Reasons Why Poms Should Not Surf

Fellow blogger, talented teller of a yarn, surf savant and all round good bloke Mr Peter Bowes recently set out this challenge. I summoned up all my negativity and dived in. The old guy was right . It did hurt.

It’s done now.Over to you Peter.

1. It is very cold.
2. Large parts of the coastline get no swell.
3. You cannot surf and smoke a pipe at the same time.
4. The predominant winds are onshore in the most popular surfing areas.
5. Our skin suffers blocthiness, burning and peels when the sun shows.
6. You cannot get kegged in two foot wind swell.
7. There is a ‘seaside culture’.
8. Other nations drop in on us when we travel.
9. Pom’s chuck their wax wrappers on beaches, in lay bys, on the streets and down any hole they can find.
10. The wind doth blow.
11. The motorway network.
12. Poms have a poor competitive record against other nations.
13. There are more banks in most high streets than on some of our beaches.
14. It is very cold.
15. Putsbourgh.
16. Our ‘North Shore’ is near the Arctic Circle and is dark and covered with snow for a portion of the year.
17. Our lady surfers are encased in black rubber for most of the year. (Some of our ex public school boy surfers see this as a bonus).
18. Ireland is ‘in the way’.
19. A Pom pisses in his wetsuit out of necessity, not pleasure.
20. The activity is done standing up.
21. It is very cold.
22. Beach side carpark attendants who collect even when you have got in for the early before work.You know who you are!
23. Pollution on an epic scale.
24. Evil crowds from the Smoke and other inland places.
25. Peer pressure.
26. A world shortage of tweed wetsuits.
27. The summer months are characterized by only more rain.
28. There is more chaffing in these islands.
29. The Bournemouth artificial reef.
30. Few world class breaks.
31. Pom’s do n’t support and value their shapers (enough).
32. British Summer Time (BST). We live in enforced darkness for evening upon evening.
33. It is very cold.
34. Too few river mouth breaks.
35. Our surf brands are ‘domestic’.
36. The liquor at the bottom of a Pom’s wet suit bucket typically contains-rainwater, urine (human and animal), cow dung. sand,wax, mud and dead plant matter.
37. The ocean is rarely blue and clear in many locations.
38. Dowdy seaside resorts.
39. The coast (east coast) with the preponderance of quality reef breaks has a small swell window.
40. Unskilled canoeists.
41. It’s not an activity for the obese.
42. It is very cold.
43. Combined sewer overflows.
44.  An English man’s home is his ipod/bmw/alcho pop/soap opera/x-box/wii/ready meal/super market/government scheme/fast food joint/x factor/smart phone.
45. The UK has less sunshine hours than Oregon.
46. Few skate pools/bowls close to beaches.
47. RNLI – beach safety through the power of PR and the waverunner. What was that bump?
48. Too many grumpy old surfers.
49. It’s very cold.
50. It’s very cold.

Painting of tramp by Robert Lenkiewicz.

Fossilised Memories

Line up shots. You cannot beat them. This one is is another North Sea spot. I visited the place last year but did not get to take a dip. All I have are distant memories of surfing this sometimes superlative hotdogger’s wave but they do not stretch to apparently blue sea.

Cayton Point

More reminiscing. I have n’t surfed here for close to three decades. It was always a little bit wild, bitterly cold and sizey on occasion. The first time I surfed here was in early January. We drove through snow drifts to reach the coast. The beach had an inch of snow so we could  be certain that we were first in the water that day. The wind howled and the Marigold gloves I used for insulation to my hands may as well been of rice paper. My red and yellow wetsuit leaked in the hole below the zip but I cared not. Clearly peaked by the attitude of it’s owner the suit’s back zip burst open an hour later. The frigid sea water flooded through the suit and dragged it off my shoulders. I was beaten. I cried adieu to my friends, paddled in and walked along the beach to the base of the steep ramp that leads to the car park atop of the cliffs. By now I was beyond cold and becoming pleasantly drowsy. The dopiness pushed in on me and I detached myself from the ice and snow on the ramp and smiled blissfully  like the idiot I was. Briefly I snapped out of it and shouted at my tired limbs to restart the trudge up the ramp.

”I think I will lie down and have a rest” .I said to myself.

”No you wo n’t dog breath”. I responded through gritted teeth.

It took me a quarter of an hour for me to stagger up the ramp. Gripped by the strangely warm embrace of hyperthermia I struggled to unlock the Morris Minor’s door with completely numbed hands for a further ten minutes. My friends discovered me standing semi naked in the snowy carpark looking beatifically into the middle distance a short while later.

The beach in the lee of the point is or more accurately was used by nudists. It always struck me as strange for people to want to gamble around in the altogether in such a chilly place.

Horse Head Reef

I look across the bleak flat through the fug of a banging hangover at Yorkie and Martin.Martin sups from a bottle of Stella whilst gazing out from the large window of the tower block flat to the city below. The sky is grey with low lying fog pressing down  on the rooftops. Martin’s freezing breath echo’s the conditions  outside and confirms to me that further time spent in my warm sleeping bag contemplating on recent events is the best option for now.

It is Winter 1988. I have taken the coach from  Plymouth up to Newcastle to spend a few days in the North East. Yorkie picks me up at the coach station and his old Saab creeps out of the city  towards the coast.With the pride that only an incomer can convey, he shows me some of the breaks north of the Tyne. The city beaches of Tynemouth and Whitley bay first and then the breaks around the post industrial landscapes of Seaton Sluice,Blyth and New Biggin. The landscape has been flogged by callous industry for centuries.  Coal mines and engineering works press down on the land like dinosaurs that have sucked in their last breath and lie on the ground rotting with their guts displayed skyward. The beaches are strewn with sea coal and other detritus. Figures pick at the coal  and watch for unsecured vehicles like crows foraging for carrion. The quiet  Northumberland countryside  comes into view at Cresswell. The Saab draws to a halt and we check out the surf playing on the reef.  Three quarters of an hour latter we are done. It is completely dark and the occasional peelers have been swallowed by the frigid jet black North Sea.

I wake up next morning to the shriek of Credence belting out ‘Have you ever seen the rain’ and the smell of cooking bacon. A glance out of the caravan window confirms that the swell is filling in to Sandy Bay. Sandy Bay comprises  of a low headland and a ribbon of beach that is briefly golden but at the top gives way to rebar , crumbling concrete and shards of land that are in the process of being licked away by the sea. The back drop is a field full of hundreds of green caravans and the outskirts of New Biggin by Sea beyond.Sheesh… its not Honolua Bay but hey we both seem to have got away without a hangover last night and there are waves.

Yorkie says that he has to work this morning. His job is to relieve hard working people of their cash on a monthly basis in exchange for brief ownership of the green aluminium  structures that blot the landscape in Sandy Bay. Mainly though  he seems to surf and lark about the north east portion of Thatcher’s Britain. I disguise my resentment. I have a proper poorly paid responsible job for now. We are oblivious to the men of our own age even right now barking down brick sized mobile phones, making unfeasible sums of money whilst wearing business suits with red braces only 200 miles further south in the City. A Zietgeist walks past the caravan dressed in a  fluorescent shell suit speaking into a brick. Neither of us notice.

Suited up now, I survey the chaotic beach break in front of me. There will be a few waves that will keep me happy there. I shuffle up to a shattered piece of seawall and launch into the maelstrom. There is a sharp tug on my right leg as soon as I hit the water. I look back to see my leash caught around the tentacular rebar that sprouts from the wall in tufts. The largest set of the day looks up from reading the paper when it spots my predicament , makes it way around Church Point and unloads right in front of me and the rebar. Three waves in quick succession push me against the sea wall. Confusion, fury and humiliation spread in equal measure from a gland that relishes these occasions. I push these unwelcome intruders back at the same time that I make the final attempt to push my self away from the wall. I take stock after a brief paddle out to the line up. All surfers have a check-list for these situations. Mine is, in order of priority. Is my board dinged, is everyone else ok, is my leash snapped,is my wet suit ok and has my body got any new holes in it? My  flouro pink 6′ 3” thruster  has a ding on the rail near the nose. This is the worst , but familiar news. I snapped my leash whilst trying to get free of the rebar tangle as the third set wave washed into me.I have holed my Gul winter steamer, with flouro panels, near the right knee but there is no sign of blood or broken bones. This is all too discouraging but in final analysis not terminal to this surf trip.After a while I start to pick off some reasonable rides. The tide drops too low and waves become uncooperative.I paddle in.

Yorkie’s girlfriend is an air hostess. Thats pretty good but get this , she brings free Stella Artois back from her trips. Every pause in the action during this trip we celebrate these amazing facts by drinking her health …..and then drinking a whole lot more. We do this starring out to sea. I ask about the mushy break approximately 200 yards out beyond the beach break. Yorkie says dismissively that it rarely breaks and does not look any good. ”As far as I know no one has ever surfed it. It;s called Horse Head reef on the map” Right there the rest of my afternoon had been decided.

Carefully avoiding all rebar and concrete I paddle out,,,and then paddle out some and then some more. By the time I find and reach the lineup I reckon I am close to half a mile out to sea. Now this thing is no brown water Teaphoo but it is not 3 foot mush either. The walls are slopey but on some waves peel left for 150 to 200 yards but the most interesting feature of the wave is that the peak is a bowl that constantly renews itself as you go down the line.My roundhouse cutty never looked so good. I surf for a long time until the wave is broken by the tide. I paddle  in a state of near bliss and very unoriginally name the break ”Horse Head Reef”.

Back in Martin’s flat the thrill of my discovery is still with me. More recent events will take more time to soak in.The inadvisable quantity of beer consumed by me in Newcastle’s infamous Big market last night makes focussing on the concert and the company of the fashion girls we met difficult to recall. ”Hey Martin, chuck us another Stella. Where are we going today?”

Yorkfornia

I scanned the familiar line ups. The harbour peak, thick and sizey , funnelling towards the harbour wall, an underrated wave. The Point is majestic but mushy now that the tide has pushed in too far. Even the gentle off shore breeze cannot save it from sloppiness and closing out. Nevertheless it still stands out most to the casual onlooker because it shakes a foamy fist at all who imagine entering the harbour. Then there of course is The Cove. Today the peak appears and fires wave after wave along the infamous stepped rock ledge. The lip line unzips at a regular but unfeasibly quick rate. The resultant foam bounce throws into the air at twice the size of the wave. The foam bounce is the teller. Power and shallow water combines to make one of the best left breaking reefs in Europe. There is no one in.
I sip my filtered coffee and look around at the faces of the people that I have come to this place with. My octogenarian in-laws, both starring out at the powder blue sky and the lively sea below, my wife tending to her mother’s repeated questions and my daughter caught up by the jazz of her Dad’s enthusiasm and the warm cake served by the harbour side café where we sit. How did I get here and why the hell am I not itching to get in here for the first time in 16 years?

Sheltered from the shadows of the Cornish dole queues and the other harsh realities of the school leaver in Mrs Thatcher’s Britain I basked in the life of a student in the Republic of South Yorkshire. I studied partying and majored in surfing. If life slowed up I went to some lectures but mainly it was surfing and hilarity. On a whim in 1983 I hitch hiked to the North Yorkshire coast when I first arrived. I found four foot waves at Saltburn with offshore winds but it turned out that was only a hint of treasure that friends and I would seek out over the next 3 years. Friends, their un-roadworthy cars and Sheffield University Surf Clubs petrol money fund would help to reveal the left reefs, points and beach breaks of the East Coast. I filled my boots and then the time was gone. Finished. I returned for a three day surgical strike to Staithes and Sandsend in the 1990s but this coast has stayed largely only in my memory since the early 80s. Was it real or imagined?
On Sunday we arrive in Sandsend from Merseyside where we picked up the in-laws. They are elderly and in deteriorating health. My wife wants them to enjoy a short break instead of the long European holidays they used to take in their campervan until this year. My daughter races around the holiday cottage looking out of each window at the beach below. The cottage has three floors, each room has a window with a different aspect over the beach, every room furnished in seaside chic to my wife’s evident delight. We collect pebbles from the beach before dark. There is no surf. I have taken my 6’ 6’’ thruster on an impulse. Magicseaweed suggests the only chance of surf will be on Tuesday, a low grade south easterly windswell.

Monday dawns, from our bedroom window I can see some windswell arriving at the shore accompanied by a strong but warm south east wind. We take in the delights of Whitby until my mother in law feels unwell and we retreat to the warm cottage. This time when I go to the window I can see 3-4 foot peaks torn by the wind and a strengthening rip. Earlier in the day I have spotted the beach in the lea of Whitby harbour, it could offer some promise in these conditions. I draw up to the grassy cliff top and look over. Chin high to head high peaks breaking left and right. Three guys in. I surf for an hour or two. The peak is sheltered from the wind and is a good slide either way. The water is surprisingly warm. My memory is of water that is frigid by mid-October but I can easily cope without boots or gloves today. Is it the advance in wetsuit technology, the additional insulation I seem to have accumulated in recent years or the warm autumn? I do n’t know or care. I wander back up the cliff and start to get changed by the car. After a while I hear a familiar sound, the grinding of trucks on coping. I look across the road and spot the source. A teenager has pulled a fifty-fifty on the steel coping of what looks to be a concrete bowl. After ambling across to take a look at the U shaped bowl I return with my board and pads. After a few spins around it I am done. The bowl is roughly 4 foot deep with an extension on one side and two roll ins. This place is a great ‘bomb around’ bowl, ideal for me because I am starting to regain some confidence after a fairly serious injury. Dumb founded by my luck I drive home, the trip has already passed my expectations.

Early next morning I looked out the window. The swell has risen. Sandsend Beach does not look quite right though, too much cross shore wind and rips breaking up the line up. I make a quick recee first to Runswick Bay and then to Staithes. None of the reefs are working, either closing out or they are sheltered from the south easterly swell. I reflect on my luck. I have never seen a south easterly swell in the North Sea. We spend the day at Whitby Abbey and then go down to Scarbourgh. Whilist the family look round the resort I chat to a fellow surfer that I met in Ireland in 1994. We reminisce about the west coast. He tells me his partner on that trip broke his back at Staithes last week. There is another mournful tit bit too. An angler has been reported swept off the pier at The Gare today. The Gare is famously the go too spot during the rare south east swells. It’s too far for me to get to and will probably be crowded. Times getting on now and the wind has dropped. South Bay is overhead and as good as I have ever seen it now. We confer, Whitby harbour wall is definitely the place to be this evening. Just as my frustration is going to get the better of me my farther in –law turns up from his solo hike round Scarbourgh. We head up the coast. I chuck my board in the car after leaving the family to make diner and talk about the day. The peak from yesterday has moved 100 yards further out now and is much closer to the harbour wall, perhaps only 15-20 yards. The waves are sheet glass and probably 3 to 4 feet over head height. There is no one in. Its starting to get dark. I paddle out. I ride 3 or 4 waves perhaps up to 150 to 200 yards long. They are the best waves I have had in months. After losing my board twice from not securing my leg rope properly I catch a small insider in. Two guys dressed in drysuits, buoyancy aids and wellington boots chase me up the cliff. When they reach me neither can speak. I let them catch their breath. They explain they are coast guards and that they have been called out by a concerned member of the public on the harbour side. I find the whole scenario hugely amusing and laugh uncontrollably. The coast guards initially do n’t see the funny side but I offer them a lift back to their car and we leave on good terms. Save us from concerned members of the public! I change, put my pads on and bomb round the nearby bowl. I chat to a couple of kids who have come from York to skate the place. I’m knackered after a few runs so head home .

The gentle off shore breeze brushes the faces of the glittering waves exploding on the shore. Sandsend is going off! I jump out of bed, suit up and charge down to the beach. The paddle out is fairly tough but the waves are a similar size to last night and there is only the ghost of a channel to help me out to the line up. I paddle back to shore two hours later, satisfied. I get fewer waves than I used to but on the plus side I still seem to do what I want to on the ones I do get. After visiting Staithes later on in the day I find myself in Saltburn. My family are on the pier looking at the surfers whizz pase on various types of vessels. The longboarders seem to be making the best of it. I spot a familiar figure leaning against the railings with his face half turned out to sea while talking to a customer. I first saw Nick 28 years ago in exactly the same pose, he was gently explaining to a learner the basics of paddling out. The difference in 28 years is mapped out by a few lines on his face and the van he plied his trade from has now been supplanted for a beachside surf shop. The testament to his and his business partners success float out to on their shiny boards, all ages and both sexes. We chat and reminisce for a few minutes and part with a probably unachievable promise to meet up in Ireland next month. Gary , Nick’s partner, comes into view. The eternal grommet. He explains earnestly he has been in twice today already and is cold now but it is obvious to us both that he will be drawn back out to sea to sit by his son and split peaks.

During the evening I drive down the coast to Scarbourgh by myself to take a look at the fabled Hairy Bob’s. The skatepark is the best designed I have been to by a distance. The park sits at the base of the cliffs that are capped with an ancient castle on this side of the bay. It is bathed in bright floodlighting tonight. The street section and the bowl section flow seamlessly into one another. The view over the declining swell glinting in the dark is more California than east coast Yorkshire. It’s not even cold. One of the skaters asks for my advice on keeping speed around the bowl. It’s a shame he cannot get me to do some of those kickflips he executes so effortlessly. I get to grips with the U shaped bowl fairly quickly. I struggle to double axel grind the deep end. I’ll get it next time. Yeah I can surf Staithes next time too.