There was an incident many years ago, not back in the Dark Age (70s-80s), more like in the Middle Ages (90s-early00s), that I clearly remember.
It was a beautiful Spring day, and miraculously I found myself with a couple of child-free spare hours on a weekend. There was a slim chance of a small wave at Aggie and I really fancied a splash as I had recently become enthused by Mal riding and wanted to try and get in as much as I possibly could.
As with most surf spots in Cornwall the first clue as to the state of the swell was revealed by the car park - it was sparse. But I parked up and wandered down to have a look anyway. It was serene and lovely but barely surf-able, with just a tiny little wave nudging across the bay every few minutes or so. There was one guy sitting forlornly on his board, seemingly with the same idea as me.
Armed with the fresh revelation of how easy it was to catch waves on a longboard and determined to make use of my precious free time I decided to go for it.
There was only really one peak where the little ankle slappers were breaking, so I paddled over to join the other guy in the water. Aware of the etiquette of barging in on a solo session, I breezily asked if he minded if I shared a few. Thinking to myself that it was laughable at best to even be trying to surf on a virtually flat day and this fellow surfer would see the irony in this...
His back was to me and he half turned his head and scowled a warning at me.
"Don't take my wave."
Not quite sure I'd heard him correctly, I asked..
"Sorry mate, didn't quite catch what you said there?"
This time without even turning to make eye contact he repeated loudly.
"Just don't take my wave!"
Ah, okay obviously a local then.
I was initially shocked by the aggression and then annoyed by the arrogance. Firstly, nobody owns these waves even if you have the good fortune to grow up next to them, and secondly there was nothing at stake here apart from an occasional dribble that might just about carry enough momentum to make it to shore, maybe.
Either the guy was totally wound-up and determined to enforce some kind of locals-only priority (which St Agnes is renowned for) or he was just a dickhead. Either way I wasn't interested and carried on doing my own thing and caught as many waves as I wanted within reason, allowing plenty to pass me by as I always would when surfing with other people around me anyway.
Eventually the tide shifted and what little swell there had been fizzled away to nothing. I left the beach satisfied to have got wet, but miffed by the weird exchange with the other surfer. It left a bad taste although I have to admit it did sadly reinforce an opinion that St Agnes locals do tend to love themselves a little bit too much.
- -
Now twenty years later I believe I may have some understanding of what was going on with my friend in the sea on that flat, calm day.
The sense of privilege that let him behave in such a way must be even more bitter today. Maybe he did grow up in sleepy little St Agnes. An idyllic childhood in a charming coastal valley. Maybe he had surfed there all his life, run down to the beach after school with his mates, known everyone else in the water. And maybe he had seen the small terraced cottages get sold off to wealthy second-home owners. Now effectively no longer affordable for his own children. Maybe he was appalled by the influx of very rich, very privileged incomers who now made up most of the population and were smugly claiming the village as their own little enclave.
Maybe he'd had an inkling of what was to come all those years ago when he'd seen me paddling out to try and surf 'his wave'. Maybe he'd known all along that his privileged little village would become a victim of privilege itself.
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