Written post surf, totally consumed with the glide...
Feb 2010
Perfect waves on the Welsh Coast
The discovery was made yesterday.
I’d been driving the stretch of coast for a week whilst traveling to a busier, more ‘on the map’ surf spot. For over ten years I have known and visited this part of the world, and today for the first time, I reflected on the positive changes that surfing has brought into my life in such a short time.
Having surfed for two years now, I thought it strange that I’d never looked at the ocean with the respect and awe that I do so with now, or that I’d never had prior cause to take the seascape so seriously, as a tool for growth, and as an environment for such a melting pot of emotions. I’ve climbed, kayaked, done some pretty crazy downhill mountain biking, and walked amongst the mountains all around this area, perhaps there is something deeper in surfing.
It feels this way to me.
Pulling into a farmer’s track, I cross the road, stand on a dry stonewall and scrupulously survey the waves in the near distance. I heard past echoes of the early surf pioneers and my heart respectfully sent due regards to the intrepid explorers from times long gone. Gazing down on perfect ‘A’ frames and long peeling lefts, their size from this vantage point cannot really be grasped but I consider the waves as the most perfectly formed I have ever clad and imagine myself cutting across a translucent North Atlantic swell, in perfect harmony, board, being and unbroken wave.
Surf UK describes the spot as ‘best left to advanced surfers’, and the site breaks over rocky reef, with several large boulders to contend and befriend. Rips do not seem to kick in unless it’s really big though, however I’d met some surfers the day before, one of which showed me his freshly scarred cranial protection, the result of his dance with sirens of the sea at this wonderful spot.
Anticipation grew as I pulled up to sign in for the day, I chatted manly with some of the site staff about vehicles for a good ten minutes, and gladly found out the cause to my clutch problems, the scene was set. This pleasant delay only adding delightful tension, to what was still an unknown quantity, as far as the waves go. They directed me through to the final parking area, and as I put the hand brake on, the rock-strewn horizon cheekily blocked my view of the surf, talk about a cliffhanger!
‘There’s the yellow T4 I saw in the village yesterday’ I thought to myself.
Turns out the owners are a really cool couple and having spent fifteen years southbound, they’d fairly recently migrated north. I got out of my jeep, took a few steps and saw first hand the most beautifully shaped waves that life had kindly provided on this most becoming of days.
‘Hi, I saw you the other day and thought you looked like surfers, nice to meet you’, I shouted, my voice carried forth on the offshore that stirred on this fresh sunny morning.
Amanda’s partner Mark was out carving, I wandered over to get a better look and to let my faithful border collie stretch his legs. There were boulders all right – a few big brazen ones at that.
Mark had, by now, returned and as he peeled off his second skin I asked about the rocks and whether, in his opinion, it would be safe for me to go out, not that it would have made any difference, the decision to do so was taken when I stood scoping from the wall not twenty minutes before!
We chatted waves, line-ups, breaks and about the (surf) scene up here. It was apparent that the scene down south was very vibrant and that the waves were pretty much full all of the time, even dawn patrol was busy and apparently it just gets busier as the day goes on, a testament to the healthy UK surf.
From my limited knowledge, it almost felt like the scene up here was more organic, perhaps that the lack of crowds enabled more expression in the water, more freedom, and space to breathe and enjoy the ‘being there’ more.
More country lane than super highway…
I settled on there being less sense of urgency in these beautiful waves, in this amazing landscape, enhanced by a fleeting yet permanent moment that was surfing this new spot in a Welsh county I’d been visiting for years.
Revision had been undertaken for this reef, I’d been into the local surf shop and bought a mellow twenty of conversation, chatting with one half of the owners about the retro scooter on the wall display, the great selection of surfing books and the general good vibes that were confirmed to be home spun. I met the shark’s head juxtaposed with the latest industry fashions and thought about the huge industry that surfing culture had spawned. All those Philippe Philopps, hoodies and the rest of the paraphernalia…
No dissent to the owners – they are making a living and providing a service to consumers. At least they are promoting an association to the world of surf (and skate) and at most, if the road is followed ultimately, to a path of health and commitment.
I am digressing…
Yes, revision had occurred, via guidebooks, and first hand from surfers I’d met earlier that week and it was now time to enter the water. Confidently and cautiously I paddled out, casting sustained glances back to the mountain ranges that were wrapped in a soft pillow of fog at their base, with just the peaks visible.
The hustle and bustle of the towns that I knew existed in the distance, almost hidden at nature’s request.
I remember thinking with my whole being; ‘this is the only place I want to be right now – what a truly beautiful setting, life is a wondrous adventure and this is one of those times that will etch into my consciousness, a living memory for eternity’.
Feeling for any rips, and noting the position of the rocks, I looked ahead to where the waves peeled off; the ache at the top of my shoulders was born from hours of ocean-love, I had been courting various breaks for eight days straight now.
I heaved myself forwards.
Out at the back the waves were a plenty, I was sole / soul surfing, I had the choice of the line ups, the water was glassy as can be, I’d landed on a perfect set up, and it was working too!
The serenity was outstanding, a patch work of land, bordered by many hours of stony toil, the green and barren fields gently revealed themselves as the lazy mist gave way to the afternoon. Perfect waves peeled in all day long, an amazing session, accentuated by the joining together of like-minded souls.
Mark and Amanda had only just left when the two other surfers arrived. I thought they had arrived together but it turns out they had only just met as well! Approaching the line up I asked one of them to tell me if I was getting in their way, friendly vibes returned ‘it’s cool man, just go for any wave you like’.
I like these country lanes!
These two were really good surfers, I enjoyed watching them take off and turn along the face of the waves, and absorbed any learning angles I could fathom. I was so stoked to see such good surfing first hand. We exchanged nods and broken shouts under the 5mm hoods, as the waves beckoned us for more.
This was surfing heaven for me; I’d never had the opportunity to practice running along the face of unbroken waves before, not in such sublime conditions anyway.
The day before I’d had my first taste of the glide, not just a lucky rail holding onto the wave either, it was a proper thought out, intentional cut. I was trying to recreate that moment but this time in much bigger and longer waves than yesterday. Try as I might, I kept getting caught inside or taking off too late and having the wave ride under me. I felt that I should be annoyed but nothing could quench my thirst for re-living that stoke.
I was surfing and it didn’t matter that I didn’t get the ‘ultimate’ wave that session, every wave was the ultimate wave, and how could it not be in this setting, on this perfect day. I rode a wave in all the way to the shore, mindful of the rocks; I let the board sink down to the reef and gently stepped off it. I was excited at being able to do just that, after all it was a huge step up from just wobbling around in mush some months before.
Halftime on the shoreline, Paul and Rik were chilling (literally). I think my smile must have arrived before me! Rik forced a driftwood fire alive with his Ray Mears (it isn’t) blowtorch – legend! The flames provided a welcome return to circulation, and as soon as the fire spirits got their dance on, he was back in the water. I fetched my flask of coffee from the jeep and my collie, came back with me to check the glow and say hello to Paul.
This guy was mega chilled, his sprightly frame and obvious down-to-earth persona belied his age.
I asked him what surfing meant to him.
He stated that it was ‘whatever’ really.
In the sense that whatever it means to the surfer, getting fit, learning and progressing, the shear stoke of it all, the twenty and thirty year long friendships he had formed…His answer could not be pinned or cocooned into one thing, yet as I write this, it is so obviously apparent that while we chatted, everything that was said was positive and it was all because of surfing.
And if I had to answer my question, what would I say?
Perhaps on reflection, as I sit by an open fire, the day after today, on the same rocky shoreline that holds such melancholic elation, my answer is that surfing is a living entity.
It can be a catalyst, inform and guide, can humble you, make you feel like king or queen, terrify or provide shear ecstasy, sometimes at the same time. Surfing almost shrinks the interconnectedness of Lovelock’s Gaia theory into a liquid package that transcends time, space, countries, language and culture.
Surfing is running that last bit of path, that in ten metres you know will reveal the conditions of the day, surfing is the anticipation that those last ten metres holds, it is also the feeling of betrayal as you realize on arrival, that the sea (as a famous surfer from Llangennith once said) is, ‘as flat as a witches tit!’ Surfing is hearing the swish, crash or outright boom, it is watching the corduroy sets roll in, or being in the wild west of the ocean as spray is shot-blasted across your face, as your hands freeze in sub-zero temperatures.
It is that tranquil feeling when seated upon your vessel, of rising and falling to the rhythm of the waves…
It is watching the startling orange glow of a New Years Eve moon rise above the dunes, as simultaneously out to sea, the sun is gently falling off the horizon as three-foot marvels roll in to caress your soul.
Surfing is meeting those fleeting friends or reconnecting with those that are cemented through time and experiences shared.
It is strange and yet candid that the one part of surfing that I cannot truly define, that my words can only dance around, is the actual ‘art’ of surfing.
Yes, the act of riding a wave, the ‘doing it’, that glide across emerald glass or carving along black gold. This part is the most personal part of surfing, the most selfish in some ways, yet also the most holistic, this, the part of surfing that drives us eternally, that we all so seek, this is the glue that binds all other aspects of surfing together.
It is the defining moment that is so indefinable.
The waves now recede with the ebb; fire fairies cajole me in the deep orange embers, glowing against blue hues of the sea and the sky.
I wish this moment could last forever – it already has.
Copyright © 2010 Thomas Ramwell.
