======== Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: Breaking the habit From: gadgetpjt@aol.com Date: 16 Feb 1997 20:28:21 GMT Harland Area, Devon, UK 14th Feb 97 Hook back the curtains. For a change the trees aren't head-banging, must be about 10-12mph. Slippers on, peek out at the weather vane; shows an Easterly. Switch to turbo mode. Scrape on some clothes. Fling wettie, flask of tea, pack of bikkies in the car. Hurtle shoreward. Pair of magpies on the turn to the beach [one for sorrow, two for joy...]. The gate is unlocked and open, that saves me a walk of a mile [up and down a one in three gradient]. The gods smile down on me. As I round the turn in the track, a three wave set slides silkily down the reef. Can't judge the size from this distance [still 500' up] , but... Awhoooba!! In my hurry to park at the watermill, I get the rear wheel stuck in the hedge. Front wheel spins on the grass. Sod it... sort it later. I'll fill my wetsuit bucket with driftwood [to put under the wheels for traction]. Pull out my shortboard, this ain't no fat mal wave. These waves pitch quick, a longboard would give me little advantage [and plenty of hassle if I get stuck on the inside]. It must be nearly a year since I rode this baby. Didn't realise how hooked I've become on the longboard drug. The path leading to the beach is 600 yds of slippery mud, booties are not designed for this. Can't see the waves yet. The anticipation is a big part of surfing at this spot. I get my first close view as I emerge from the little gorge cut by the stream. 300 yds away, head-high lefts peel and spit across the car-sized boulders. Aww I'm gonna suck... I can't ride a shortboard no more... I'm over 200 Lbs for Gawd's sake!... I need a surf-buddy... I'm gonna head-plant a rock... winge... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Pull yourself together, you've surfed it much bigger than this. Remember that time you went out with Little-Rob, that must have been double overhead. Yeah... hehehe, I remember that. The shorebreak was nasty, solid with fist-sized pebbles. Poor little Little-Rob. He drifted his bodyboard in on top of one foamball explosion, then struggled to his feet in the pebbly backwash. As he turned round to flap backwards up the ridge, the next wave rose up dwarfing his spindly frame. It looked more like a pebbledash wall than a wave. There was no way he was going to jump that one. With great presence of mind, he lay on his board with his hands shielding his head. The wall arced over his cowering form, and exploded. A black ragdoll shape, closely followed by a bodyboard, popped out the lip and slid down over the falls. After a sickening moment, he sprang up and ran, full-pelt up the ridge, with that ridiculous gait that flippers necessitate, grinning like a loon. There you go... It's nothing like as heavy today. There's not even any bay-closeout sets. Put your brain-bucket on and get out there. Yeah, I guess you're right. Still, I would be happier if I had a buddy to surf with... or anyone within a mile's radius! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Stand on the ridge for a couple of sets. Hit the water and flail for the horizon. The lack of bouyancy feels odd. Dry hair paddle out, mind [err... helmet]. Line up with the marker rock, and sit up. Wait there, thinking, "the water didn't come up to my armpits last time I rode this thing". Must loose some weight. The waves jack-up over the marker rock and immediately throw a tube. This is not a wave for a fat, old, shoulder-hopper like me. Paddle for the first wave of the set. As I paddle, the boil drops away under me. I spring up. Panic wells up when my back foot nearly misses the tail of my board, feel the railsaver under my foot. Damn this thing is too short [aw, come on, it's 7'4"]. Feel relief on making the drop, twist my head and hunt for a way out of here. Race the mid section and kick out whilst my luck holds. .... Perhaps it is like riding a bicycle. Between sets, I drift close to the rock. Go for the first set wave again.Take off too deep and get nailed by the section. Four more waves steamroller me [thank God I can duck-dive this thing]. Paddle back out and sit out wide, weighing up the caution and valour equation. Wish someone would come out and join me, it's a lot easier to find the line-up, when there is one! My spirits rise as I see a white van come down the track. After half an hour chasing sets around on my own, I assume they weren't surfers. Extremities getting numb now. I look for a wave in. I'll have to pull myself together and get into the pit. I paddle over to the rock and position myself a few yards further out, to get the bigger set waves. Passed up on the first set wave and stroked for the second. Pit drops away alarmingly... that boil has to be the marker rock, right? A little voice says, "Do it, or be forever damned to mediocrity". My first instinct is to angle it, the little voice says, "remember Margret's River" [potential Tombstone Drop anecdote]. So I commit and drive straight for the boil. Struggle to my feet and do a proper bottom turn for a change. Looking over my shoulder I see the face stretching up, brown and menacing. Hunt for the sweet spot and drive for the shoulder. I hear a sucky noise and the lip was throwing out a few yards behind me. If you think I'm gonna stall for you, wave, you're sadly mistaken; I'm getting outta here. Past the quick section, to my relief, I open up. Risk a few wiggles and link it through to the shorebreak. Standing on the shore I reflect. If I wasn't so harsh about my definition of a tuberide [the lip has to break in front of the surfers front-foot], I could bullshit on alt.surfing about my hot English tuberiding. But hell, that was close enough for 'my' comfort. :) I must get out on the shortboard more often and kick this longboard habit that's making me fat. Struggle, slip 'n' slide back up the path with my bucket of driftwood to the trusty rusty Nissan. Tea and biscuits hit the spot. Car stuck fast despite wood and rocks under the wheels. I Drop the pressure in the tyres, keep the revs low, go from lock to lock, rock back and forth. Because I am sitting across the steep slope, every move pushed me closer to the hedge. At last, two hikers turn up and together we manage to rock it clear. Owe them a pint. Gate is closed, I leap out to open it. It's LOCKED !!.... Arrgh!! I guess the folks from the mill had locked it when they went out, very neighbourly. I appreciate that this is a private track, but we've had access down here for as long as I can remember. These new people in the mill are going to have to tread softly. How am I going to deal with this, without being an arsehole and spewing localism. Luckily I have my toolkit. Take my hammer and cold chisel, and snip one of the links. After making good my escape, I hook the chain up and pinch the link back together. This surfing lark takes some dedication, Gadget -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Gadget Bude, Cornwall, UK email: gadgetpjt@aol.com Cogito ergo surf --------------------------------------------------------------------------