Surf Nation

The Opposite Of On It

A few years ago a film came out called The Opposite of Sex. I watched it but can't recall what it was about. However, its title lingered. What is the opposite of sex? Some kinds of sex will, of course, be antithetical to other kinds, and therefore the opposite of sex might be another kind of sex, but I suspect that the film posits not this as its subliminal sexual opposite, but accountancy, or darts, or maybe even - because some surfers surf so much that they eschew any kind of sex - surfing.

Be that as none of it is, or isn't. Today I surfed again with Aerial Attack. At lunchtime, we downed tools and travelled to Spot G, where we found ourselves all but alone at the Point. Only Darren was in the line-up, but he soon vanished, leaving myself and AA to ride the choice, if small, right-handers that were coming out of the mist and rain.

We were joined by Amanda Smart, she of sororial bearing to the Smart males in the locale. I saw one of them the other day in Newlyn boxing gym. That's Sam, pro boxer and surfer (a world first?). He was hitting the bags with phenomenal velocity as I tried, in vain, to keep up.

This was my experience of surfing today. AA had wave after wave, as did Darren before he left, and Amanda had a few, too. I had ... one. Yes, one wave. Once again, I am One Wave Wade. Why was this? Well, here is the reason. I am THE OPPOSITE OF ON IT.

Being ON IT is a condition to which every surfer worthy of the name aspires. It means that you know which break is doing what, what the banks are like, where the peak is, what the rips are doing; you're, like totally, in tune with the ocean. Your surfing is similarly in the zone. You're always in the right place, you're always able to anticipate the rips, your wave selection is perfect and as for your actual surfing, well, Kelly Slater better look out.

The condition known as THE OPPOSITE OF ON IT manifests itself with notably hilarious results in 45-year-old males who refuse to accept that having a neck op means they are not the kind of ON IT person they used to be. What happens to these kinds of male is that, a year or so after spinal surgery, they take themselves down to local boxing gyms in a futile effort to lose the stone in weight they have acquired over the past 12 months, go running long distances despite the hideous jarring pain this causes to their knackered spines and paddle out time and again when the objective evidence is that they should give up all forms of exercise other than light gardening. Still, though, these men (for they are always men) persist in their delusional madness. They count the number of steps from the beach to the car park at the top of Spot G and say unto themsevles: 'Today was awful, but one day, I will be fit again.' They journey home after a parlous surf, and, after a day's writing and editing, then decide to go for yet another run, because only by relentlessly punishing their ailing bodies will they ever reacquire some semblance of athleticism. This syndrome, known as THE OPPOSITE OF ON IT, could even now be afflicting someone near you.

Personally speaking, I was ON IT for a while in the sea earlier. This was when I 6ft seal appeared and proceeded to investigate each of me, Aerial Attack and Amanda. Now I know what you're thinking: not only is the 45-year-old delusional male writing this blog THE OPPOSITE OF ON IT, he's, like totally freaked out by just a seal, man! But this seal was no ordinary seal. Oh no. This one had an evil glint in its deep black impenetrable Conradian malevolent eyes and a casual serial-killer-of-the-watery-wasteland look on its whiskery face as it literally (and I mean that literally) chased the three of us about. There was only one thing for it, and that was to get ON IT (but not DOWN ON IT, what a track) and paddle the hell out of there, leaving AA to surf the point all on his own as the seal continued to hassle him.

If you too suffer from being THE OPPOSITE OF ON IT, there is no cure.

A Note From The Skies

Once more unto the blog, dear friends, once more.

Yes, here I am again. As is the way these days, I apologise for the prolonged radio silence. Life has been busy, an endless round of work, mayhem, work, more mayhem, a bit more work and a bit less mayhem, yes that'd be nice, less mayhem, more work, I don't mind how much more, I can take it, yes I can and it's better than the mayhem, of which there has been too much, of late.

But enough of this. I am pictured, courtesy of my good friend Mr Aerial Attack and complete with wonky sunglasses, at the controls of a Cessna 172, a single engine plane which I flew the other day. I say 'I flew' but while this is technically true, it is technically true in the dual control, learning-to-drive sense of flying. In other words, an instructor, whose arm you can see, was next to me. He let me loose a fair bit, but not when landing. Definitely not. If he had, I wouldn't be here writing this, for my descent was on the wobbly side. Glen Corcoran of the Mark Hillier Flying School at Land's End airport took the controls and ensured that no one died.

I was airborne by way of researching a piece for Cornwall Today magazine, which I continue to edit. Also present in the plane was a likeable chap by the name of Chris Rowe, who has been commissioned by ITV to film a series on some of the characters in Cornwall. Chris happened upon me as a contender, and we spent an enjoyable day flying, having a bite to eat at the Beach Restaurant at Sennen Cove and surfing a secret spot in the far west. Whether I make the cut remains to be seen, but it was a diverting experience.

The experience of being filmed while surfing was a curious one. On the one hand, my rampaging ego liked the idea of a camera catching a few choice glides; on the other, my infamous inelegance when up and riding ensured that I went into the affair with a fair few nerves. Nerves are also a facet of my surfing which play far too great a role ever since my blasted neck went wrong. Some days, all is fine; on others, residual post-ACDF spinal cord compression makes for a shaky, barely controllable left leg. Trust me, if you had a shaky, barely controllable left leg, you too would find surfing a challenge, but as it turned out it wasn't the leg that let me down when filming. It was, dear reader(s), excess flab allied with a lack of suppleness and ability. In small surf (and it was very small), this combo is deadly.

Nevertheless, it was an enjoyable session. Only thing is, when Chris played one wave back to me, the smooth and speedy ride of my memory was a thing of very slow motion. 

But slow motion is a good thing. I could do with some in my life right now. Imagine - if things were to happen slowly enough, they might not happen at all. And if they didn't happen at all, they wouldn't happen.

Right, that's me back to the skies. Or on a ferry, to Spain, near Mundaka, for a surf trip with Aerial Attack, my lad Harry and his mate Liam. Yes, that's what I'm doing. We depart in under two weeks and it's my first proper holiday in over a year. Can't wait. So check out this blog in 10 days or so - wi-fi permitting, I shall report on on overseas waves surfed (albeit slowly).