having more women storytellers will result in a more true and rich image of surfing. It will allow us to see more stories about women. Girls Can’t Surf tells the 80s story of women’s pro surfing. Now let’s hear about the 70s, 60s and 50s rather than using that space for another Michael Peterson feature, or whatever other male icon we’ve heard about ad nauseum.
Let’s hear about the Women’s Surfing Hui based in Hawaii in the 70s: Patti Paniccia, Linda McCrerey, Jeannie Chesser, Rell Sunn, Laola Lake, Claudia Nuuhiwa, Elaine Davis and Linda Divoli. This bunch of women spearheaded the formation of women’s pro surfing. It wouldn’t exist without them.
And what about the classic stylists of the 60s: Phyllis O’Donell, Linda Benson, Joyce Hoffman, Josette Lagardere and Joey Hamasaki to name only a handful.
The skill of the 50s waterwomen was next level. In addition to being adept surfers many of these women were winning swimmers and divers like Marge Calhoun and Mary Ann Hawkins. Anona Napoleon was a mean kayaker who just missed the Olympics and was one of the first women to cross the Molokai to Oahu channel in a women’s canoe team.
Isabel Letham and Isma Amor were in their teens amongst the first girls to surf in Australia.
Hawaiian Princess Victoria Ka‘iulani surfed in late 1800s Honolulu when surfing was discouraged full stop, but even more so for women given the colonial expectations of conforming to a feminine ideal. Surfing was considered a masculine pursuit.
Since day dot women have been surfing. When explorers arrived in Hawaii a recurrent observation in their journal entries was that women surfed in equal numbers in comparison to their male counterparts and their skills also matched that of the men. There was no gender divide in the water.
Gotta keep pushin’ for the stories of these women to be told and for greater diversity in who tells them.
In 2018 there was plenty of righteous celebration — and sadly plenty of comment board grumblings — when the WSL announced pay parity for men and women. Finally.
Having never surfed competitively let alone professionally, I often wonder what equality looks like for the everywoman surfer when you step outside the realm of pro surfing. Are women considered equals in the line-up? And how do we measure equality in the surf?
The resource we’re all after is waves. So is our wave count a currency for measuring our worth in the water? Or is it something else entirely? Skill is the obvious predetermining factor of who will nab the most waves. The best surfers get the best waves, be they men or women. But there’s more to it than that right? Beyond tallying waves, what I’m really talking about is a feeling. How a woman feels in the water in relationship to the men around her. Whether she feels that she belongs.
Of course feeling is inherently subjective. A quick survey of my surfing mates reveals this. I know a couple of women who call North Narrabeen home. One says she’s been treated with nothing but respect by men in the water. The other says she’s often intimidated by the machismo, particularly when the surf’s good.
Personally, I’ve felt both wholly encouraged by blokes and completely belittled. If an interaction feels off, I often conduct my own crude litmus test by posing the hypothetical question: Would he have treated another man like that? Sometimes it feels like a definitive yes or no. Sometimes it’s just impossible to know.
I’ve been involved in a few verbal stoushes with men in the surf, but it’s not these instances that have left me feeling the most uncomfortable. It’s the instances where I’ve felt hyper aware of my gender, and further to that my sexuality.
Years back I was surfing Green Island and a bloke I’d been talking to the day before was out. We chatted and he gave me a few pointers about the sweep and line up markers. They were unsolicited but appreciated. As the surf evolved the man began to full on coach me. A fifty something bloke barking orders at me: a twenty-eight year old first time mum with her hubby and one year old sitting on the beach, and thirty odd others in the line-up.
It was mortifying. It didn’t register as abuse at the time, but it was an abuse of sorts: an intrusion into my surfing experience. As for the litmus test: there’s no way he would’ve singled out and patronised a bloke like that. My being a woman was part of his act.
By contrast the most humiliating encounter I’ve had in the surf happened without a word being spoken to me. It left me feeling barren of any type of presence. My second child was around 6 months old. I was still breastfeeding and felt completely naked despite my steamer: a vulnerability that comes with your body not being entirely yours, and the responsibility of sustaining a life beyond yours.
I decided to venture around the bends to surf Newport Peak. It was grey and drizzling, the surf a smooth 3-4 foot. I paddled out to a large bunch of rowdy teenage boys carrying on. Before long they began to sing an anthem I remembered the boys singing at Uni: I wish that all the ladies…were waves in the ocean. And I was a surfer. I’d ride them in motion. They continued with various lyrical compositions — all of which reduced women to being sexual playthings that could be poked, creamed, ridden and so on for male pleasure. Hearing this at Uni was a laugh and I relished giving it back to the boys by bellowing retaliatory versions with friends: I wish that all the fellas. But here, I was a tiny isle, alone in a sea of cocky bravado and all I wanted was to disappear beneath the tide line. I wanted to be invisible, but the truth is, I already was.
An elder statesman paddled out to raucous welcome. I don’t know if he heard the content of their chorus. I like to think he didn’t. But he certainly didn’t look at me. I was invisible to him too. One of the boys eventually gestured to those still singing that I — a woman — was present. One by one they stopped singing. A bunch of pubescent boys had made me feel so humiliated I was on the verge of tears. I was so rattled by the experience I didn’t surf the peak again for another couple of years.
As for the litmus test…well, I think the truest test was the shame and embarrassment that seeped through me like the creep of bright red along litmus paper. I was invisible yet hyper aware of my womanhood. I certainly wasn’t an equal in that lineup and it felt like shit.
There’s nothing I love seeing more than older women who are lifelong surfers, particularly those who’ve navigated raising children whilst regularly getting wet. Women so often take on the lion’s share of childrearing and domestic responsibilities and it’s so heartening to see and learn about women that have lived such lives, and are who I’d consider role models.
