It's not cool. It doesn't help your surfing. It's a waste of money. It gives you cancer. It creates litter. It makes your lungs heave for just a three-second hold down. You never sit out the back thinking "I wish I'd had another fag, better go in and get one." These days, no one else smokes. You're on your own, a pariah carving a swift line to your own doom.
That's what occurred to me yesterday at Praa Sands. Nice and clean, about 3-4ft, the kind of waves that are just pure fun. But a tendency to recidivism and a lot of house-sale stress has led me to score, in just six stupid weeks, a cigarette tally that outweighs my wave count for the year. I smoked with the kind of commitment that, if applied to more constructive ends, would have got me to the top of Everest. Or out the back at Pipeline. But at Praa Sands, all those fags took their toll. With fitness levels as finely tuned as a milkfloat, my session was an act of futility. Wave after wave escaped me, and those that didn't turned round and had a laugh once they'd left me gasping for breath in the impact zone. When I finally staggered back to my car, it was to find that those helpful souls who police Cornish car parks in the depths of winter had clamped it. Good men, I deserved it.
The house is sold, the stress is over, no more cigarettes. Because here's the truth (and I say this to a lot of younger surfers who, in this day and age, should know better): of the two activities - surfing and smoking - only one of them makes any kind of sense. 
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