After a few face- plants into the Murray, your author’s away After a few face- plants into the Murray, your author’s away
Images: Sarah Morton, NSW Tourism

It’s for this reason that 100,000 adrenalin-hungry pilgrims descend on the town each year to watch the world’s largest waterski race, the Southern 80. The design of the race is simple: 80km long, 126 bends, quickest time wins. Back in ’71, the winning time was a tick under 57 minutes. This year’s winner did it in half an hour. Do the maths on that and you’ll realise these blokes are really moving. And yes, it’s as precarious as it sounds – in the past five years three racers have died. Last year, 43-year-old Melbournian Tim Driver hit the water with such force his heart simply gave up the ghost. The medics never stood a chance. The next morning the crowds held a minute’s silence for their fallen comrade, then sat down to watch a day of carnage where seven more skiers left the river in the back of an ambulance.

And on this afternoon, as Sands and I shoot down the river in his boat, I can’t help but note a small shrine – a faded Australian flag pinned above a posy of pink flowers – erected on the edge of the river. Nestled amidst the bony trunks of fallen eucalypts, it’s a dark and lonely sight.Sands first competed in the Southern 80 when he was 11; since then he’s braved a handful of appearances. I ask him about the race, about the adrenaline, the fear. He has a hard block of jaw and thin slit of mouth not given to elaboration. “Mate, it’s pretty hairy,” he drawls over the thunder of the engine. “You just hold on.”

Just hold on: it’s salient advice for a novice skier. Firstly, it’s wisdom born of the fact that letting go and hitting the water, even at modest speeds, is an uncomfortable experience. After face-planting on my second attempt, then stubbornly white-knuckling the handle, I simultaneously receive a bullock kick to the face and a gallon of river water to the belly. Secondly, it’s wisdom born of the fact that, once you’re up and standing, holding on to the handle should be the most strenuous aspect of skiing. As Sands repeats, over and over while I’m on the water (he has a rather nifty radio hook-up built into the carbon fibre helmets the skiers must wear), the key is to relax your arms and soften your legs. “Lean back,” he says, “and let the boat do the work.” It’s easier than it sounds. As the boat picks up speed my shoulders, arms, hips, quads seize hard against the movement, fighting the boat with all my strength. Within a few minutes my body is burning with lactic acid.

But when I finally grasp the concept of working with the engine, when I stop trying to halt the pull of 450 horses with flexed arms and clenched buttocks, there’s an almost ecstatic ease to coasting down the ancient river while the grey gums and parched banks tear past. Hell, I don’t even notice the sombre little shrine when it whips by. It’s an ecstasy, I imagine, that must seem almost transcendental during the Southern 80, when you’re pushing 160km/h and the banks of the river blur to a grey smear and the cheers of the crowd are drowned-out by the scream of the engine. On the other hand, it’s an ecstatic ease, I guess, that was no doubt missed by the whiskered deckhands on the old paddle steamers who had nothing but a quart of gritty home brew, a spot of card playing and a hard bed in a cold tunnel to look forward to.

– Aaron Scott