Surf Nation

Short-term gain, long-term pain

Congratulations to Huck magazine for winning best cover award in the Sports and Men’s category at The Maggies 2009. This cover, featuring Maya Gabeira, is killer, and leaving aside all bias (for yes, I have been known to pen a word or two for Huck, not least in its current issue when you can find a piece about Rich Emerson and Operation Amped) I reckon it fully deserved first place.

As I write the momentous seas that have buffeted the far west of Cornwall over the past couple of days seem to have subsided. A little. There are sure to be waves at any number of spots, some known, some highly confidential, but, as with the last two days of swell, surfing them hasn't been an option for me.

For once, I have elected to listen to the medical fraternity. I'm going to let my various ailments get better before paddling out again. This decision illustrates the truth of Aerial Attack's First Law of Surfing: "If it's any good, I won't be able to make it", but it is also, in part, inspired by one of AA's old muckers, Mr J. Asbo who, some time ago, was forced out of the water because of back trouble. Years later, now that he's back in the sea just about as often as he likes, I don't think that Mr Asbo laments the waves he missed through injury. Instead, if he casts his mind back at all to that juncture of his life, he probably thinks: "Thank God I took it easy, didn't push my luck and got better." 

It strikes me, in other words, that champing at the bit to get amongst the surf and feeling desperately unhappy when I'm thwarted (by the likes of Mrs W, who, for the first time ever, is putting her foot down and saying I shouldn't go surfing) is ridiculous. Yes, I could get a few waves and maybe, like last Sunday, I'd get away with it without inflaming my injuries too badly. But it's just as likely that I'll make things a whole lot worse and then have to take even more time out: i.e., enjoy short-term gain at the expense of long-term pain. I may have failed Maths 'O' level three times in a row and never passed it but I reckon that's not a good equation.

Meanwhile: I see that Errant Surf has got its own blog. Check it out here.

On ignoring medical advice (Watt?)

Regular readers, sundry doctors and anyone who will listen will know of the travails and sheer agony engendered by my dodgy neck. However, despite various dollops of "You can't do that" advice, having spent a lifetime ignoring doctors it was obvious to me that two days' rest was more than adequate and that if I went for a surf yesterday I would suffer no more than a vague sense of Pessoan disquiet. And so it was that when I dropped Harry at Sennen Cove I found myself unable to resist paddling out, not to the fairly heavy left down the beach but to the benign-looking right-hander at the car park end. Was it worth it?

I'm not sure. I had some sweet rides, including one very fast wall of a wave that went on for as long as a man in my condition could have wanted, and found that lurching slowly to my feet was fine, if somewhat inelegant. The neck held up, and afterwards I felt able to refute Karen's accusations that I must be completely and utterly stupid by striding manfully around the garden wielding a broom.

But today was a different story. The problem with my problem, whatever it is, is that as well as feeling like I'm being electrocuted at regular though unforeseen intervals, I have a bit of difficulty walking. I remind myself of Samuel Beckett's Watt, a man whose quixotic gait was a source of great amusement to me when I read the novel many years ago. Serves me right for laughing, even if only at a fictional character, for now I am Watt, a man who has to think about where his legs are going to land as he walks to the shop to get the paper and who will, as he roams the house, fall into various walls and tables. Stone cold sober, too.

Medics out there might say that my symptoms are consistent with a touch of arthritis in the upper spine. Indeed, one of them has already vouchsafed this diagnosis. However, until the results of the scan come through I will take lots of drugs and go for a surf if at all possible. I accept that boxing and football are unlikely to feature in my life but not getting any waves is a bit much to bear. After all, I didn't get where I am today without ignoring medical advice.

(You are an idiot and I want a divorce. Karen Wade.)

The Walk of Shame and the Neck of Pain

The day dawned and the pain in my neck which has been plaguing me for about a month was undimmed. No matter. There would be waves at Spot G and I resolved to be amongst them by mid-morning.

My work (or some of it, at least) done, I sped westwards, packing my 9"1' and 6"9'. The latter was a self-delusional choice: I've been in such pain for my last four surfs that popping up on shortboards is not proving possible. Still, en route I could convince myself that I'm a shortboarder at heart who just happens to spend most of his time on a longboard, and that's precisely what I did, arriving at Spot G to see glorious lines and but a few people out. The left looked better than the right and I could discern that only two surfers were on it - Aerial Attack and Mr J. Asbo. After a quick chat with Mr Asbo's partner in the car park I strode down the cliff, longboard under my arm, thoughts of laceration in my mind.

It was here that the trouble started. I am currently suffering from a recurrence of a neck injury first acquired when snowboarding 12 years ago and since then perennially exacerbated by boxing. It's come on since hitting the flowboard ramp neck first and hard in Jersey a month or so ago, and as of a session at Sennen on Monday is now chronic. Anyone who has ever boxed, or taken a punch on the chin for the hell of it, will empathise: I have hideous shooting pains from my neck, down my spine, along my arms and all the way to the soles of my feet. My nervous system is totally awry, so much so that I have trouble walking and feel mildly groggy, as if I'd had a couple of pints at lunchtime. Walking down the cliff to Spot G I had a bit of trouble putting one foot in front of the other and it occurred to me that this was not the ideal state in which to be about to paddle out to head high surf.

I pressed on, with the determination of the deranged, and eventually found myself next to AA and Mr J. Asbo. However, the other consequence of this problem is extreme weakness. On land, my legs feel as if they've been running all day, and in the sea my biceps feel like leaden weights. I was, in short, shattered by the time I got to the line-up, not to mention under-confident about riding any waves.

Mr J. Asbo got some lovely left-handers further across the beach while myself and AA hung about in vain as the tide pushed in and the surf got fatter. I think AA got a few but on the first wave I paddled for my neck went into spasm. I felt as if I'd been hit by an electric shock and memories of 10 minutes of paralysis (which is what happened when I first injured the neck snowboarding) came flooding back. It struck me then that surfing through this level of pain is not only completely stupid but also irresponsible, in that I could quite easily provoke a rescue if I found myself without the use of my limbs or, in the less than appealing alternative, dead. 

And so, dear reader, I proned in. On the beach I stood up and fell over, then had to sit down while my nervous system desperately tried to re-align itself. Climbing back up the hill was agony, so much so that when the incarnation of someone 500% fitter than me appeared at the top of the path (Stef Harkon, on his way for a surf), he looked at me and said: "Bloody hell, you look in a bit of pain - are you alright?"

Later I went to see my physio, the excellent Zelah. She listened, checked a few things and then told me that if I wanted to lose the use of my arms and legs I should continue surfing, because by so doing I stood a good chance of totally rupturing whatever it is that is currently all wrong in my spine. I thought this over for a while and have now concluded that this appears to be one injury that I am not going to be able to ignore. X-Rays and MRI scans loom but at least, as I write this, I can walk, albeit unsteadily, to the doctors' surgeries and hospital waiting rooms of West Penwith.

Is there a moral to this sorry tale? Possibly. Take your pick from:

1. Flowboarding is bad for your health.

2. Flowboarding is bad for the health of people over 40.

3. Boxing is bad for your health.

4. Snowboarding can be bad for your health.

5. Surfing through injuries is silly.

6. Seek medical advice if you experience any symptoms along the lines I've described.

But perhaps there is another moral. Next time you see someone make the walk of shame - the waveless trudge up the beach - give them a break. They might have had an off day, they might have remembered that they were supposed to be somewhere and had no option but to turn and paddle back in. Or, just possibly, they're in excruciating pain and they're cursing every single stupid sport they've ever done that's now threatening to ruin their love of surfing.

Recently myself, The Kid and Aerial Attack were in Whitby, where Brassy Lassy's photograph was taken. Those were the days. My neck only hurt a bit then.

If only I'd gone north...

As I look out of my window I can see precisely no evidence of swell. This is not unusual, given that I live in a village which faces due east and does not get a wave. Sometimes, however, even on a foggy day such as this one there is disquiet on the water, indicating that over on the north coast, or further down on the south coast, there will be surf. Not today. And a look at the webcams (for lo, technology is my god) reveals that precious little on the swell front is happening anywhere round here.

The lives of Aerial Attack and The Kid are markedly different. From Newcastle, where we didn't get a surf in either, they drove north, to Thurso and its environs, while I flew south, to Kernow. Since we departed, last Friday, they have scored successive days of 4-6ft offshore perfection while I have had one lumpy longboard session at Spot G. I know how they're getting on because Aerial Attack keeps sending me text messages telling me how good the surf is wherever he and The Kid pitch up. Which is good of him, you'll agree.

Meanwhile, a few weeks ago I wrote about the World Bellyboarding Championships in the Times. Check out the footage here for an event which was plainly full of stoke.

But talking of surfing waves in the prone position, my son Harry is slightly embarrassed. For the past couple of years, being a standard issue surf grom, he has derided bodyboarding and constantly told anyone who will listen (his mates at Cape Cornwall School) that it is a poor second to surfing. But recently, at Cape Cornwall's annual surf comp, Harry decided to enter both the surfing and bodyboarding categories. He won them both, which, as he recognises, places him in an awkward position: he is now, officially, both a surfer AND a bodyboarder.

For me, riding waves any old way is what counts, and so I say to Barrell Bill - bring on the evidence! (Is that an in joke? Ed.)

Pictured in Costa Rica: a bodyboarder.

Swellboard Fallout and a Lardy Laird

We live in strange times. The picture above shows that surfing, of sorts, is alive and well in London. It was taken by my mate Jules as he strolled innocuously through Bermondsey. Suddenly, a blue swellboard fell from the sky and landed at his feet. Jules is not a man to be easily discombobulated and so he walked on, as if immune. But then he came back and wielded his mobile phone, taking this snap and taking evasive action as more and more swellboards fell from the heavens. What does it all mean?

In search of an answer I came to the far north with Aerial Attack and Billy the Kid. At Tynemouth, we encountered waves so clean and perfect they were a dream. Trouble is, they were very small too. What to do? Well, by way of a pre-emptive strike (for Aerial Attack has his very own blog, and is threatening to publish the evidence), we went stand-up paddle boarding.

Yes, I admit it. That's what we did. We got a stack of waves in this order of capability: The Kid - a natural; Aerial Attack - an unnatural; myself - like a lardy Laird.

This admission out of the way, I can move swiftly on to talk about QPR's magnificent performance away to Newcastle Utd last night. The Rs were footballing gods personified. But wait - someone is tapping me on the shoulder, reminding me that I am not supposed to write about football here. This is a surf blog, so where's the surfing, that's what this person wants to know and well he might ask for, as I have said, these are strange times.

Trouble is, in four days here we haven't found a surfable wave. Granted, we should have gone in at Saltburn but it was a little messy and time was short. Tynemouth was tiny and at the Get Carter beach we spent too much time drinking whisky and pretending to assasinate each other. That left this morning, in Sunderland. The day dawned, as it tends to do, having no alternative, revealing a resplendent Roker Beach. Before we knew it we were in the water, myself on a goat boat, the Kid and AA on kayaks. Heavily disguised as journalists on a press trip, we blitzed a few glistening barrels and then ran for cover.

The Kid and AA have headed north. They're aiming for the legendary break of Thurso, England (copyright The Royal Mail on a surf DVD), where they may yet reacquire their credibility. As for me, it is all over. The swellboards are falling, the SUP is beckoning, the goat boat is a temptress.

Only a surfer, confronted with the preceding facts, knows the feeling.