A wonderful, generous, intelligent, gorgeous woman and surfing gal-pal, Karen was a founding member of the South Steyne Surf Sistas (SSSS), an informal group of female surfers who lived in Manly and whom weather permitting, could be found most days laughing as we caught – and wiped out from - a few waves somewhere along Manly beach.
Karen lived down the road and we met in 2001 while descending the stairs at south Manly one dawn, surfed together and from then saw each other in the water and out, several times a week.
A keen surfer, Karen was devastated when diagnosed with breast cancer.
Do to ongoing treatment she was unable to surf, so the SSSS - Sophie, Laura, Alison, Belinda and Eilidh - decided that every time we went out surfing alone or together, we’d ‘catch a wave for Karen’.
Unfortunately, after her initial diagnosis she was rarely well enough to get back on her beloved surfboard, but was always keen to hear about the waves that the rest of the sistas had been riding.
A 'glass-half-full’ person, Karen was a gifted teacher and was as much an inspiration on the waves as she was in the classroom. A loving mother to Josh and Sarah, who caught the surfing bug from her and her former husband Tony, Karen loved nothing better than taking them to the beach and watching the joy on their faces as they slid doen the face of little waves.
A few years ago, Karen met and married Martin, for whom she said made the sun come out again in her life.
Family and friends are invitedto attend a Celebration of Karen's life to be held in its entirety at St Matthew's Anglican Church, The Corso, Manly, on Monday (June 15, 2009) at 2 p.m.
Prior to the service, a viewing of Karen will be held from1.20 to 1.50 p.m.Karen has requested that, instead of flowers, a collection be taken on the day to support her sponsored child in Indonesia.Karen has also requested no black to be worn at this celebration of her life.
Karen was just 48; a wonderful friend who was much loved by so many and she will be sadly missed wherever and whenever the sistas surf.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Baby, it’s cold outside
Hi my name is Alison and I'm an ice-queen.
Winter has descended onto Torquay.
Not with a roaring, stormy, squally rush, but with a gentle glacial chill.
Despite the lack of wind, the drizzle and plummeting temperature mean that if you haven’t already dusted off your 4/3 steamer, booties, hood and hot-water bottle, it’s only matter of days.
Recently I was getting into my wetsuit (should have suited up before I left the house) at the point car park one wintry Sunday dawn, I overheard a rugged-up-to-the-max dog-walker say to another as they glanced over at me, 'what makes these people go there when it's so bloody cold?'I wanted to call out, “passion, my friend, passion”.
But as I struggled with the back zip and inserted my earplugs, I had to admit that it’s more a heady mixture of passion and sheer bloody determination to down the last of your coffee from the insulated mug, kick off your woolly slippers, shed a toasty polar fleece jumper hastily donned over your PJs to drag on an often still-damp wetsuit, run across sand so cold it burns your feet despite booties and relish the warm (by comparison) ocean.
Although, when an offshore westerly signals snow dumps to cheer the hearts of skiers even as it penetrates your wetsuit, snap-freezes your spine and the waves refuse to break, you do occasionally wonder what in hell’s name you are doing out there.
Sometimes it can be bleak out there in the water with the other desperados, while everyone else appears to be at home reading the weekend papers and enjoying another slice of hot buttered raisin toast. But when the swell arrives, be it at Possos, Juc or places further south, when you paddle those numb hands and catch that icy wave and tear down its glassy face, you wouldn't change your place with kings.
It takes a special kind of person to surf through winter.
OK, I’d like to think that as someone who willingly wakes before five o’clock in the morning twelve months of the year, leaps into their swimmers without even checking the surf report and
despite modern conveniences such as surfcams and online weather reports, bundles her boards, wax, a towel and a yawning husband into the car (not in that order) before driving off to the local beach with supreme confidence that today it will be pumping despite howling winds or hail; I’d like to think that this kind of person is, well, someone cool.
But I suspect it really boils down to being obsessed and as stubborn as all get out.
Sure, it’s easy to rise before dawn during Torquay’s seemingly endless summers and spend the day alternating between the glassy waves and the shade from the wind-twisted trees at Point Danger.
But come that first autumnal hint, then the non-committed turn away from the ocean and take up squash, skiing or footy until November.
Thank goodness.
Like those who purport to follow Richmond, but in reality only cheer them when they are winning, these fickle folk don’t realize what they are missing as winter surf is exhilarating time! Not only are the waves less crowded, they are heaps more fun to ride.
Fewer surfers mean less competition and a far mellower vibe.
Any foolish rivalry, either real or imagined between the tribes shortboarders, longboarders, mal riders, waveskiers, kneeboarders, standup paddlers and bodyboarders, for the most part disappears as we all sit there, hands tucked under armpits, teeth chattering together.
As you bob up and down with your fellow desperados, you feel scorn for those who non-believers who pull into the carpark, shake their heads and return home, warm , dry and without a wave to their name.
Some of the more mature longboarders even don neoprene rubber caps, looking strangely like medieval butchers or extras from ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’ as they swiftly paddle past. Perhaps it’s because I learned to surf here in Victoria where the water might be just 10 degrees whilst the wind chill factor you’d swear under oath is no more than 11, that I shake my head at the bleats from my friends in Sydney some 1000 km north, when they complain about winter.
Still, you know how cold it is by the time it takes for your feet to numb up - when you can’t feel your toes; it’s definitely time to paddle in.
Emerging, the wind whips through you as you pelt up the sand.
In the car park you thaw your frozen feet and hands by pouring the remains of the thermos flask contents over them or a specially prepared hot water bottle; the rick is to wrap it in a towel, then plastic bag and place it under your car.
This enables you can defrost your hands to get your keys hanging on a lanyard around your neck and insert it into the car lock without help from strangers passing by), and hurriedly place said towel on the seat so you can drive home rubber-clad. On the days when my husband has the car and I cycle to the beach, I wear gloves so I can maintain grip on the handlebars and coming back, I peddle as hard as I can to get the blood going.
Dashing inside, you jump in the shower, turn the water on hot, hot, hot and are revived in the heat rush.
Later, rugged up and sipping miso soup or tea, then gobbling porridge, crumpets or poached eggs (some days you feel so starved you’d consume it all) by the fire, you relive every wave and email or text your girlfriends about the amazing rides you caught, wiped out on and the Harvey wallbanger sunrise you were privileged to witness.
Who cares about mortgages, the falling economy, your idiot boss or newspaper headlines?
Its winter waves ahoy.
The surf is up and so are my spirits.
Winter has descended onto Torquay.
Not with a roaring, stormy, squally rush, but with a gentle glacial chill.
Despite the lack of wind, the drizzle and plummeting temperature mean that if you haven’t already dusted off your 4/3 steamer, booties, hood and hot-water bottle, it’s only matter of days.
Recently I was getting into my wetsuit (should have suited up before I left the house) at the point car park one wintry Sunday dawn, I overheard a rugged-up-to-the-max dog-walker say to another as they glanced over at me, 'what makes these people go there when it's so bloody cold?'I wanted to call out, “passion, my friend, passion”.
But as I struggled with the back zip and inserted my earplugs, I had to admit that it’s more a heady mixture of passion and sheer bloody determination to down the last of your coffee from the insulated mug, kick off your woolly slippers, shed a toasty polar fleece jumper hastily donned over your PJs to drag on an often still-damp wetsuit, run across sand so cold it burns your feet despite booties and relish the warm (by comparison) ocean.
Although, when an offshore westerly signals snow dumps to cheer the hearts of skiers even as it penetrates your wetsuit, snap-freezes your spine and the waves refuse to break, you do occasionally wonder what in hell’s name you are doing out there.
Sometimes it can be bleak out there in the water with the other desperados, while everyone else appears to be at home reading the weekend papers and enjoying another slice of hot buttered raisin toast. But when the swell arrives, be it at Possos, Juc or places further south, when you paddle those numb hands and catch that icy wave and tear down its glassy face, you wouldn't change your place with kings.
It takes a special kind of person to surf through winter.
OK, I’d like to think that as someone who willingly wakes before five o’clock in the morning twelve months of the year, leaps into their swimmers without even checking the surf report and
despite modern conveniences such as surfcams and online weather reports, bundles her boards, wax, a towel and a yawning husband into the car (not in that order) before driving off to the local beach with supreme confidence that today it will be pumping despite howling winds or hail; I’d like to think that this kind of person is, well, someone cool.
But I suspect it really boils down to being obsessed and as stubborn as all get out.
Sure, it’s easy to rise before dawn during Torquay’s seemingly endless summers and spend the day alternating between the glassy waves and the shade from the wind-twisted trees at Point Danger.
But come that first autumnal hint, then the non-committed turn away from the ocean and take up squash, skiing or footy until November.
Thank goodness.
Like those who purport to follow Richmond, but in reality only cheer them when they are winning, these fickle folk don’t realize what they are missing as winter surf is exhilarating time! Not only are the waves less crowded, they are heaps more fun to ride.
Fewer surfers mean less competition and a far mellower vibe.
Any foolish rivalry, either real or imagined between the tribes shortboarders, longboarders, mal riders, waveskiers, kneeboarders, standup paddlers and bodyboarders, for the most part disappears as we all sit there, hands tucked under armpits, teeth chattering together.
As you bob up and down with your fellow desperados, you feel scorn for those who non-believers who pull into the carpark, shake their heads and return home, warm , dry and without a wave to their name.
Some of the more mature longboarders even don neoprene rubber caps, looking strangely like medieval butchers or extras from ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’ as they swiftly paddle past. Perhaps it’s because I learned to surf here in Victoria where the water might be just 10 degrees whilst the wind chill factor you’d swear under oath is no more than 11, that I shake my head at the bleats from my friends in Sydney some 1000 km north, when they complain about winter.
Still, you know how cold it is by the time it takes for your feet to numb up - when you can’t feel your toes; it’s definitely time to paddle in.
Emerging, the wind whips through you as you pelt up the sand.
In the car park you thaw your frozen feet and hands by pouring the remains of the thermos flask contents over them or a specially prepared hot water bottle; the rick is to wrap it in a towel, then plastic bag and place it under your car.
This enables you can defrost your hands to get your keys hanging on a lanyard around your neck and insert it into the car lock without help from strangers passing by), and hurriedly place said towel on the seat so you can drive home rubber-clad. On the days when my husband has the car and I cycle to the beach, I wear gloves so I can maintain grip on the handlebars and coming back, I peddle as hard as I can to get the blood going.
Dashing inside, you jump in the shower, turn the water on hot, hot, hot and are revived in the heat rush.
Later, rugged up and sipping miso soup or tea, then gobbling porridge, crumpets or poached eggs (some days you feel so starved you’d consume it all) by the fire, you relive every wave and email or text your girlfriends about the amazing rides you caught, wiped out on and the Harvey wallbanger sunrise you were privileged to witness.
Who cares about mortgages, the falling economy, your idiot boss or newspaper headlines?
Its winter waves ahoy.
The surf is up and so are my spirits.
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