Surf Nation

I'm a Dynamo Chough

The other night I had a dream.

Tony Plant had stolen my car. It's a VW Passat of uncertain fate, and it mystified me that Tony would want it. However, it soon became apparent that he didn't want the car. He'd liberated it from me because he wanted my new phone, a BlackBerry Z10, which was in the car.

Tony wanted the phone because it had a magical ringtone.

I woke up at this point. I looked at my new phone. I don't like it at all, but I suppose its ringtone is alright. But - and let's not beat about the bush - Tony would have been mad to try and steal it, and madder still to steal a car to steal a phone.

Back in the real world, last weekend I played in the Lyonesse Cup on the Isles of Scilly. Sadly my team, the illustrious Dynamo Choughs, lost 3-1 to an Isles of Scilly 11. The Scillies footballers can now boast not only the world's smallest football league but also the bragging rights to the world's smallest football trophy, for the Lyonesse Cup stands a mere 6mm tall. There's more on this enterprise here and I'm presently working with Three S Films on a documentary. Pictured below, courtesy of Three S and Mitch Adams, are my good self, team doctor Seamus Mulholland and, wearing no. 11, Christian Guerrini, whose song, 'I'm a Dynamo Chough - and you are get choughed up', is a masterpiece.

Also in the real world, I had a couple of waves the other day, too. Perhaps the warmer water helped, or maybe I'd behaved well enough for the surf gods to smile on me, but my many health problems disappeared and I actually had some good rides.

Back to the unreal world of work now.

Global Wave Wednesday

Check out what the good folk at Surfers Against Sewage are doing on all surfers' behalf via its excellent Protect Our Waves campaign.

Sign the petition and help make a difference.

That Lanzarote Surf (and trekking) Trip

Some time in the dim and distant past - well, about six or seven weeks ago - I spent a week in Lanzarote. It's taken a while, owing to the demands of work and The Three Ds (divorce, debt, decrepitude), but this morning I found time to retrieve some images from my good friend Aerial Attack, who was in Lanza at the same time as me with his mate Clyde from Oz (who lives in Wales, and is a very good surfer). I'll post one or two now, with thanks to Mr Attack.

First up is an image of me up and riding at Orzola.

Next, me up and riding at Orzola - but this time photoshopped by Mr A to give me a gut. Why he did this I have no idea.

However, leaving aside the strange phenomenon of the 47-year-old man with a now-you-see-it, now-you-don't midriff, below is a shot of a far better surfer than me - my son Harry, 17 (note the insouciant 40-something in the background).

I took both my lads, Harry and Elliot (15), to Lanza. Here they are about to paddle out at San Juan, a lovely left hand point near Famara.

I'm writing up the trip for a forthcoming issue of Wavelength, so will be spartan here. Suffice to say, though, the following:

1. In Lanza, in warm water, I can still surf. My neck problems are bad in the cold, so the answer is obvious: I must move to Lanzarote.

2. Harry, despite an on-off (mostly off) relationship with surfing these past two or three years, is still a good surfer.

3. Elliot is coming on loads, and could be as good as his brother.

4. Michelle and the good folk at Lanzarote Retreats have a fantastic operation. Their eco-complex is to the north of the island - nearer to Orzola than Famara - but, for me, it's all the better for its location. It's quiet and unspoilt, but not too far from the island's surf spots. The vibe at the retreat - where the accommodation is a mix of yurts and villas - is chilled and mellow. The boys and I played a lot of outdoor table tennis in the evenings, as well as guitars - there are a couple at the retreat. Having been to Lanza a few times now, I can't think of anywhere I'd rather stay.

5. Unless, that is, I was going there on a trekking holiday. Maybe then I might opt for a different base. Thanks to a trip with the excellent Jose of Blackstone Treks & Tours, I might just have reacquired my taste for trekking - something I did a lot in former years. Jose met us in the lovely village of Teguise and took us to the edge of the Timanfaya National Park. He knows the place like the back of his hand and proved to be a superb guide amid a quite extraordinary landscape, at once desolate and barren but also curiously beautiful. The best evidence I have for this contention is the response of my sons, who were fully engaged throughout. Here we all are, again thanks to Aerial Attack, who also blogged about the experience here.

6. Lastly, as much as thanking Michelle at Lanzarote Retreats and Jose, a word of thanks to Dennis Smith. Dennis once again lent me his magic board, and also sorted out Harry and El with shortboards. Not only that, he also gave me one of his unique massages, part of a holistic and pretty radical treatment he's devised known as Natural Dynamic Body Release. This sort of thing isn't usually my scene - I can never relax enough or sit still long enough for a massage - but Dennis, one of surfing's characters, is onto something. People travel from overseas to be treated by him in Lanzarote, and I'd happily be one of them again, next time I'm on the island. I felt lighter and clearer post-treatment in a way I haven't experienced before.

Thanks to all I met during my recent trip Lanza, including Ben and Tullulah at La Cantina in Teguise. Top restaurant, top music. Tullulah will go far. To sign off, here are a couple more images of Harry, as ever thanks to AA.

Long may this sort of thing continue.

 

The Illinois Enema Bandit (time is of the essence)

I am long overdue to write a few words about Lanzarote and the enjoyable week of surfing I had there recently. This will happen soon, but meantime it's time for a timely slice of political incorrectness. Let's hope this sort of thing is banned soon.

 

One Wave Wade

I'm off to London for work and the great joy of watching QPR beat Stoke City on Saturday, which will give me and all the other Rangers' faithful HOPE, which in turn will be CRUELLY DASHED, only to be revived again, before it is DESTROYED, once and for all. Such is life, yes, it's a metaphor for football.

Talking of metaphors, it's best not to. Instead let me report that a week or so ago I took to the freezing sea yet again - and this time managed to ride a wave. Only the one, but it was a wave, and it was ridden. It dawned on me that my way-too-tight winter suit of old (bought seven years ago, when I was slim and svelte, oh yes) was as much a hindrance to surfing as my parlous neck and dodgy left leg, so I paddled out wearing my summer and much-better-fitting-thank-you suit. This made a difference but it was still so damn cold that the left leg played up. However, a wave is a wave, is a wave, is a wave and is a wave, so in I came to plot my next surf, when maybe two waves will be ridden.

To Emily, who posted from Oz about surfing and cervical myelopathy: I tried to email you but it bounced back. There is hope, though you might find, post-op, that things happen ... slowly.

As to which, despite having the speed of a lampost I netted my first hat-trick in three years last night (since the neck op, in fact) for the mighty Dynamo Choughs. Each goal was pretty neat and yes, oh doubters among the lads, I meant that last cheeky flick to land in the top corner.

Hope springs eternal. It's been a good week. Lots of work, a wave, a hat-trick, the resolution of a problem with an old mate. Now to Shepherd's Bush, the certain collapse of dreams and the arrival of despair.

Was Andy Martin right (at my age, anyway)?

I'm awaiting some images of my recent trip to Lanzarote from my good friend Aerial Attack. Once I have them, I'll post an extended piece about surfing in Lanza, trekking in Lanza courtesy of the excellent Blackstone Treks & Tours, getting ill in Lanza (thanks Harry), staying in Lanza at the fun and funky Finca de Arrieta, and returning home to The Endless Winter (no, not the film, but our desperate British climate). I won't say anything about travelling with Ryan Despair, because they're useless, but for now I will briefly muse that Andy Martin may well have been right after all.

A few years ago, when Surf Nation came out, I took umbrage with Mr Martin because he didn't seem convinced that surfing in the UK was worth it. Andy's qualms were chiefly on account of the cold, though he also expressed doubt that the UK had decent surf. I think he's since agreed that we have the surf, but I suspect his views on the cold haven't changed. And now, as I slide inexorably to the increased desuetude of my 47th birthday, I am starting to agree with him.

In Lanza, I surfed point, reef and beach set-ups in warm water, and had a great time. Just before I went, I surfed Sennen Cove in the freezing cold - and had a shocker. On Saturday, I paddled out again at Sennen Cove, fresh from various good sessions in Lanza. How did I surf? I didn't catch a wave. Not a single one. It was numbing and miserable and utterly depressing and a total waste of time.

Granted, other people were catching waves. There was a strong offshore but it, and the cold, essentially only did for me. My neck hurt, my left leg went all weird (as it, and the neck, do in the cold), my body felt sluggish and rubbish and old and knackered, and I couldn't even catch a single sodding wave. I repeat: only a couple of weeks ago, in a nice and hot place, I was surfing without any problems.

So, post-spinal surgery, and at an age where everything is falling apart and I am no longer the impressive icon of masculinity that I once was, amid my many delusions anyway, I am inclined to agree with Andy. In winter - this winter, especially, which is malicious, bitter and unnecessary - surfing in the UK is an exercise in both futility and masochism.

Of course, all it'll take for me to change this view is una ola. It might even happen this week, here in this glacial land.Trouble is, right now I would 100 times rather it happened in Lanzarote, or anywhere warm, than here.

Pictured courtesy of Wannasurf: the sun shines, having no alternative, on not a UK break.

For every Narcissus there is a Nemesis

When I jettisoned Geography 'O' level in favour of Ancient Greek, a long time ago, my friends said: "You, Alex, are a fool." Recently, in Lanzarote amid the pleasingly extinct volcanoes, I had occasion to think that they were right. As my sons wandered with Jose, our guide, amid the lava floes and curiously moist rock forms, I knew nothing of what was being said. It was, as a bystander, innocent or otherwise, might have observed, Greek (ancient or modern) to me.

But then, as I entered the labyrinth that is Facebook, I remembered the legend of Νάρκισσος (Narcissus). This famed hunter was the son of a river god and a nymph. So far, so prosaic. After all, who isn't the offspring of a river god and a nymph? But poor Narcissus was proud - so proud that, all too aware of his unrelenting beauty, he despised those who loved him.

Nemesis, the god of retribution, didn't warm to this aspect of Narcissus's character. He concocted a plan to punish what he regarded as hubris (ὕβρις), or, in less high falutin terms, excessive pride or arrogance. He lured Narcissus to a pool where he could behold his own glorious image. Transfixed by it, Narcissus fell in love. He couldn't move. He wouldn't eat. He disdained water. All he wanted was the image of himself, immutable.

The rest is myth.

As I left the labyrinth that is Facebook, reflecting on its capacity for infinite torment on all those who enter, it struck me that for every Narcissus, there is a Nemesis.

Extremely Cool

 

Ryan Despair to Lanza Heaven

Here I am in Lanzarote, staying at the Finca de Arrieta with Michelle and Tila (friends of old). Tila is in Indo with his uber-grom son Josh at present. I'm here with my sons Harry and Elliot, not to mention Aerial Attack and his mate from Oz, Clyde. But not thanks to Ryan Despair.

On Saturday, the airline of Despair was unable to land in Lanza owing to strong winds. Fair enough. We were diverted to Fuerteventura. Fair enough. What wasn't fair enough was what happened next. Not a single person told us, the passengers, what would happen next. We sat, we stood, we milled, we waited - all in vain. There was a rumour of a bus, to a port, which would go to another port, and then there'd be another bus ... But no one told us anything.

Eventually the quintet of which I am one hailed a taxi and made our own way to Corralejo, where we duly got the ferry to Playa Blanca. By this time QPR were 1-0 up against Southampton so I had a feeling that all would be well. The ferry did not sink and we found ourselves in Playa Blanca. From there it wasn't plain sailing - the taxis weren't keen on our boards. But we got to Arrecife (the airport), where we picked up our hire cars, and then set off in opposite directions - AA and Clyde to Famara, me and the boys to see the excellent Dennis Smith in Tao, where we procured Dennis's Magic Board for me and two shortboards for Harry and El. Then it was a drive to the Finca, a complex of yurts near Arrieta. By the time we arrived it was dark. Ryan Despair's failure to land meant we lost a full afternoon of surfing. I don't mind this too much - strong winds are strong winds, and evidently injurious to planes - but I do mind the total lack of care for its passengers' welfare, so blatantly evinced from the moment we left the plane in Fuerte. Not good enough.

However, the next day dawned, as next days do. This one was blessed with 4-6ft A frame peaks at Famara. On the Magic Board, the parlous surfs of the past few paddle outs at Sennen were forgotten. I had some great waves, as did Harry. He has barely surfed in two years but was quickly on it. Elliot got a few but as a beginner it was quite heavy for him.

Yesterday was a write-off - rain and howling onshore winds. The boys and I had a nice evening at the Finca, though, with takeaway pizzas and a couple of quiet beers. My sons are both good musos and it was a pleasure to hear them jamming some jazz and blues. Here's something Harry made earlier.

Today Orzola was the go. Good waves were had all around. This was followed for me by some pretty radical treatment by Dennis, who as well as being a shaper, surfer and all round good guy also specialises in healing not merely the battered likes of me but top class athletes, surfers and sportspeople. More of this anon.

It's been a good trip so far, and the final score was Southampton 1, QPR 2. As for Ryan Despair, his crimes are, for now, forgotten.

 

Guest Post on the Mavericks Invitational

It’s been really bad weather in England for the past few weeks - alternately freezing cold or pouring with rain - and some of us may be forgiven for eschewing our own surfing pursuits in favour of keeping up with surfing news from around the world, writes Emily Waterman. And just recently we had, among other things, one of surfing's killer events: the international Mavericks Invitational competition, held annually in California.

Mavericks Invitational surf contest isn’t for the faint-hearted; it takes a lot of skill and nerve to ride the swells which travel for five days before hitting the shore and it’s no wonder that the competition attracts some of the best big wave surfers in the world. This year’s contest was the first held since the waves of 2010, which injured spectators; huge swells at Mavericks have also resulted in the deaths of two surfers since 1994. Safety for the 2013 Mavericks Invitational surf contest was given a considerable boost as spectators were banned from the beach and a festival area was set up in a nearby parking lot for people to safely watch the competition via a live feed.

Peter Mel Rides to Victory in 2013

The Mavericks Invitational surf contest is no small wave jamboree. It’s a requirement of the competition that the swells reach between 20 and 30 feet. Surfers must navigate vertical drops and takeoffs which are so steep that the surfers’ boards often leave the wave face, forcing them to land near the bottom and turn almost instantaneously.

This year’s winner was long-time Mavericks' legend Peter Mel, who’s been riding the waves at the Mavericks Invitational for 25 years. This year marked his first win and, as a traditional gesture of goodwill, Mel split the $50,000 prize with the five other placeholders. Mel’s been a favourite to win for years so his victory in 2013 has been well received. Check out the footage below to see him making it look easy.