Surf Nation

How Powerade Helps You Surf (Very) Big Waves

Some Books

Many thanks to all who posted in response to my request for comments. At this rate I may yet escape my fate of incarceration within the walls of Wapping, so please keep up the good work.

Meanwhile, I am nearing the end of War and Peace. So far I have not spotted a single surfing allusion, which is a grave disappointment. How can Tolstoy be seen as the world's greatest novelist, if he fails to mention surfing?

My devotion to the Russian icon's monumental tome has led to a mass of books on my bedside, at least five of which look very interesting. Here they are, in the order that I'll tackle them.

1. The Interloper by Antoine Wilson. Antoine is based in California and has been known to comment on this site. Doing so is not the reason for my mentioning his book here. He has a fine, punchy writing style and I'm looking forward to getting into The Interloper. Given that Antoine's a surfer, his book might even contain the occasional surfing reference.

2. Return by Water by Kimball Taylor. This collection of surf stories came through the post some time ago. Chris Mauro, editor of Surfer, and Evan Slater, editor in chief of Surfing, are fans. Definitely full of surfing.

3. Sea of Movement by Jeff Kozlowski. Again, this arrived a while back. Gorgeous cover and a good blog, too. 100% full of surfing.

4. Liquidation by Imre Kertesz. OK, I admit it. I've been reading this when infuriated by Tolstoy's refusal to write about surfing. It's brilliant, but lacks any hint of surfing.

5. Night Letters by Rose Hilton. I recently interviewed Rose for the FT, with pictures shot by Mike Newman. She's a superb artist whose first solo retrospective is currently on show at the Tate St Ives (and, for those reading this who are based in my neck of the woods, her drawings can be seen at HiltonYoung in Penzance). I found a copy of her book of letters from her late husband, the brilliant Roger Hilton, in a bookshop in London (near Wapping...). Looks quite extraordinary. No surfing, though Rose's son Bo paddled out at Sennen with me the other day.

That's enough about books. The surf at Sennen was nice this morning and I returned home to write a piece about Al Mennie, Duncan Scott, Gabe Davies and Richie Fitzgerald for The Sunday Times. Check it out this coming weekend, in the In Gear section.

Batman: The Surfer

There are any number of magnificent facets to this 1967 episode of Batman, in which the caped crusader does battle with The Joker in surf that mutates uncannily from 2ft to 30ft (and back again) in less time than it takes to say "Boy Wonder: My Life in Tights was not a mistake."

They just don't make 'em like this anymore. (There is a very good reason for that. Ed.)

Calling All Readers: This Blog Needs You

Last week, after toiling for hours through perilous underground labyrinths and navigating endless corridors, I found myself at a desk in Wapping. Opposite me was the Times' blog-meister. He informed me that traffic for this humble blog was impressive and that the large number of sites linking to it was further indication of its place in a vibrant online community. This was all good, and I was happy. But then the blog-meister peered through the gloom (we were in Wapping, after all) and said "There's just one thing. The comments."

Oh no! What has someone gone and said?! was my immediate thought. But that wasn't the issue.

"There need to be more comments on the site," said the blog-meister. "Traffic, links and comments are the three criteria by which we evaluate the success - or otherwise - of a blog." The blog-meister tasked me with ensuring that you, my dear readers, interact a little more with this site.

I pondered how to go about ensuring that comments appear more often for some time, but, after being hit in the head at St Just Amateur Boxing Club last night, had a brainwave. Why don't I put up a post saying 'Please comment on this site'?

So that's what I've done. All comments, especially on this request for comments, are welcome. Otherwise, as the blog-meister said: "We will keep you here in Wapping forever." Please don't let them do that to me...

Not another surf mag? Yes!

Pete Robinson, of The Surfing Museum, drops me the following line:

And so, almost 40 years after he created the ill-fated British Surfer (which lasted just six issues), 1960s surf star Rod Sumpter is launching a new surfing magazine - The Surfers World.

"Inspiration for everyone - beginners and experts" it says on the mock-up of the first cover.  But do we really need another surfing mag in the UK, or anywhere else in the developed world for that matter? Aren't all the niches already covered with publications from The Surfer's Path to Pit Pilot?

The cover, replete with full page photo of Mr Sumpter, looks very dated to me, the captions not terribly well written and there are typos in the advertising rate card. Australian Sumpter settled in Cornwall in the 1960s and in recent years has punted out a few books and DVDs, 'recreated' the famous Britannia longboard first made by Bilbo. So will The Surfers World (where's the apostrophe?) last longer than British Surfer? Only you, the surfing public, will decide.

The Evil Welshman

I recently received a very nice email from a very nice chap who wrote as follows:

"We have recently performed a complimentary check of your website. Our results and data are as follows. Based upon this check, we note that your website - www.tomandersonbooks.com - has 32 links." The email went on to explain how Tom's website was faring and gently suggested that if I were to subscribe to the nice chap's service, even more links, interaction and, yes, book sales would come my (i.e, Tom's) way.

I wrote back as follows:

"Dear Mr X,

Thank you for your email. Your service might be of interest but I am slightly mystified.

You refer to my website and promise to reveal the data gleaned via your complimentary assessment of its health (or otherwise), but rather than doing this you in fact reveal the figures for Tom Anderson's website.

For your information, Tom Anderson is an evil Welshman with a dark secret - he was born in Watford and knows someone called 'The Gill.'

You have been warned."

Strangely enough, shortly after sending this - CCd to Tom - one of The Gill's trademark missives arrived. It looked dangerous, so I decided to contemplate next steps. And as I sit here, pondering my next move, I see that Tom Anderson has criticized my 'excellent facial grimace' skate shot.

Don't be deceived by his boyish good looks and knowledge of space-docking (what's that? Ed.). He is, truly, an evil Welshman.

Reef - not sexist, honest

Beach Bum recently posted an intriguing piece of footage from the enlightened folk at Reef.

Watch it and marvel at the way in which Reef's ultra-PC marketing gurus continue to nurture the company's "cool and casual attitude of the beach with a commitment to nurturing the lifestyle that follows."

Swoon as you encounter "the elite class of Reef ambassadors that scour the globe in search of the best waves, surrounded by some of the most beautiful and remote places on the planet" (er, where is the surfing in this footage? Ed.).

Declare yourself in love with the "fantasy that only a small portion of the world ever gets to experience."

And thank the Lord for Reef, the company "all about finding that place, and savoring the feeling no matter where you may be."

Or: wonder whether the title of Vladimir Nabokov's Despair doesn't best sum up your feelings at such extraordinary sexploitation in surfing.

 

You can take the skater out of the suit...

But you can't take the suit out of the skater. Or maybe it's the other way round?

Anyway, what a top afternoon I had today, skating on Sennen Cove esplanade with Russ Pierre taking some shots for both Huck and The Sunday Times' 'In Gear' section. Huck are running a piece on old-school skaters who never stopped in the next issue, and The Sunday Times is planning something on the phenomenon that is Middle Age Shred. Both pieces required me to carve around on my beloved Original Path 37, so that's what I did. Sometimes work is fun - even though, as this shot from Russ shows, I opted to leave the Twat Cap at home.

On Tw*T Caps

Here is a record of today's post-surf conversation.

"Dad, you can't blame yourself for not getting out the back today."

"Yes, I can."

"But it was big and breaking on the rocks."

"It wasn't that big. I stupidly wasn't wearing a hood or any gloves and felt numb from the cold and gave up. I decided it was just too hideous and that I couldn't face it."

Harry infers, not unreasonably, that some degree of reason is present in this analysis, relatively reasonable as it is. So he asks (not without reason): "Then why are you in such a bad mood?"

"Because it was stupid to paddle out in the middle of January without a hood."

Inwardly, what I'm actually thinking is: I waited until 3.30pm to pick up Harry for a post-school surf, and blew it. By the time we got to the beach a very full tide was breaking on the rocks. Harry and his friend Mark took one look and, quite reasonably, didn't fancy it. Nor did I but some collective 'we must surf' demon possessed us and got into our wetsuits to paddle out. At the water's edge the boys thought better of it. I felt I ought to give it a go and, full of misgivings from recent flu, work stress and generally feeling out of sorts, started to paddle out. My head was screaming with pain after a couple of duck dives. It wasn't big and I could have got out the back, but I just felt horrendous and came in.

Harry pauses. "But you were surfing the other day without a hood."

"Be quiet."

Just then Ali from the Windswept Gallery in St Just comes over. "Good?" she asks.

"No, it was s***," is my uncharacteristically blunt reply. Ali asks how so, for unlike me she timed her arrival to perfection and scored good waves earlier in the afternoon.

"I wasn't wearing a hood, my head felt numb and I just went off the whole thing half way through paddling out. I got very cold and hated it, and came in."

Ali nods sympathetically, for she is A Good Person. Perhaps inwardly she is thinking: "Hmmm, I've seen Alex out in bigger than that, and without a hood too. I wonder what's up with him?" However, she is too nice to voice such thoughts. I promise to meet her tomorrow and vow to time my arrival at the beach correctly, whereupon we will enjoy that which is proving so elusive lately (for me, at least) - a good surf. Meanwhile, as Ali suggests that I take out any lingering frustration in the boxing gym, not elsewhere, Harry has been pondering the situation.

"Dad, Twat Caps (I'm not sure we should allow this term. Ed.) look so uncool. I don't think you should wear one. Especially not after that picture in Pit Pilot."

"I know, son," said I, but then, suddenly mindful of the deluge of letters from surf babes around the world who were lucky enough to see Greg 'It's a flattering shot, really Alex' Martin's recent picture of me in said mag, I made an announcement. "But It Is Time. Time for the Twat Cap."

And so it came to pass that I failed to hold out and surf through the winter without a Twat Cap (is this really what they're called? Ed). Tomorrow I will wear one loud, and I will wear it proud. It's simply too humiliating to start to paddle out and then turn back because of the cold and I cannot let it happen again.

But as for gloves - no. I will fight them on the beaches, I will fight them on the streets, I will fight them in the fields and I will fight them in Chapel Idne if I have to but whatever happens, I will not, ever, wear gloves to go surfing.

St Just ABC and the North Shore: there is a connection

Last night I was toying with the idea of posting My Very Own Guide to Fitness. I'd had a good session at St Just Amateur Boxing Club, itself preceded by another one of my regular activities - running from my house up the cliff path to the Minack Theatre with my loyal hound. I felt strong and healthy, confident that at the age of 41 I am still fitter than a lot of young whipper-snappers out there, and, for a few blissfully deluded minutes, wondered if I might share a few tips for well-being with the world.

This morning, I woke up feeling decidedly out of sorts, and now, as the evening wears on, I feel dreadful. It is quite possible that far from being in a position to offer anything constructive in terms of advice for fitness and health, I am, in fact, doing far too much. So, pending a collapse into exhaustion caused by excess exercise, here, rather than My Very Own, and Highly Dubious, Guide to Fitness, are some more shots from Simon Jayham, at large on the North Shore.