Surf Nation

From Jersey to Sennen (via a Flowrider)

Here I am back online after a week in Jersey. I didn't score much by way of surf there, St Ouens being buffeted by westerlies most days, but I did catch up with top local surfer Mark Durbano and the president of Jersey's surf club, Dave Ferguson. Both confirm that there's a healthy, vibrant scene on this rather beautiful Channel Island, whose venerable surf club this year celebrated its 50th anniversary.

Needless to say a bit of time was spent at Jersey surfers' institution, the Watersplash, though this was an unusual trip for the Wade clan in that surfing wasn't its raison d'etre. In fact, we were on Jersey to sample its many other activities, this for a Times piece, and so Harry, Elliot and I found ourselves enjoying a spot of aerial trekking (a scary pursuit requiring a head for heights), blo-karting (great fun, like sand-sailing on Saunton as I knew it 20 years ago but easier and safer) and archery (very enjoyable, I am a crackshot, if accurate archers are known as crackshots). However, given that we were staying at the Merton Hotel - the home of some 200 surfers for Jersey's forthcoming Eurosurf 2009 - we also got a bit of flowriding under our belts. Or rather, Harry and I did, Mrs W. and Elliot opting for the pool.

So, what's flowriding like? I was mindful of something Simon Jayham wrote a while back, about it not being a walk in the park, as I geared up for my first attempt at standing up (one's flowriding debut is made lying down on a quasi-bodyboard and, like bodyboarding, is easy enough). Standing up isn't actually that difficult, but I agree with Simon in that even after three or four goes neither Harry nor I had got it wired. In contrast, the chief instructor at the Merton, Jamie De La Hay, made it look all too easy, whipping the small, skateboard-sized board around with a series of moves that owe more to wakeboarding and snowboarding than surfing.

 

Harry and I bagged a total of three flowriding sessions at the Merton. By the end, we just about had the knack of going up and down the ramp and carving around (gently, in my case). It's a blast, and I'd love to do more, which means I'll might well try and return to Jersey. Alternatively, I could head to Schlitterbahn Waterpark Resort in New Braunfels, Texas, the first place to host surfer Tom Lochtefeld's curious fusion of various boardsports, or maybe sign up for a cruise - apparently the Freedom of the Seas, the Liberty of the Seas and the Independence of the Seas all feature flowriders. Meantime, if there's no surf at Eurosurf 2009, I know what Europe's finest surfers will be doing.

Jersey is a lovely island which, despite its tiny size - it's just nine miles long - is full of unexpected delights. St Brelade's Bay, the Royal Bay of Grouville and Mont Orgueil Castle are stunning - and they're just for starters. Bonne Nuit Bay and Grev de Lecq are also gems - and the latter gets a tasty wave, too. But it was great to get back home. We rolled into West Penwith at 4.00 a.m Sunday, and this afternoon I surfed a reasonable wave on the dropping tide at a fogbound Sennen Cove. I lost count of the number of people I met in the short journey from parking the car to paddling out - a quick recap brings the names of Jonathan, Jacs, Darren, Pat, Dom, Aerial Attack, Jackson and Russ to mind - while in the line-up was Dr Sarah, a lady I don't know very well but who is always smiling and super-stoked. My last wave was clean right-hander from the peak opposite the lifeguard hut all the way to the Beach cafe. I left the water with a smile on my face, thinking that Jersey was great - but that it was good to be home.

Slyly traduced by a Millwall wordsmith

One of my more enjoyable freelance activities is penning book reviews for the Times Literary Supplement. They're usually about sport of one kind or another, and the most recent was about Richard Sanders' new book, Beastly Fury, whose subtitle  - 'The Strange Birth of British Football' - says it all. In my review, the following paragraph appears:

But football’s roots, as chronicled by Richard Sanders in Beastly Fury: The Strange Birth of British Football, were decidedly more austere. They were also rather more aristocratic than the naysayers, were they to undertake a visit to, say, the New Den, home of Millwall FC, would suspect. For while football began as an almost Saturnalian melée involving entire villages – one full of what Thomas Elyot, in 1531, called “beastlie furie and extreme violence” – by the 1800s the game had metamorphosed into an exclusively public school pursuit. It was one of remarkable violence, bearing more resemblance to rugby than the modern game.

Fair comment, I hear you say. But a naysayer has written to the TLS, and his letter appears here. It is a fine letter, ably demonstrating the fine prose of at least one Millwall fan, but what's all this about Chelsea ("Foppish Chelsea is for readers of the Literary Review")? Methinks, given that I'm a diehard QPR fan, that I'm being slyly traduced.

Swimming the Brisons

A couple of months ago I was out walking the dogs at Cape Cornwall. I met a carpenter called Tristan Cox there. We got chatting as we ambled down the hill to Priest's Cove. Tristan told me of a "very local event, it's never advertised and relies purely on word of mouth" that he thought I'd enjoy. It was the annual swim from the Brisons, the lump of rock a mile or so out to sea off Cape Cornwall. I call it a 'lump of rock' because at high tide the Brisons appear as two distinct islands, while at low water they're clearly one and the same: a singular island, if you please.

Anyway, the swim struck me as a decent challenge and I told Tristan I'd do it. Two weeks ago, when an epic swell was bombarding these parts, the swim was called off. I wasn't too displeased, having done absolutely nothing by way of training for it, and vowed to get a few lengthy sea swims under my belt before today, the mooted return date for the swim.

Today arrived and all I'd done was a couple of lengths of Mousehole harbour. Tristan rang at 10.00 a.m. "The swim's on," he said. He assured me that my only enemy would be the cold and promised to lend me a swimming cap. I wasn't at all sure that this would see me through the event but something told me that I'd sign up and enter and see what happened. On the way to Cape Cornwall my wife, Karen, helpfully said: "Wouldn't it be awful if you had to be rescued? Imagine! You'd never live it down!"

At Priest's Cove the Brisons looked an awfully long way out to sea. The atmosphere for the swim was fantastic, very mellow and chilled, but inwardly my nerves were jangling away and I somewhat regretted my tendency never to train for significant physical undertakings. The psychology is obvious: if I fail, I have an excuse - "I didn't train, whaddya expect?!" - but the methodolgy come the day creates pain. I have had boxing matches, climbed mountains, run the London marathon and completed the Perranporth triathlon, all with minimal or no training; the strategy usually works, but on one mountaineering trip nearly resulted in death. How would the swim play out?

Fortunately, there wasn't much time to think about it. I bumped into the estimable Fi Reed, a writer for Cornwall Today, who was doing the swim, and got talking to one or two other masochists. But before I knew it, I was in a boat and heading out to the Brisons. There were 25 of us, and I'd say that pretty much everyone was apprehensive about the cold, the distance, the swell which became ever more evident the further out to sea we went and, of course, the fear of failure (well, maybe that was just me).

The lifeboat foghorn sounded, and we jumped overboard. It sounded again, and off we went. And a remarkable thing happened: It wasn't cold. It wasn't painful. Regular surfing gave me the requisite upper body strength. I absolutely loved every moment of the swim and came in 7th in 29 minutes.

The winner, Ian Jeffrey, blitzed it in 17.46 and I was seriously impressed to see Fi ahead of me in 5th. So far as I'm aware everyone made it save for one lad who had an asthma attack.

This was a great event and I'll be doing it next year, for sure. I might even train a bit next time. Then again, why change the kidology of a lifetime?

Pictures by Tristan Cox, a good man and top carpenter. Just imagine: if I did the swim every weekend I might even lose some weight...

Exclusive: Government Begins Quest for Harbour Master to Police Surfers

Following recent revelations that the government is revising the boring old Merchant Shipping Act to make it much more interesting by designating that all surfboards are henceforth ships, I learn that a search has been launched for a specially created new role - that of Uber-Harbour Master in Charge of Shipping and Surfing.

The Uber-Master will be given a special anchor and lodgings in the Newlyn Tidal Observatory. He will be tasked with ensuring that all ships and surfboards are properly registered and fitted with state-of-the-art navigational devices before they can be taken to sea. Miscreants who refuse to acknowledge the Uber-Master will be given an ASBO and banned from the coast.

A short-list of potential Uber-Masters has been drawn up. Here are some of the candidates:

1. Aerial Attack. The Penzance-based photographer has been approached for the role but is understood to feel that there is not enough airtime involved.

2. Jonty Henshall. Who better as the Uber-Master than a poacher turned gamekeeper? Henshall, known for his abiding love of authority, is said to be "actively considering for five seconds" the chance to dish out his very own ASBOs.

3. Stef Harkon. The legendary skater, surfer and lifeguard was initially tempted, but sources say he is now too busy being filmed by ITV as the UK's coolest Dad. His daughters were unavailable for comment.

4. Russ Pierre. With Pierre having just turned 40 there is a growing body of opinion that he now has the maturity for the job. However, his partner, Jill, had this to say: "If Russ thinks he's going to be the Uber-Master, he's got another think coming."

5. Mr P. Pilot. A dark horse, he would only say: "I never like to close any doors. It drives Daisy mad."

6. Harry Wade. Although only 14 Wade Jnr has some radical ideas about the job of Uber-Master. "Does it mean I can make sure that kook who dropped in on me and hurt my arm at Spot G yesterday never surfs again?" he asked. When told that the Uber-Master's role meant precisely that, Wade Jnr laughed demonically and unhesitatingly put his name forward.

7. Zed Layson. Largely considered out of the running given that he lives in Barbados, a government representative nevertheless confirms that a research trip to Mr Layson's abode is underway because, as she put it, "We've heard he's a bit of a dude and it would be discriminatory not to consider him. Besides, how does the Bajan Uber-Master function? I'd like to know."

8. Colin Briers. Largely considered out of the running given that he lives in Costa Rica, a government representative nevertheless confirms that a research trip to Mr Briers' abode is underway because, as she put it, "We've heard he's a bit of a dude and it would be discriminatory not to consider him. Besides, how does the Californian Uber-Master in Costa Rica function? I'd like to know."

9. Tony Plant. The people's choice. Tall, unshaven, usually barefoot and capable of looking very scary, Plant said that if the appropriate contractual formalities could be agreed, he would consult his lawyers and give any such offer as was forthcoming "all due consideration".

10. Alan Stokes. Flush from his excellent 5th place in the Boardmasters and still as handsome as ever, Stokes is the PR's choice. But which one?

11. Andy Martin. The "card-carrying aficionado of big wave Hawaiian surfing" was not enamoured of the idea of a British Uber-Master for surfing and shipping. "It sounds strange to me," he said. "After all, everyone knows that British surfing is an oxymoron. That being the case, how can there be a legitimate need for an Uber-Master? For shipping, yes, but surely not for surfing. In reality, we're looking at a conventional harbour master's role, and I'm sorry, I don't think it's for me." Martin did allow, though, that he'd be interested if regular trips to Oahu were part of the package.

12. Alex Wade. Government officials are undecided about whether to approach Wade. The unstable 43-year-old was recently declared uninsurable by Scottish Widows but showed his characteristic resolve in the face of adversity when, in conversation with the company's leading underwriter about his reasons for making such an ostensibly draconian and unfair decision, he offered him a fight. The offer was not taken up and Wade is presently thought to be so full of unspent aggression that he could make for a highly effective Uber-Master. Perhaps, indeed, the Newlyn Tidal Observatory, within staggering diatance of The Swordfish, reputedly England's fourth hardest pub, is the perfect place for Wade. However, when contacted he had this to say: "I was stoked to see QPR beat Exeter City 5-0 at St James's Park last night and there wasn't a surfboard, still less a ship, in sight. Moreover, I believe in peace and harmony and have no wish to go round being in conflict with anyone, except for that twat from Scottish Widows."

Pictured: The Swordfish, a top pub at which Wade would like to have a drink (coffee - black, no sugar) with Scottish Widows' underwriter.

This surfer is a ship-owner

I am a Captain. Or an Admiral. Or perhaps I'm a Commodore. Maybe I'm even a Bosun. Whatever my precise description, when I surf I am in charge of a ship. When I thought I was riding Steve Linton's old K-Bay 9"1' the other day, in epic surf at Sennen Cove, I was wrong. When I paddled out on my twin fin Jonty Henshall 6"9' recently, I was mistaken in thinking that I was going for a surf. Likewise, when I rode my Surftech 7"6' a couple of weeks ago.

On all these occasions, I thought I was surfing, but in fact I was piloting a small vessel, one which is soon to be classified as a ship under the Merchant Shipping Act 1995 for the powers that be at the Department of Transport have decreed that “Everyone should be free to enjoy themselves on the water in the knowledge that there are sanctions to deal with those who would put their safety at risk.” As such, we who surf are now to be seen as ship-owners.

If this strikes you as an absurd proposition, fear not. Following cast-iron confirmation that some dogs are as clever as toddlers, the DoT has embarked upon an extensive consultation with canines who surf with regard to the precise way in which amendments to shipping legislation will be implemented. Their recommendations will, says a DoT spokesperson, "be fully and appropriately enshrined in statute".

Said my dogs, Rio and Maya: "In our experience, ship-owners are different than surfers in the sense that their craft have big noisy engines, travel vast distances, carry cargo, crew and food and utilise satellite navigational technology, while surfboards tend to travel along the faces of waves for just a few seconds with merely one person in command. We would submit that when our owner, the estimable Alex Wade, was surfing at epic Sennen the other day - something that he keeps going on about to the extent that everyone he knows is now sick of him blathering on about it - he was in somewhat different category than, for example, the captain of the Scillonian or the helmsman of one those massive tankers in the River Fal that we saw when out for walkies the other day. However, as dogs we know our place. Yes, we like surfing, but if we're told to sit we'll sit and if we have to stay we'll stay. Likewise, if the DoT tell us that we are henceforth to be treated as ship-owners we will wag our tails and accept our fate. Anything else would be ridiculous."

Pictured: Rio, before she became an Admiral.

Primo Surf Stoke at Sennen

This blog has been overwhelmed by a dread four letter word lately. Yes, WORK has prevented me from penning even a single word. Quite why I'm so busy eludes me but I can't knock it given that WORK does pay the bills. Anyway, here's a summary of what's been going down:

1. The Wade clan had a top trip to Poole. Among many activities, including riding jet skis and kayaking, I went windsurfing in a Force 5 and discovered that I can still do it. Harry, in contrast, struggled. This means that there is still one thing that I can do better than him. Hurray!

2. Upon our return to West Penwith, Harry and I have surfed just about every day, for the Swell Gods have been smiling on these parts lately. Aside from one disastrous session at Spot G, witnessed, as is the way of things, by just about everyone I know, I have had a series of excellent surfs. Today, though, was the best. The right-hander at Sennen at low tide was primo. Harry shredded the middle peak and I had one wave that was so good that everyone I know thought I was someone else. However, perhaps the wave of the day goes to young Isaac Marshall. He's barely 11 but surfs with bucketloads of style and took off on one wave that, given his size, was double overhead. He rode really well, nice and smooth and in the pocket. Great to see.

3. I've been writing a lot for Coast magazine, Cornwall Today and the Times. Click here for last Saturday's Coaster column on the Boardmasters, now underway at Fistral in what must, given the surf further west at Sennen, be good waves. 

4. I've also been jumping off the pier a fair bit at Mousehole with my younger lad, Elliot. This ancient and venerable activity brings a smile to my face and, when I hit the water, gasps from onlookers as a small tsunami is unleashed.

5. I'm looking forward to checking out a new film about Michael Peterson.

6. I'm hoping that WORK will slacken off a bit so that I can choose whether to surf even more or write my novel.

And the truth is that if that right-hander is going to work again as well as it did today, surfing will win out every time.

The image, of Sennen yesterday, is courtesy of www.sennen-cove.com. It was a big old rip-fest then but today was gorgeous. Have I mentioned that? Sorry. Still stoked. Aloha.