Beginnings. The return.
Bantham 1985
I borrowed a wetsuit, drove to Bantham and set about learning to surf. Of course I had had no lessons and had no idea what I was doing. I foundered in the shallows, unable to progress past the whitewater, unable to judge the conditions and unable to determine my place in the pecking order of the beach.
I was a disaster, a kook of the highest order. In the way. Out of my depth. I was the kind of person that real surfers would have dreaded seeing walking down the beach. I would be the butt of the jokes of those in the know. I was JOJ, FOB. Just off the jet. Fresh off the boat. But what did I care? I was blissfully ignorant and I was doing what I had dreamed of for so long.
I got told off by older surfers for paddling into their path and told off by my friend Paul for not going far enough out. I pushed through relentless lines of whitewater, trying to get deep enough to catch a wave. I was surprised how tiring it was just wading out into the surf. Even though it was tough it didn’t really matter because here I was, a surfer, at last, with a real surfboard and unending determination. I knew how to catch waves from using my polystyrene board – I pushed off the bottom, jumped onto the board then gave a few flapping paddles with my flailing arms - so I felt as if I had a small head start. Thereafter I had to learn how to stand up, how to steer and how to ride the waves without tipping the board sideways, nose diving or falling off the back.
There were brief moments when I stood up, but then fell off again pretty quickly. Thank goodness for those slithers of joy, or else I would have given up there and then. I felt, for the briefest of moments, the weightlessness of the glide, the thrill of riding a wave of energy that was created far out in the Atlantic, even though I didn’t know anything about it at the time. That would come later, along with understanding the way the wind affects the waves, how the tides work and how it affects the quality of the surf. When I made it to my feet I looked down at the undisturbed water in front of my board as the wave pushed me over it. It was like looking down at my toes on the nose of my skateboard as I cruised down the smooth tarmac on Westbury Hill, the white lines flashing past, weightless, floating, soaring. The glide.
I was elated by the experience and had my first, brief taste of something surfers call stoke, an emotional and physical high from riding waves. Senses, overloaded with stimuli, are screaming with intensity. The sounds of the booming waves and rushing water. The taste of the salt on the wind. The concentrated, narrowed vision trying to take it all in and make sense of the movement, the sunlight, the reflections and where my board is taking me. The feel of the water in my hair and eyes, the board under my feet and the way I am cruising over the sea, flying towards the shore. The smell of the beach, seaweed, ozone, sun cream, algae, the ocean. Add to that the fear of drowning, the sense of achievement with an ambition fulfilled and the firing of the muscles I hadn’t used before. It was a heady, intoxicating mixture, a linctus for my soul. I was truly in the moment, tipsy on wave riding, in love.
Dopamine stacked and exhausted, I came in to let Paul have a go on the board. I collapsed on the sand and looked back across the beach to the Burgh Island Hotel. I was buzzing. They call the benefits of being by the ocean Blue Therapy these days, but I knew nothing of that. I just thought it was fucking amazing. My feet hurt and my arms ached and my eyes were stinging with salt. I was breathless and cold. But fuck it. I was a surfer, taking his first steps on the surfer’s path. Nothing could compare and nothing else really mattered. Also, nothing could touch me. And I was only half an hour in to my surfing life.
