Surf Nation

44 - 5 months' no surfing = FAT

Today I turned 44. To mark the occasion, I climbed onto the scales, not those of a large fish, which would be have been a precursor to a fall, perhaps even a serious one, for fishy scales are unreliable under foot, but those of the weighing machine, that which eyes me from the corner of the bathroom with a come hither look in anybody's language but especially that of the international avoirdupois pound.

Once safely aboard, as naked as the day I was born - 44 years ago to the day in Chiswick Maternity Hospital, a place which no longer exists but let nothing be inferred from this fact, still less the fact that I mention it - I looked down. What I saw was a shock.

The weighing scales revealed, in a decidedly do not come hither fashion, that I currently weigh 13 stones and nine pounds. That is a full 13 stone, one and a half pounds more than I was when I first encountered the weighing machines of this world all those years ago, but such apparently inexorable weight gain is not the real story. No, even I, a man whose mind is often addled, especially last Friday night, accept that as one ages, one puts on weight.

Ah, weight... Here, as I peered at the weighing device, was the rub. I last surfed at the end of October 2009 and since then, as regular sufferers of this blog will know, I have had a dash of Lyme and a touch of surgery to my cervical spine. In the circumstances, a lack of exercise is to be expected, but today the weighing implement confirmed what successive increasingly ill-fitting trousers and strangely distorted mirrors have suggested.

I am fat. I was 13.2 before the onset of cervical myelopathy, and now I am 13.9. The last five months of not surfing four or five times a week, as was my wont, has seen a weight gain of a half a stone. 

OK OK, I know. Half a stone isn't enough to make a slim person fat. If truth be known I've had a nice bit of early 40s' midriffery for a while. But regular surfing kept it in check and now, as the weighing mechanism so mercilessly revealed, I can pinch a hell of a lot more than an inch.

But, as I stood on the weighing contraption, resolve stirred. With a steely glare, an iron jaw, a clenched fist and a titanium cage in my neck I determined that one day - maybe even soon - I would be a lesser man than I am now. And then, the weighing apparatus stowed in a secret place, I joined my family for a damn fine lunch at The King's Arms in Paul. After all, one is only 44 once.

(Your use of language in that last sentence is unintentionally imprecise. I wonder if you might have spent too much time on the weighing appliance? Ed.)

Not the Master of Disaster. Honest

I return to this blog in better cheer. Astute, irregular and unobservant readers alike will have noted that my last post was a bit - how to put this - narky. This one, though, is ebullience itself, because late this afternoon I managed 24 lengths of the 25m pool at Penzance leisure centre.

Not all at once, you understand. But it is true to say that I completed this tally via a series of 50, 100 and 150m repetitions, one or two of them at something even resembling speed. This was my third post-op swim and it felt fantastic. The neck hurts a bit but I'm so stoked to be able to do this three and a half months after having a disc whipped out of my cervical spine it's untrue.

What a strange old time it's been. Karen and I were out last night with some friends from Porthcurno. It was great to see them but as we drove home it struck me that, for the past six months, I've been either in pain, ill, waiting for an op, recovering, trying to make some headway with Lyme disease or, as of today, seeing a member of the medical profession. Yes, this afternoon I wandered into the GP's surgery with another problem. This time I know exactly what it is - in fact, I should have had an op for it four years ago, but put it off because of cowardice. Now, having survived anterior cervical discectomy and fusion, the op I should have had seems a mere walk in the park, and so, touching wood heavily with both hands, I'm signing up for it. Actually the real reason for this newfound commitment is pain, but lest the subtitle to this blog becomes "A Surfer's Increasingly Doomed and Ridiculous Battle to Evade Medical Attention for at least Three Weeks" I'm saying no more.

Instead, I am concentrating on the positives. All this downtime has resulted in a lot of progress with a manuscript I started five years ago and never got round to working on. I have an exciting, if temporary, editorial role to look forward to in the summer. Agent Harris has a plan, so too Agent David. Who knows, maybe I'll become an Agent too.

But not the Agent of my Own Misfortune. That would be absurd, and ebullience, rather than absurdity, is my watchword. 

The Blogging Bore and the Bournemouth Reef

Sometimes this blogging business is such a bore. Of late, the spammers are doing my head in. The Typepad system seems to stop most of their comments appearing, but some get through. Well done, spammers.

The other irritation is the bold, dramatic, sometimes legally problematic and certainly confrontational comment with a fake e-mail address. It's simple enough to delete these but should I decide to engage with whoever has felt sufficiently moved to unleash a torrent of anonymous abuse they are, of course, anonymous. Well done, cowards.

On another note entirely, click here to read my piece in last weekend's FT Magazine on the Bournemouth artificial reef. Well done, reefs.

There is NO SURF! No surf, I tell you!

Last week I went to London. I saw some old friends, attempted to remind one or two commissioning editors that, contrary to rumour, I am alive if not well, and even found myself at Loftus Road to witness my beloved QPR's thrilling 1-1 draw at home to Swansea. I returned to the far west late yesterday afternoon, and today ventured to Sennen Cove in search of a nice, acclimatising walk in Cornwall (i.e., something to remind me that the untold levels of high adrenalin I experienced at QPR are just as attainable in West Penwith).

Sadly, what I found did me no good at all. The sun was shining and the surf was pumping. I saw a few familiar vehicles in the car park and nearly ran someone over as I eyed the clean and decent-sized surf, before legging it as quickly as I could, perhaps even before I'd been spotted. My generosity of spirit, that which wants to wish everyone I know endless good waves, dried up faster than you can say "Perhaps, if you're lucky, you'll surf again by late summer, but that's only if you leave Kango drills and sledgehammers well alone, you complete moron. Oh and by the way, you've only got yourself to blame for the reappearance of the electric shocks in your left hand and those strange spinal reverberations." 

Having escaped the beach I found a quiet spot to walk the dogs and make a flank attack, as it were, on Gwenver. En route I met with a couple of twitchers who were disturbed by my Labrador's friendliness. Now, whatever else can be said about Maya the Lab, she is a benign presence. She has never growled at anyone, except herself, and that's only when she's having one of those odd but quite amusing doggie dreams. I was in such a bad mood as I stomped about wondering if I'd ever surf again that when the twitchers let it be known that they didn't like Maya, muttering, moaning and, with their Barbour jackets, looking like a couple of people from, er, London who might, perhaps, have a second home in Cornwall, I made no effort whatsoever to allay their fears and instead gestured at my other steadfast hound, Rio, a German Shepherd crossed with a Retriever and altogether a different proposition in a scrap, as if to say: "If you think the Lab's bad, wait til I say 'Kill!' "

Aside from the quite-nice-really twitchers, my clandestine approach to Gwenver was vindicated. No one else saw me and, to my delight, the sea was a rip-fest. "Ha! So no one's surfing! Maybe I just imagined what I saw at Sennen a little earlier?" That's what I said to myself but later, at Cape Cornwall golf club, where I was not playing golf but picking up Harry, who wasn't playing golf either but swimming and using the gym, I saw Allie, who wasn't playing golf, swimming or using the gym but was, if I have understood anything at all about Cape Cornwall golf club, there to do some yoga.

"How are you?" she asked. An hour later, having patiently listened to me whinge about my neck, Allie confirmed that the surf has been, er, good lately. Then she fled, to the sanctuary of yoga, leaving me to flee too, in search of optimism and, with due thanks to the Lord for small mercies, at least feeling like I was home again. 

Image of Cape Cornwall courtesy of Flickr user the Hidaway (Simon). As you can see, there is no surf there. In fact, I personally wonder if Cape Cornwall is even by the coast. It could just be a pile of rocks which, because it's called a 'Cape', is imbued with some special meaning.

An aching neck but an upward curve

Progress!

Yesterday I attended the brilliantly named "Interesting Cases" clinic at Royal Cornwall Hospital. There I met an excellent doctor - in fact, I met several doctors. A biopsy of my mysterious rash was taken and I was the centre of much medical scrutiny. Where it's all leading I have no idea, but I can say that I no longer feel as if I've been banging my head against a brick wall.

Talking of walls, and bricks, I've discovered that manual labour is a step too far. Yes, three months' recuperation from spinal surgery is not (I have found) quite long enough for my body to be ready for smashing up rocks and lifting slabs of stone. I feel, to put it mildly, absolutely knackered and, with the return of the dread electric shocks (thank God for my Gabapentin stash), ever so slightly worried that I might have been a bit stupid.

But things are on the up. I've had the biopsy. I will have another scar, this time on my jawline, but at least, in a few weeks, there will be conclusive proof that I've got Lyme disease. Or not... Meanwhile, my neck hurts but that's because I've pushed things too much, too soon. No more labouring for a week or so, but - touch wood - I'm on an upward curve. Who knows, at this rate I might even be surfing again in a few months...

Revealed: The Fleetwood Funnel

A cardinal sin in surfing is the disclosure of a secret spot. So ingrained is this unwritten law among surfers that even my mate Aerial Attack won't tell me where a particular wave is. I've seen the photograph but if ever I venture a "Where is that very sweet little spot with a wave I'd just love to surf?" I get a "Sorry, if I told you I'd have to kill you" reply.

Indeed, the penalty, for anyone mad and bad enough to reveal a secret spot, is the contempt of the surfing fraternity and the possibility of actual bodily harm next time one turns up to surf at said spot. With this in mind, it is with a heavy heart that I publish these photographs of what, until now, was so secret a wave in British surfing that heretics thought it was a myth - the Fleetwood Funnel.

The Funnel, which is in Fleetwood, is a legendary wave which provokes debate across the land. Many people, asked about the Funnel, simply don't believe it exists. This undeserved contempt suits its ultra hard-core locals just fine. They get the Funnel to themselves.

I confess that I, too, have doubted the existence of the Funnel. But today Stef Harkon came round. Amid wielding the Kango hammer which I'd hired from Jewson's yesterday, only to find that its vibrations were a bit severe for my neck, Stef found time to brandish a magazine which, so he says, proves beyond doubt that the Fleetwood Funnel is not a white elephant.

Nor is it a pink one. In fact, as you scrutinise this magazine, itself given to Stef by his mate Brendan McCann, you will see that the Funnel is not any kind of elephant. Instead, it is a reeling, pumping, pulsating piece of pure funneling power. 

I hereby apologise to local Funnel surfers. This kind of obscure photographic evidence is so hard to find that I can't resist spreading the word. Perhaps, in fact, my willingness to break the surfers' code is down to my ongoing health woes. The neck is good, when I'm not wielding jackhammers, but the Lyme drags on. Miraculously, however, about half an hour ago I was contacted by Treliske Hospital and asked if I could attend a clinic this coming Monday. I think this may even be so that a biopsy of my rash can happen.

Little is certain, save for two things: I know now that the Fleetwood Funnel exists, and that the clinic I'm attending is called "The Interesting Cases Clinic".

Above, a man with a rod watches as the Fleetwood Funnel detonates; below, The Harkon with the evidence.

The Joy of Swimming

I'm back in Cornwall after a weekend trip to Bournemouth, where I checked out the whizzy new artificial surf reef. I won't say much about this here because a piece in one of the nationals looms, but it's fair to note that the downhill skating crew on Sea Road were a lot more watchable than the waves. I'll also add, lest incorrect inferences are made, that the local surfers I met are a top bunch and that the vibe created in the wake of the reef is reason enough for the project. 'Nuff said.

Back to surfing, or something like it, anyway. For well-chronicled health reasons, I couldn't have paddled out even if there'd been any waves, but I return stoked in any event. The reason? Well, thanks to an enterprising arrangement by the good folk of the Urban Beach Hotel (the Wade clan's home from home for the weekend) I was able to avail myself of the use of a 25m swimming pool. I hadn't planned on seeing if I could swim again just yet, being fully content, for now, with gardening being the new surfing, but Karen needed some respite from our beloved offspring so I took them to the pool, thinking I'd do a bit of supervisory floating about if at all possible. 

But once immersed in water - for the first time in nearly five months (where has all the time gone? Has it been that long already?) - the urge to swim came upon me. This urge is beautifully explored by Roger Deakin in Waterlog - read it if you haven't already. But I had pause for thought. Could I actually swim? If I swam, would something go badly wrong with my neck? Maybe the titanium cage would move and snap a nerve or two? Maybe I'd sink and drown?

To prevent this happening, or rather, ameliorate its consequences, I didn't risk alerting the lifeguard to my plight - he might have kicked me out of the pool, citing health and safety, rules and regs, lawyers and litigation (and who needs any of that?) - but instead asked Harry and Elliot to monitor my progress. "If I stop moving and sink, come and get me or tell that bloke over there," were my words, and then off I went. I kicked off the side of the pool and, remarkably, found that front crawl was possible. Better yet, my neck didn't hurt. A length later, it still didn't hurt. It wasn't the fastest length of front crawl I've ever done, but it might just have been the most satisfying.

The stoke grew. I managed a total of 16 lengths, with a rest after every two to check everything was fine, and was touched to see that the boys, in their boyish, let's-not-say-anything way, were as pleased for me as I was. Most amazing of all, when Harry asked me if I'd ever been able to do a 25m length underwater, I said "yes" and set off to demonstrate the technique, if nothing else, thinking that months of virtually nothing by way of serious aerobic exercise would leave me unable to do more than maybe a third of the pool - at which point I'd bob to the surface and plead post-op lassitude + Lyme.

I was also a bit worried that the extension required for underwater breast stroke wouldn't do my neck any favours, but being down there, a metre under the surface, felt so good that I just kept going. I popped up at the end of the pool, 25m later and out of breath, but absolutely buzzing. The neck clicked a couple of times en route, which may not be a good thing, but what a feeling. Just a couple of months ago the idea of swimming like this was inconceivable.

Right, I'm signing off before I tempt fate. All I'll say (and this is something of a refrain) is that I'm once again incredibly grateful to Derriford's neurosurgery department for sorting out my neck (touch wood...) - and just wish that my experience of the treatment of Lyme in the UK had been as good.

Ludicrous Lymish Twist

Result! I have an appointment for the biopsy. I know this because, having heard precisely nothing from the Royal Cornwall Hospital, I rang the Dermatology department. I gave a nice lady my hospital number, she checked things out, found me on the system - and said the biopsy was scheduled for June.

That's right - June. The "urgently required, lest the rash fades" biopsy is to take place some three months from now.

Now then, before everyone emails telling me that this is a conspiracy and/or that I should have expected this, it's worth remembering that it could be merely a procedural slip. However, whatever its cause, it is a disgrace. It's a great shame that I've had such excellent treatment on the NHS for cervical myelopathy while, in contrast, that for Lyme has been a shambles, but I've had enough of putting up with this being just 'how it is'. I'm moving this battle up a notch now, which may mean that posts become less frequent. However, in time, I hope to provide an update. Here, meanwhile, is the rash as of today. It's accompanied by the usual symptoms - headaches, fatigue, inability to cope with unexpected sound. It is both surprising and regrettable that no one among the medical profession seems remotely interested in sorting them out.

Not a Top 10 List

1. I fear I'm driving the neurologist mad by emailing him too often asking when the biopsy will happen.

2. He seemed, to my super-sensitive, neurologically befuddled brain, a tad curt in a reply earlier, giving little away other than that he'd pass my enquiry on to a colleague.

3. Oh dear. I didn't ask to be ill with Lyme, the biopsy wasn't my idea and it was the neurologist who said - two weeks ago - that it'd be happening quickly lest the rash disappeared.

4. As it happens, the rash seems to be undergoing a renaissance. Ali down the shop noticed it this morning and Karen confirmed that it's looking quite impressive. So why worry about waiting for a biopsy! My rash is in fine fettle and doesn't seem to be going anywhere in a hurry!! RELAX WITH THAT RASH!!! WHO CARES ABOUT THE BIOPSY?!?!??

5. Well, the problem is that I'm driving myself mad thinking about what Lyme has in store. Perhaps nothing - maybe my immune system is mostly Lyme-proof.

6. After all, the lumbar puncture proves (quaint concept!) that I haven't got neurological Lyme.

7. So I'm left with the severe fatigue, lousy headaches and inability to cope with unexpected noise - all of which might (who knows!?!) be caused by something other than Lyme.

8. Despite, that is, the four positive blood tests for Lyme and the lovely and ongoing erythema migrans rash.

9. As to which (and Lyme generally): for all that people advise me to seek private treatment, this isn't an option.

10. So I sit around, stupidly waiting for a biopsy, which won't in itself be conclusive evidence that I haven't got Lyme if it's negative. I can't think of anything to do, other than work and, every two or three days, compare the way that my cervical myelopathy was treated with the way my Lyme disease is going. The comparison only ever yields one result: I email my neurologist to ask "Any news on that date you promised - you know the one, the rock 'n' roll, really sexy autopsy, I mean biopsy?" And in doing so, I'm sure I drive him mad, which probably doesn't help me get the treatment that might get me better, and just adds to my own madness - and so the cycle continues.

(That was not a Top 10 list. Ed.)