From ptomlin@aol.com Mon Jan 27 23:54:42 1997 Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: Cold feet, hot waves [AKA Surf Report - Cornwall] From: ptomlin@aol.com Date: 27 Jan 1997 23:54:42 GMT Take 1 ===== Wed 22nd Jan '97 1045-1315 hrs Beachbreak, North of Bude, Cornwall, UK Standing on the shore with Fat-dog, I could hear the waves peeling out the back; no ominous Wwummphs. That was reassuring. The fog was a real pea-souper, I couldn't see more than a hundred feet. I decided to give it a whirl. One day, Fat-dog... one day you'll get a walk [when the surf drops!]. [BTW Fat-dog is half-a-hundredweight of border-collie] Another solitary surf. The paddle out was a breeze in the long lulls. Aimed for where I guessed the line up was. Sitting up and looking around, I couldn't see a thing. The cliffs and shore had gone, the waves weren't peaking. Over to my left, I heard a wave break. As I paddled towards the sound, two more thick lumps passed under me. Nothing spectacular, just good, home-loving chest-high waves. I spent most of the first hour chasing waves in the fog, catching tailenders. The feeling of isolation got me talking, laughing, and singing to myself; and to a young gull still in his brown plumage, who had adopted me [I christened him Steven Seagull]. As the fog lifted, enabling me to pick out the cliffs, I realized just how far the rip had pushed me. After a 600yd paddle, I got back into position by the rocks where the two streams flow out. The first set that came, had me dropping into a gentlemanly, overhead righthander. It was a tad slack, so my attention was drawn to my feathered friend. Steven had caught the lefthander, on the next peak over. He swooped along the face towards me, being persued by a dustbin-sized barrel. I wasn't gonna kick out for a bird; so as we closed, he soared high above my head. I finished things off nicely; squatted tight and rammed all of me, that would fit, into that little almond eye. Laughing inside, I rolled down over the falls. I took Steven Seagull's advice and paddled over to the lefthander. I caught wave after speedy wave, all around head-high. Not much time for anything, other than snaking turns to maintain speed. Steven caught some nice ones too. After two and half hours in the 8C [46F] water I had lost most feeling below my ankles. Standing up felt really clonky; feet like two bits of wood hitting the deck. After Steven started to answer back, I decided that Hypothermia was getting too close. I stumbled over the pebble ridge, storms had deposited at the base of the path. My feet [with what little feeling that was left] were telling me that someone had tied my toes into bunched knots. Long suffering Fat-dog forgave me for her lack of walk. Drove home in my wetsuit and defrosted in a steaming shower. Take 2 ===== Mon 27th Jan '97 1415-1630 hrs Same spot Hurrah!, company! Two guys out as I arrive, looks like chest-high. Another non-walk for Fat-dog. A big set looks impressive as I walk down the path. The water surface was grey and glassy. Managed to get out back without getting my helmet wet [THE ONE ON MY HEAD... silly boy]. The lefts were still working the best at around head-high. In contrast to the normal state of affairs, the big sets were working better than the smaller ones. The initial drop was somewhere around 1.5x overhead, quickly settling down to a zippy overhead steamer. The "crowd" maxed at seven, spread between 3 line-ups. Ample quantities of hooting and general good vibes; enhanced by the appearance of a curious seal. My two best rides: 1) Saw a shadow on the horizon, scratched out to meet it. The first one snarled up, too wide for me. Punched through the lip; surfaced to find the next one was a good proposition. Spun my log, paddled twice and found myself skipping down a damn steep face. Before I could stand, an edge caught and put me on an angle too high on the face. I didn't dare to stand, for fear of a lip-flip; so I bellied it out. Managed to get the board down the face and popped up for the tail end. More a might-of-been than a great wave. 2) Can't remember taking off on this one. I suppose it didn't look like a classic. A sooo long, right-hander. Head-high, all the way from the outside to falling off when my fin caught in the sand. A couple of times, as I snake-turned along, I considered kicking out. But I just couldn't help dropping back down. I was sorely tempted to paddle out double-quick and order the same again. Luckily, I recalled all the other times I had made the mistake of not getting out on a high. Floated serenely back to my car on a wave of good vibe. A fella getting changed, said it was 600yds; I reckon it was more like 400. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Gadget Bude, Cornwall, UK email: ptomlin@aol.com The point of living, and being an optomist, is to be foolish enough to believe the best is yet to come. - Sir Peter Ustinov --------------------------------------------------------------------------