We have to shift the dolosse of the mind

I thought it would never come, but the words floating on the south-easterly breeze shocked me.

 

Big Nev Wilkins, enforcer of us surf rats in the ‘70s, and race director of the historic 52nd running of the Discovery Surfers’ Challenge, or simply “Surfers” to us, was exhorting the field at the start of this weekend’s race to protect and conserve the beautiful marine and coastal environment they were about to charge, trot, walk and hobble through.

 

After a very touching prayer, he launched this environmental appeal — Nev style: ”There are bins at every water point. Pleee-ase, I beg you! Once you have finished with the plastic bags [water sachets] put them in the dirt bins.”

 

A big nod to the glorious environment through which those thousands of takkies and one trekking pole point would churn through on this excellent Saturday afternoon.

 

Two courageous women approached me a few years ago and asked that I report the devastating trashing of the entire coastline by this very race.

 

I had done this race once or twice and noticed the hundreds of plastic sachets on the road, blowing in the sand.

 

Why had I not said anything? But when they articulated the problem, it all fell into place. A dreadful act of littering was taking place in the good name of the Surfers.

 

I watched the first finishers from the surf off Corner as they loped across the beach 52 years ago.

 

Race legend Dougie Kunhardt would load all of us groms on his construction truck and ride us out for the surf adventure of our lives — to Yellow Sands and Queensberry Bay point.

 

Doug is a dedicated conservationist, and he keeps a healthy eye on what goes down at the Cefani and Kwenura rivers and for that simple, unacknowledged fact, I admire him.

 

 

 

These sachets became an obsession. First, Nev was and is adamant there is no alternative.

 

The first section of the race, from Yellows to Gonubie, is rugged and it gets hot. People need water. It is a safety issue.

 

But issuing a potential 60,000 sachets with not enough warning against littering, the critics said, was not the answer.

 

Alternatives were presented — carry your own, carry a bottle and refill it, have it in a waist belt or trail pack, or get your family, squeeze or friend to hand you water at Sunrise-on-Sea. But Nev and his committee opted to set out bins and had teams of cleaners to make sure no sachet leaked into the environment.

 

And they went at it properly. But I was never convinced it was a proper solution mainly because I did not hear enough about the conservation ethic, the reason why the race is held there. The coast.

 

It was always about winning or getting the Tee.

 

But there is still not enough acknowledgement or education about the main actor in the performance — the gorgeous place hosting you — the forests, sandy beaches, sniny gullies, trickling streams, the ku-gompo-ing surf, headlands reaching out achingly close, yet placing before you a menacing, gruelling natural obstacle course where every little point set up as your next personal totem is reached.

 

So, there I was, the only one walking with a stick, joining all the 65-year-olds for our early, honorary 15-minute head start.

 

Lamb was there, so was Niel Henderson, who is an athlete, unlike the rest of us semi-retired surfers, and the forever young Mickey Witthuhn.

 

And who should be ambling along to join me but big Div, known to so many, who tried to extol me to join him in the full walk. But I was working and a walking wounded. I was there for the experience, the jorl.

 

After his, for me, groundbreaking appeal, Nev quipped: “I have 100 people on my back, I just wish they were women and not men.

 

“So, I just say to you, please throw the plastic bags in the dirt box. There is plenty of water so don’t waste it.”

 

 

 

So off we went, and what a joy to have the field to ourselves for what turned out to be quite a distance. We were already around the point and on the beach when the leaders came bounding along.

I was thrilled at how the closure of the road around Yellow’s Point has seen nature return.

 

Instead of the churned, braided, smashed and muddy flats, a mystical path is appearing, giving a stunning backdrop to the huge swells which rise out of the deep to rumble and unload onto the dolerite bricks.

 

This is ku-gompo super plus!

 

Back on the trail, it was so edifying to see all the locals, people I know from surfing, from struggle, from journalism out on the beach waiting to cheer authentic participants on, my chinas Janette and VJ and their grandy, the Manthes and Dave Ridge.

 

Then lots of howzits from my colleagues Mfundo Piliso, editor of Go! and Yondela Ndlebe, our marketing guru co-ordinator at the Dispatch and Go! Ah, now this is how to meet the community on the frontline. Later comms get graunched, and so help me, people at Go! (Wendy and Cheryl) who don’t hear from our runners start getting ready to call the calvary!

 

 

 

Later, Mfundo and Yondela appear in guerrilla-styled Tees to prove they are still alive and victorious. I have a little pulse of pride at our mense getting out there and rocking the milkwoods.

 

Lots of chatting near Kwelera village, the runners are going by, and soon it is time to head on and I realise, not one piece of race litter!

 

I hear my name and it is a race organiser with bag in hand saying, if I did not hurry I would be a DNF (did not finish).

 

But I have no intention of finishing. My race plan is to get to Gonubie Hotel, turn right and go home.

 

Up ahead I see the first water point. But again, I hear voices, my name being called and this time it is two fit women, also bags in hand. They are the official race sweeps, meaning I am officially out of the race. So no Tee for me. Meh. I reach the station, a gazebo and staff from Red Alert bringing along a few bags of trash.But first I meet Rob Rankin, a topless Sunrise-on-Sea man clutching the bagpipes.

 

The pipe major of the East London Caledonian Pipe Band says how lekka it is to see the beach so clean and being cleaned up and we proceed to do an inspection while he belts out Scotland the Brave in my ear. My soulful Scottish gran Lilith McMillan would be dancing in her grave.

 

Time is passing, and I need to get to the climate disaster dune, says the crazy climate reporter I live with. Rainbow Valley is fast becoming Rainbow Crags. The sea has chowed the coast.

 

The dune is steep, trees have fallen, and there is a steep bouldery section to get the runners down to the steep pebble beach.

 

But first I see two pieces of litter in a stunning little cove. Two! A cheap gel and Surfers sachet. And this is when the gong strikes. Yes, this looks like wilful trashing. But hey, only two and we are almost 5km in!

 

This race is incredibly clean. Big ups to you, Nev and team.

 

I get to the last point before it is too steep and see where bums have slid and I think, ah, old climbing skills, and start to ease in, soon finding myself face down in the sludge, a triangle of rock poking my belly.

 

And I see two more sachets but these are not deliberate — they probably fell out during all the downclimbing action.

 

 

 

My final tally of sachets —12 — and I see a few more pics online. So if it is 20 or 30 or 40 that is an incredible reduction of sachets landing up in the environment.

 

 

 

 

 

A team of contractors, one in gumboots, was standing in that sewage river created by the broken Kwelera-Gonubie Wastewater Treatment Works erecting an impressive 6m-wide bridge for runners to cross.

 

I feel for the race organisers who tried so hard to have the spill fixed. But that is how it goes these days — corruption has hollowed out budgets.

 

But this too shall pass and I have no doubt that Surfers will outlive the current order.

 

 

 

We have to shift the dolosse of the mind. Daily Dispatch