On the beach in the 50s
It was a typical summer day - the temperature around 27 degrees with a light nor'easter, which arrived just after lunch, gently massaging the people on the beach.
There was decent surf at the Umina end whipped up by a southerly a few days earlier.
Every so often, a set of five or six footers would come through much to the delight of the hardy surfers waiting beyond the break.
A dozen or so lifesavers were earlier observed walking towards the south end with a few carrying flippers.
Paul "Yabba" Hughes was leading the pack, followed by Ron Callingham, the Dowling brothers, Tim Stewart, Stan Rogerson and a few others.
Once past the break, you would wait until you could see the swells breaking on the point at Mt Ettalong.
There would be shouts of "out the back" and "all on" and then, with a few strokes, you could feel the surge and power of the wave taking control.
Once the lip started to curl, you were off on another exciting, lung-busting and adrenalin-pumping ride to the beach.
Competing for the waves were a number of board riders from the club.
Not those short light balsa wood boards which later revolutionised surfing, but long narrow timber boards 16 foot long and perhaps 18 inches wide.
Most were made by club members using plywood over a timber frame.
A chrome grab handle was attached to the rear.
Numerous coats of marine varnish highlighted the grain and provided a highly polished and shiny surface.
The beach of course was a way of life for many families.
Many would spend their entire day there, either in the surf, sunbaking, or simply catching up on the Women's Weekly.
By the time you were ready to go home, you would have turned a nice shade of red, with a scolding from parents doing very little to ease the pain.
No-one knew about melanomas, and peeling skin was considered a natural consequence of a day in the sun.
Surf carnivals drew huge crowds.
Hessian would be put up along the perimeter of the carnival and a small admission charge went towards club funds.
Who can forget the spectacle of the march-past with lifesavers from all along the east coast competing.
Stirring music, colourful flags and costumes, combined with the precision and discipline of the teams, was a wonderful sight.
Competition was fierce between the clubs and if the surf was up, which didn't happen very often at Ocean Beach, there would be thrills and spills galore to add to the excitement.
Probably because of my perverse sense of humour, the highlight for me was the last event on the program - the pillowfight.
The sight of two grown men belting each other with stuffed pillows until one hit the ground in a most undignified manner was great fun.
Alan "Bully" Cross was one of the crowd's favourites.
Nuggetty and barrel-chested, he could usually dislodge his opponent with his first powerful and well-aimed swing.
The audience would go berserk with all sorts of homicidal and politically-incorrect threats being made to anyone else foolish enough to face him.
Occasionally the club would stage concerts on the beach.
Hundreds of people sitting on the embankment would be entertained by local artists.
I have used the term artists somewhat loosely as a few would not have survived an audition for Red Faces.
Stan would daub black shoe polish on his face and then regale us with his rendition of the Al Johnson hit Mammy.
On one such occasion, my schoolmate Noel Purdon and I sang April Showers freshly taught by the nuns.
Noel later became a highly-regarded don at Cambridge and Florence Universities.
There was one memorable occasion midweek when the shark alarm was sounded. There was a bell in the old clubhouse.
A full boat crew was not available and I volunteered to fill the vacant spot.
The boat was launched and with much shouting from the sweep, we caught up with the shark down the south end.
With a carefully aimed harpoon, we brought an end to the perceived danger.
We towed the monster to the beach where a huge crowd had gathered.
We were thanked profusely which was an opportune moment to take up a collection for the club.
I found out afterwards that the "killer shark" was in fact a gummy shark, a shovelnose, which was as harmless as a kitten.
This knowledge subsequently gained did not detract from the fact that we were heroes for at least 10 minutes.
When dusk finally fell on that summer day, there were only a few dogs roaming the beach and a couple of enterprising youngsters' looking for empty drink bottles to cash in the following day.
Letter, 28 Aug 2009
Fred Landman, Daley's Point