CHATTERBOX

 

I don't know when he got so chatty.

Honestly, he talks and talks without end it seems. But, here's the punchline - it's always good.

Top quality entertainment, plenty of info, a sprinkle of wisdom all floating on a magic carpet ride of freeform imagination. I don't know how he does it. You could say I'm in awe of the bloke.

He'll describe how he approaches an airline meal on a long haul flight. And I'm right there, tuned in and soaking it all up. Next thing you know, we're underwater and he's gliding along the seabed explaining how to use your fins so as not to disturb the coral. Then we're drinking coffee in Sri Lanka and it's the best thing in the world to do even when it's also probably one of the most terrible cups of coffee you could ever buy. An hour and a half later, I'm buzzing and I've still got my coat on, haven't even taken my hat off yet. Only meant to drop off his card and present on my way home. 

It was his birthday this week but he already has a gift, the gift of the gab.

DAVID HOLMES EVERY TIME

 

Hong Kong, early 90s.

Place had a very serious end-of-the-world vibe. 

In a few years time it would be handed back to the People's Republic of China following 156 years of very laissez-faire British governance and who knows how that will play out? Therefore, pedal to the metal, we're flying headfirst towards the end of the road anyway so don't think too much.

Lan Kwai Fong (also known as Too Far Gone in keeping with the spirit of the times) was where you went to keep the buzz going on those hot sultry HK nights. 

One particular Saturday sticks in the memory. Two different UK DJs playing on the same night in a couple of clubs a few streets apart. David Holmes or Brandon Block? 

During my short stay in Hong Kong I'd found myself lumped in with a rag-tag bunch of expats and we'd generally meet up in a few of the bars and then kick-on into the early hours, drinking way too much, talking gibberish and generally getting messy.

Anyway, consensus amongst this group was that Brandon Block was the geezer of choice. I'd had my doubts about these people all along and this just confirmed it. No taste, no style.

Couldn't convince them otherwise, so I left them to it and headed off to a rooftop club.

David Holmes every time!

MY ASCENDANT DESCENDANT

 

Rumour of a wave. So I head down to the bay, it's 2 foot and clean, no wind, dropping tide.

It's a warm night and a hazy sun gives off a dull beige glow. Not the sparkling Hollywood glitter of the previous evening, but the waves are better. I paddle out in the rivermouth rip at the north end and catch a couple of lefts.

I see my son further down the beach on the middle peak. As usual he is catching plenty of waves. I paddle over to greet him. We chat, remarking that it seems relatively quiet given that this is the first reasonable swell in over a month and it's a Friday night. Maybe everyone just headed straight to the pub after work.

My surfing ability has taken a deep dive over the last year coinciding neatly with Cealan's elevated skill levels. As I get older and slower, he grows in confidence and has rapidly overtaken me in terms of how well he now surfs. He is already better than I ever was.

I used to have a personal rule that dictated I had to catch a 3 wave minimum every session. Not an ambitious quota but one I could achieve quite comfortably, indeed sometimes hitting up to 30 waves on my better days. Nowadays I'll settle for a flipped version of that rule where I aim for a 3 wave maximum - and I'll admit that there have been a few sessions where I've struggled to hit that number.

Anyway, I had four good ones under my belt so I decide to catch one in and head home. Low tide now, so I walk back across the beach and climb the rocks up the cliff.

Once up on the cliff I turn and gaze back out to sea. I always pause like this apres-surf, taking a mental picture of the scene for the memory bank. I see lines approaching and watch as a set bulges up on the peak and I instantly recognise my son's silhouette stroking into the first wave. He swoops left, cross-steps to the nose, steps back, pirouettes a swift 360 (his signature move) and walks back up the board. It's a classic 'Cealan' ride. As he stalls on the tail to flick his board up and out of the whitewater he simultaneously looks up at the cliff, raises his arm and gives me a wave goodbye.

Eyes like a hawk, that kid.

WITH EACH PASSING DAY THE EARTH BENEATH MY FEET GETS FURTHER AWAY

I swear it's true - reaching down to pick something up from the ground gets harder and harder every year.

Ironic really, given that I'm probably shrinking a little bit as the seasons pass. You'd think a bit of a stoop and some general lowering of the centre of gravity would help. But nope, definitely more effort required to reach the shoelaces every morning these days.

So why does the earth feel further away than it used to? It clearly isn't, maybe it is just the sense I feel that the earth is calling me downwards. And my old bones are resisting gravity's pull as a last stubborn stand against the inevitable march of time?

Life, it is so very cyclical isn't it? We're born to be low down to the ground, literally. Unable to stand and designed to spend that first year crawling around on our bellies in the dirt.

But instinctively we want to raise ourselves up, to reach for the heavens, aspire to be tall. And we grow like weeds, pushing upwards and onwards. We leave the dirt behind, we want far horizons, blue skies, we want the stars themselves.

After a couple of decades or so we reach our peak. We are naturally the fittest, strongest and most fertile we'll ever be. Of-course we then spend the next couple of dozen years trying to maintain this peak, striving to extend the virility. Working endlessly to push, pull and drag ourselves up to a new plateau where we hope we'll feel safe and secure, beyond the reach of the inevitable decline. Never imagining that we too will succumb to frailty and become diminished versions of ourselves some day.

But slowly, and it is ever so slowly at first, gravity pulls us back down to earth. Gravity and time bow our heads, bear down on our shoulders, slow our steps. We may not want to admit it, but we can certainly feel the earth calling us down. That's right folks, we all know it's true, (although none of us want to think about it) - nobody gets out of here alive.

And so the circle of life, we suddenly realise, isn't like a merry-go-round but actually more like a Ferris wheel, the ground seeming to rush up towards us, our ride nearly over. Too soon, way too soon.

But we are returning to earth - back where we came from, back to where it all started.

MIXED DOUBLES

A beautiful and sunny Saturday morning, clean little waves and no wind. 

It's changeover day, which means all the tourists are either packing up, vacating their holiday homes and hitting the road if they're of the outgoing variety. Or they're stuck on the A30 in traffic on the way down if they are the incoming variety.

It leaves a nice little window to get in the surf without the crowds.

Me and R hit Gwithian before breakfast, just as we're getting suited up Cealan & Z pull up with exactly the same idea in mind. So it's almost a family affair and we paddle out to a little right hander that works pretty sweetly on an incoming tide.

We have it all to ourselves for a while and then Pete Dudley paddles over and joins us. We know Pete, he's a good surfer and a nice guy, originally from Wales but now a St Ives local (and incidentally an uncle to the very talented longboarder Elliot Dudley).

We all take turns sliding into quick, glassy peelers. During a nice 5-wave set Pete, Cealan and Z have all taken waves. R and I both paddle for the last wave & find ourselves riding in side by side. As we glide along the face next to each other Pete is paddling back out. 

In his broad Welsh accent he yells, "Lovely... Just like Torvill and Dean!

(Disclaimer: R and I have never ridden a tandem surfboard together. And it is impossible to find a tandem surfing image that isn't blatantly sexist.)

SURF KNOTS

Surfing has revealed my Achilles heel* - or more accurately, my Achilles toe!

After a long winter of having to wear boots as a necessity, it is always a welcome turning point in the year when Easter arrives and the temperatures rise enough to ditch the kook boots**! I absolutely love those first few surfs back in the summer suit at the start of Spring when I can feel the wax beneath my toes again.

Here in Cornwall, the tail end of May saw an unbelievably good run of swell paired with balmy weather and a high pressure system that puffed offshore breezes across the peninsula non-stop for over a week. It was nuts!

Okay, it also meant the crowds were off the hook. But, by some magical meteorological coincidence those perfect conditions just stayed the same all day long everyday.

It was great, meant I could check the cams a couple of times during the day whilst at work to get a sense of where it was looking good, wait until almost dusk for the crowds to thin out and then go enjoy some sunset glass to satisfy my soul.

I did it again the following evening, and the next and the next... A total of 7 surfs in 7 days! Bliss.

Until I looked at my feet. Bliss had turned into blister and what I can only describe as a small pot-hole had been ground into the side of my big toe. Caused it seems by what my son laughingly refers to as 'foot dragger style'. Every night there was blood on the sand, then during the following day it would form a thin scab only to get knocked off again by the end of that night after yet another surf. Making that hole a little deeper, a little more gnarly every time. Can there be too much of a good thing?

Needless to say, it's now gone pear-shaped. Couple of nights ago, my whole foot was on fire and I could barely walk the next day. The evening spent in A&E confirmed an infection and the result is the next 7 days on antibiotics and probably spent out of the water too.

Maybe I should have kept those kook boots on after all...

- - - 

* If you don't know the origin of the term Achilles' Heel, click the link, it's a cool Greek myth. 

** I wear Solite boots in the Winter, they are the best boots I've ever owned - truly game-changers!

A TOWN CALLED PRIVILEGE

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.

THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE

I had always imagined that somehow in my autumn years, the natural manifestation of all life's experience and knowledge would magically deliver me to a beautiful state of mind and a comfortable place where I would be 'Healthy, Wealthy & Wise.'

Of-course the reality is much more like 'Fucked Up, Hard Up & None the Wiser Why...'

And this is absolutely fine, I'm ok with it, in fact it's a perfect life lesson. 

I'm learning how to come to terms with the truth whilst still believing in the dream.

- - - 

"And you may find yourself 
Living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself 
In another part of the world
And you may find yourself 
Behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house
With a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself, well
How did I get here?

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the blue again after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground

And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the blue again after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground

Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was

Water dissolving and water removing
There is water at the bottom of the ocean
Under the water, carry the water
Remove the water at the bottom of the ocean!
Water dissolving and water removing

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the blue again into silent water
Under the rocks and stones, there is water underground

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the blue again after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground

You may ask yourself
What is that beautiful house?
You may ask yourself
Where does that highway go to?
And you may ask yourself
Am I right? Am I wrong?
And you may say to yourself
"My God! What have I done?"

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the blue again into the silent water
Under the rocks and stones, there is water underground

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the blue again after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground

Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Look where my hand was
Time isn't holding up
Time isn't after us
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Letting the days go by
Same as it ever was
And here the twister comes
Here comes the twister

Letting the days go by (same as it ever was)
Same as it ever was (same as it ever was)
Letting the days go by (same as it ever was)
Same as it ever was
Once in a lifetime
Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by.."

- - - 

Once in a lifetime - lyrics by David Byrne

SEPTEMBER ENDER RANDUMBS

Been thinking about family lines a bit lately...

My paternal Grandfather - Always wore a suit, nearly always with a bow-tie (unless he was just staying indoors for the afternoon, in which case he'd forgo the bow). He didn't like shaving so carried a modified bulldog clip and would pluck out his whiskers at spare moments throughout the day.

My paternal Grandmother - She would swear at us kids in Swahili when we got on her nerves.

My paternal Grandfather - He used to write to me in Morse Code - long hand-written pages of dots and dashes. It takes dozens of pages to write a letter in Morse. -... . .-.. .. . ...- . / -- .

My maternal Grandmother - She would always correct my pronunciation.
"Not 'Yeah"... the word is pronounced 'YESsss!".
But she still had baked beans in her cupboard from about 1950 so I didn't take her that seriously.

My maternal Grandfather - A brown Rover 3500 was his pride and joy - if we were good he'd let us sit in the front, at all other times we were strictly backseat citizens.

GOIN' LEFT - the story of a wave

..go very left.

Me and Stu went for an early one - it was a decent sized swell, coupled with very strong southerly winds. Which left us with only a couple of sheltered options. We scoped a spot and decided to go for it.

The paddle out was the usual Cornish-beachy-at-size slog, and there was a sweeping rip to the north, so any loitering in the line-up resulted in a drift up the beach requiring another head-down, salty-eyed paddle against the wind to get back in position.

The waves were overhead, but it soon became apparent that only one or two waves in each set were actually peaking & peeling while the rest of the them were top-to-bottom closeouts.

We both snagged a couple of good ones and then as the tide dropped out and the waves got even steeper we noticed a particular bank start firing - the wave was jacking up in exactly the same spot each time and doing as good an impression of a left-hand reef break as you'll see on our local beaches. The shoulder lurching up, spitting out a crest of whitewater and then scooping out into a rapid, peeling left across the sandbank.

The wind was a challenge though, because unless you were right under the lip and right on the peak, it would gust up the wave face so hard that it lifted the nose of the board, stalling you in the lip - frustrating...

The only option was to sit deeper and have faith that the offshore would hold up the wave and allow enough time to get in.

A set rolled through, the lip already feathering as I decided to go for it. Luck was on my side as this one stayed open, and I stroked down the face feeling the momentum shift as the wave folded over and knew I was in.

Then it got interesting. It was really steep, and as I looked down the line all I could see was a near vertical wall of dark green water ahead of my left shoulder with no sign of any tapering wall beyond it. (Note: I'm a regular foot) But it didn't feel like a close-out somehow, and I certainly didn't have time to straighten out. So the only option was to drive on.

I'm definitely not confident on my backhand when it gets steep, so I dropped the back knee, grabbed my outside rail and leaned down on the nose to try and accelerate around the corner before that thing dumped on my head. But the wave was still lifting itself up on the bank and I had a long way to go before I was anywhere near a bottom turn. So I just held fast and hoped for a good outcome.

Because I'd thrown my weight forward and the wave face was now going beyond vertical I felt the fins break free and the tail started slipping and skipping about... This was where a facet of board design that I've always believed to be absolutely key really came into play - it was the rail that was now doing the bulk of the work keeping me and the board going across the face. If you need visual proof, watch Ben Thouard's beautiful underwater footage here. Clearly shows how important your rails are.

Luckily, despite the fins slipping out, the rail bit in and I managed to hold on until the wave caught up with itself and I made it out onto the face.

Beginning to really enjoy goin' left these days.

SUNDAY RAMBLES

I really like summer - I get an evil little thrill out of seeing all those terrible tattoos that spend the majority of the year hidden from view.

The good doctor - Hunter S Thompson was the undisputed King of Gonzo - but above and beyond all the madness he was an excellent journalist. Read 'Gonzo Papers, Vol. 1: The Great Shark Hunt' for some of his brilliant essays and articles from the 60s & 70s. I can only begin to imagine what he would have to say about the state of world politics today.

The yin & yang of surfdom - Had another pleasant dawny with Stu and Cealan yesterday. Summer surfing is just so easy (apart from the damn parking - hence doing the dawnys). Warm water, light wetsuits & fun waves all lull me into a sense of well-being. But summer also increases the kook count - part of why I started surfing in the first place was to get away from these people. Now they're clogging up the waves. Light and shade, good and bad, the yin and yang... continuing to seek balance.

IN THEIR OWN TIME

The kids have always been beach babies - riding their first waves at the age of 4.

C 2004 ....

T 2004 ....

And we've all done maximum beach-time every summer since.

But despite [or maybe because of] me kind of pushing them both to paddle out the back they were only ever really interested in playing in the surf on their own terms; ie for fun!

Which, of-course is the way it should always be & ultimately I was totally happy with that. But a small part of me wondered if they would ever get 'into' surfing..

Over the next few years we all continued to hit the beach regularly; swimming, surfing, boogie-boarding etc and always having great fun. And T & C both found their own buzz - playing all kinds of sports and enjoying tons of activities with Tyde becoming a top 4X & MTB rider and Cealan playing rugby at County level.

T 2014 ....

Then at the beginning of this year as we kicked off with a run of perfect S Coast swell for a week over Xmas & New Year, Cealan suddenly found his groove in the water.

C 2016 .... (Photo - Rob P)

Now he's totally up for it - if there's any hint of a wave, he's there.

No need to rush, what will be will be.

RANDUMBS - JULY 2016

Sometimes (most of the time) I don't have much to say, but just feel like saying something anyway...

Got in for a nice dawny this morning - after about a week of onshore slop. Had a few smooth lefts. I think I've finally overcome my mental stutter on steep backside drops. 'Crouching tiger' style seems to work for me - probably looks like shit but at least I'm making 'em.

I think I'm numerically dyslexic - I just can't get my head around exchange rates. Every time I try and figure it out my little brain goes cloudy. In reality I never leave my locale anyway so it doesn't come up that often.

I know it's not good for me but I really like toast - eat way too much of it. And as soon as I'm done with the condiments (most popular being Marmite, followed by Peanut Butter then Jam - never Marmalade) they go immediately back in the cupboard. Immediately. I'm quite tidy in the kitchen.

Are rabbits vermin? For the first time ever we have rabbits in the garden. They look harmless enough nibbling the grass at dusk, but I know for a fact they'll soon start making little bunny hops towards my lettuce and then it'll be all out war. So I'm trialling some scent repellents for now, but I'm seriously considering getting an owl.

A TALE FROM THE CITY

...

It was a dream come true when Skane asked me if I wanted to be Art Director for Skateboard! magazine in 1989. I packed up my Renault 5 with all my possessions and moved up to London to join Skane (editor), Meany (deputy editor) and Steve (ad sales) at Advanced Publishing, an independent magazine publisher founded by journalist Mark Williams.

On my very first deadline, only 3 weeks into the job, the printers were hassling for the finished layouts and I had to go back into the office over the weekend to finish the cover. So I was the only one in the building, frantically working away on a Saturday morning, when a bloke came striding through the front door.

"Ere mate, where is everybody?" he asked, scanning the empty offices beyond my desk.
"Only me today" I chirped.
"Well, I've come to collect your old fax - new one coming Monday innit." He said moving towards the big, sturdy fax machine in the hall.
So I hopped off my stool and crawled under the desk it was on to pull out the plug and help him lift it. It was after all quite a lump.
"D'ya want a hand out with that?" I offered.
"Nah, you're alright mate - I can manage." And off he went.

I went back to my drawing board and spent the rest of the day on my own finalising the magazine and getting it all ready for the printers.

On Monday morning I strolled into the office, feeling upbeat about having got ahead of the deadline with the intention of delivering the artwork to the repro guys within the hour.

But I was greeted by the sight of a crowd of editors and production managers alongside the boss all standing by the empty space where the fax machine usually was. I quickly gathered that there was some confusion and concern - after all this was pre-internet, pre-computer and the fax machine was at the very heart of communications in those days. And here was a busy publishing company producing a handful of different magazines who all relied on that fax for virtually every word that came into the building.

"Oh, if you're wondering about the old fax machine," I helpfully piped up, "the bloke took it away on Saturday."

Everybody stopped talking and all heads swivelled to face me.

I started to explain about being here on my own and helping to hand over the fax. But before I got any further with my little speech everybody suddenly started talking again. Only this time they were using lots of swear words accompanied by furious glares in my direction.

Luckily Mark Williams ushered me into his office and away from the wrath of a company full of people suddenly facing a shitload of extra hassle first thing on a Monday morning. "Which 'bloke' took it on Saturday, Sqeez?" he asked.

Somehow as I began to repeat the story of the random man wandering into an empty office on a Saturday morning and then waltzing out with an expensive piece of technology, it became clearer to me that perhaps I had been a touch naive..

"Oh shit! - Mark I'm really sorry, I'll pay for a new one, you can take it out of my wages." I blurted.

Luckily for me he was a very cool cat and just said that I should perhaps be a tad less trusting in future as he called out to his secretary to firstly organise a new fax machine and then get the insurers on the line.

For the next few days there would be repeated calls to me from the hallway outside the studio..

"Fax coming in for Sqeez!"

CLOSER THAN YOU THINK

- - - -
I wrote this in July 2012 and posted it on 'The Inertia'.
Decided it was time to re-home it here on Kernowkalling.
- - - -

Surf Bathing at Perranporth c.1925 - courtesy: Francis Frith Collection

The other day I was having a leisurely chat with my neighbour – we had thoroughly dissected the local surf scene, discussed our fantasy boards (yet again) and bemoaned the recent weather as English people always do. The conversation then took a slight swerve when he asked if I’d done much surf travel.

Although by no means could I be considered an accomplished adventurer it turned out that compared to him I’d visited a lot more countries and surfed a few of the known hot spots around the world. He immediately asked where I thought the best place for surf was. It’s a good question and I imagine he was expecting me to rave about Indo or Fiji or Australia. But despite never having really given it much thought before, it took me only a moment or two to come up with an answer.

“Here.” I said, smiling when his laughter morphed into a look of bewilderment as he realized I actually wasn’t joking.

In fact, I’m quite serious when I say that the waves I get here in Cornwall are better than those I got in Indo or Fiji.

“What!” I can almost hear you cry, “How can surf in England ever be compared with Bali?” Hard to believe I know, but bear with me as there is a certain logic to my argument. Basically it all boils down to the numbers. I’ve surfed thousands of waves at home compared to the few dozen or so I scored on trips to Indo or the Canaries for example. As enjoyable & memorable as those trips were, the sheer volume of waves I ride at my local beaches tips the probability of scoring those occasional primo stand-out sessions heavily in favour of doing so right here at home.

From my house I can be in the water and paddling out within 20 minutes of noticing that the wind has suddenly dropped off. Such reasonably instant access combined with a little local knowledge has rewarded me with some of the best sessions I’ve ever had. Anywhere. OK, it may not be crystal-clear, overhead barrels in warm tropical waters, but compared to the few times when I was lucky enough to actually score waves like that – I’ve had countless other sessions that offered just as much stoke within a few miles of my front door… Glassy sunset surfs with just a friend and I swapping waves. Long peeling walls running for a hundred metres shared with dolphins and seals. Perfect turquoise peaks zippering across soft sand bars on a pushing tide. Big & bouncy, swooping faces that got the adrenalin well and truly fizzing. Classic windless dawnys with nobody else even on the beach, etc, etc. The list goes on and on.

Significantly I haven’t had to spend loads of cash or leave my family behind to trek half way around the world with no guarantee that there will be waves waiting for me at journeys end either. Plus, I’ve also been surprised so many times by seemingly borderline conditions turning out to be great sessions that I’ve learned to never discount those times as opportunities to score some fun either.

So, all things considered, maybe the notion that sometimes the best surf in the world is right on our own doorstep isn’t as far-fetched as it sounds.

I THINK WE SHARED A WAVE

- - - -
I wrote this in September 2012 and posted it on 'The Inertia'. Decided it was time to re-home it here on Kernowkalling.
- - - -

Sheep Dip, Gwithian c.1955 - courtesy: Francis Frith Collection

It was such a beautiful Saturday – another of those perfect September days that we seem to be blessed with every year after the tourists have all left and the kids have finished their summer break and are back in school.

We were up early and loading the van with boards and and an icebox full of grub. A quick coffee for me and some cereal for the kids and we headed straight for the beach. Roisin had a morning appointment, so would cycle to the coast and join us there after lunch.

By 9.30am I was clambering down the goat path following our twin 12yr olds and looking out at perfect, clean little waves spinning across the beach. We paddled out and joined a handful of other surfers picking off sparkling waves under the already warming sun with barely a puff of wind. It was truly blissful.

The kids were like happy seals, bobbing about in the waves and I paddled across to a right-hand peak that I knew usually started to turn on as the tide pushed up. Sure enough, luck was on my side, and the next set produced a zippy right that lifted me up before catapaulting me down the line. Even as I was racing across the smooth aqua face I was holding onto the moment, burning it into my memory, knowing that it was a gift of a wave on a near perfect Cornish morning.

It was afterwards, as I waded back in through the rockpools with my wetsuit peeled down to my waist, enjoying the sun on my back that I thought of him. Ray always loved this beach, he’d been a regular here for decades – one of the locals since the early 80s, always happy to chat between sets. I’d heard that they’d discovered a tumour at the beginning of the year and it was about as bad as it could be. The doctors had given him just a few months to live.

Why did I think of Ray on that particular morning? I hadn’t actually heard any news of him for a while. Perhaps, my subconscious was reminding me, as I was counting my own blessings to be out surfing with my children on such a beautiful day, that others were not so lucky. Maybe that’s why I’d thought of Ray, who in all probability would never surf this beach again. So right there and then I silently wrote his name upon the memory of the wave I’d enjoyed so much. It felt right. It felt like we’d shared that wave. I joined up with the children and we headed back to the van to scoff sandwiches and glug down some cold juice. Not long after Roisin arrived and soon we were all back in the water catching waves and enjoying the rest of the afternoon.

The next morning brought an altogether different day – Sunday dawned cloudy and damp with a gusty west wind that would have ripped the small surf to shreds – not a beach day at all. In the afternoon I got a phone call to say that Ray had passed away on Saturday morning at about 9.30am.

(Ray Tovey – RIP)

THE TAMANA TREE FIN

Phil & Pochi with the hand-made fin in the Ogasawara Islands (1000kms south of Tokyo) before it began its long journey to Cornwall.

Out of the blue a parcel arrived from my old friend Phil in Tokyo.

Inside was a letter, some photos and another well-wrapped package. Proper old-school, typed letter and prints on photographic paper. I was intrigued and already lovin it!

This is what the letter said:

Hey Sqz and Roisin

Hope this letter finds you and the kids well. While we were in the Ogasawara Islands, I met up with a local surfer called Pochi. He's 60 years old and has lived there for 30 years. He ALWAYS rides a single-fin and for 20 years he's been making his own fins.

He makes them using wood from a native tree that grows in abundance on the islands called the Tamana tree. He'll spend a week or so getting the fin right, then gives it three coats of resin. He also sells/displays them in a gallery space attached to a bar in 'town'. The owner of the bar could trace his family line all the way back to one of the original settler families in 1830.

I used to see Pochi most mornings there was surf and sometimes later at the bar which is called 'Yankeetown', built coincidentally around a massive Tamana tree. The reason for the name of the bar is that the area (Okumura) used to be known as Yankeetown when the islands were run by the Americans after the war - they only reverted back to Japanese control in 1968.

One night after Pochi showed me his latest fin, an addition to what could be called quite an experimental quiver of fins, I decided to make both him and hopefully you guys happy by linking up The Bonin Islands and deepest Cornwall. This fin may be mostly for you Sqz, but I'm sure Roisin will have a go and both of you will get a buzz from the look and feel of it anyway. (Actually, Sqz may well end up having to ask for his turn with it...)

Either way I hope you enjoy it. Pure and simple, I saw something in a place you'll probably never get to visit, that I really thought you'd love. Hope you do.

Phil & Miki

"Pochi said he'd tried the fin out & if you add a bit of insulating tape around the base it should stay solid in any fin box."

"Ishiura on the East coast where Pochi reckons there is always a bit of swell if it's offshore. No direct access. 45 minute walk down a steep jungle track to the main beach of Hatsuneura in the foreground, then a 20 minute paddle around the headland into Ishiura."

"In this photo you can just about make out small swell lines tickling Ishiura, which means Rock Inlet, Pochi's local break."

Apologies for picture quality. Photos snapped on crappy old mobile - no camera currently.

FREEDOM

Skateboarding in Afghanistan - pic courtesy of Skateistan.

Freedom is a skateboard.

Freedom to roll, freedom to defy gravity, freedom to both create and destroy.

A few years ago I made the decision to ease off skating and replace it with surfing - I could foresee that slower reflexes and older bones would limit my ability to be free on a skateboard. During my last year of serious skateboarding I felt the balance between freedom and fear slipping too heavily towards the latter. So I now spend any spare time I get surfing. It's just not the same...

Surfing is reliant on way too many factors to be truly free in the way that skateboarding is. There has to be the right conditions; tide, swell, wind and even daylight must be considered.

Suddenly get the overwhelming urge to bomb some hills at midnight - no problem. Fancy going for a surf after dark - good luck with that.

Surfing doesn't even feel particularly free either - not where I live anyway. Carparks and kooks are just two elements that clutter up the experience. The only way to avoid them is by living right on the beach or getting up really damn early.

Skating is both singular and plural. If you wanna just cruise on your own, then grab your stick, walk out your door and go skate - simple. If you want to be social, that's fine too, skaters are incredibly friendly and inclusive. Surfing doesn't really give you the choice. Catching a solitary wave is wishful thinking mainly. Surfing by its nature is exclusive. Making friends in the line-up, sharing waves, taking turns, spreading the stoke - all fine in theory but in reality it's every man, woman and child for themselves.

I'm the same in all honesty, even though I try and be as mellow as possible in the line-up I can all too easily become a rabid wave-hunter seeing my fellow humans as obstacles rather than compadres. To me that doesn't feel like freedom, it feels too much like all the other shite that I tried to leave back in the carpark.

Freedom is a choice, freedom is a state of mind - I need to remember that.

SLIDE PROJECT

The Slide Projector 8'6 x 23".

I've loved this board since even before the day I got it.

Partly because it was conceived at least a year before the day I collected it from Jolly Roger. I spent hours sketching shapes and researching outlines and rockers and tail shapes before I finally bit the bullet and handed it over to Roger to bring to life. He did a great job and from the very first surf it felt good under my feet.

But I've realised it is very hard to have one board that can ever be an all-rounder. The broad, slightly hully lines are great in certain conditions yet not so much in others. So I mix it up with a very traditional 9'4 single-fin noserider (which I also then try and ride in anything, often when it really isn't suitable)...

I've had this board (which I call 'Yelo' although officially labelled 'The Slide Projector') for a few years now and it's served me really well, I've had some great waves on it. I wanted a wide, high-volume board with low rocker, which has worked a treat in getting me into waves early. And the sharp-railed diamond tail fitted with a 7" 4a Greenough flex tip fin gives surprisingly good manoeuvrability too.

Having said all that I'm considering heading back up to Bude to ask Roger to make v2.0. Get everything tweaked a bit. Take it down from 8'6 to 8'4 or maybe even 8'0, slim it down a bit too and increase nose rocker by an inch or so. Definitely won't make it an all-rounder (they don't exist) but it will make it a little slicker in the drop, a little quicker off the bottom and maybe push my surfing a little harder too.

It'll still be yellow though!

WATERSMEET

Man is 70% water, the planet is 70% water. 98% of the water on Earth is saltwater. Whichever way you look at it, that's a helluva lot of water.

Quite easy then, to understand why I'm so addicted to splashing about in the stuff. Not only am I in my element, but the H2O element is mostly in me as well.

One of my favourite breaks locally is a a particular high tide wave that under certain conditions offers up a beautiful little left that spins perfectly across a rivermouth. The swell rolls in, jacks up and then peels swiftly across the bank leaving the door open all the way for sweet slotted fun. Although it would be hard to prove, I'm convinced there's a special quality to the water here as the fresh river water merges with the saltwater. It is after all where the waters meet.

Funnily enough one of my watery pleasures is surfing in the rain. I've always loved it. The puttering of the rain drops, the freshwater drizzling down my face, the unique pockmarking texture of the surface as it seems to boil and then flatten beneath the drumming of the raindrops. Always one of my happy aquatical moments.

Oh, and as if that wasn't enough, the last thing the back cracker said to me as I left his surgery last week was, "Drink more water!"