Don't Try This At Home, Kids

My friend and guru Kukurusta has pasted a link to a TV programme I contributed to in January 2006 about surfing in Barcelona.



(I don't know how to get the whole thing in, so if you want to see the full width of the video, try here: http://blog.ravalnet.org/ravalsurf/2009/10/17/ravalsurf-a-thalassa/)

The director failed to catch me riding a wave (surprise, surprise). Instead my contribution is limited to embarrassing shots of me warming up, cycling to the beach and talking about My Life As A Surfer (in Spanish). What makes it particularly hilarious, though, is that while she was shooting, I got someone else's surfboard in the face, leading to a nasty cut, horror-film quantities of blood, 13 stitches and the fetching scar above my right eye.

After struggling to the beach, I faced an odyssey of fainting lifeguards, excellent ambulances, thieving taxis and three different Kafkaesque hospitals before I found someone whose needlework I admired enough to trust them with my dashing good looks. Now if anyone asks, I tell them I got the scar in a fencing duel over a German count's mistress.

Rather than cut me from the programme, though, the director did the interview anyway. So instead of the healthy glow of a Mediterranean surfer, I look like a car crash victim. And certainly not the best advertisement for surfing. Or maybe that was the point, a subliminal message to keep would-be surfers of the water.

Van Cough to Van Go

As Thomas Hardy may once have observed, Dorset is very hilly. This is fine if you have a vehicle that can climb hills. A milk-float, for example. Or a supermarket trolley. Even roller skates. Unfortunately, despite the recent attentions of Saint Colin, my van wasn't one of them. Under David the Diplomat's serene gaze, we struggled to get up anything more than a gentle incline. It is only because half the hills go downhill that got us to Axminster station on time.
After a night in Lyme Regis marina, at the bottom of an impressive (up) hill, I struggled to achieve escape velocity, and faced spending the rest of the month, or possibly my life, selling ice-creams from the back window to raise cash for a salvage operation. When I did manage to get enough of a run-up, the van barely made walking pace. I know this, because a bemused woman was walking up the hill beside me. And she got to the top first.
Fortunately, help was at hand, in the shape of Ady and his merry men, who run a VW hospital just north of Bournemouth. So back to Bournemouth I went. My apologies to anyone driving between Lyme Regis and Bournemouth last Monday evening. If I could have gone any faster, I would have done.
Ady had a spare distributor - the offending part - and was able to transplant it in a flash. Plus, after many choice words, aimed mostly at the engine, he also plugged the hole between the exhaust and the engine without having recourse to major surgery.
I could have wept with gratitude. Instead I made a contribution to their beer fund. They certainly deserved it for their speed, cheerfulness and general can-do manner. If you ever have a VW van that needs attention, Ady is your man. I would show you a photo of Ady smiling for the camera, but I didn't want to disturb him. So here he is in his natural habitat:
And here's a rear view.
The van now purrs along, which is lucky, as I am now in Devon, which makes Dorset look flat.

And if anyone has van problems anywhere in the south of England, or wants to buy a reconditioned VW (not mine!) head to Throop, and ask for Ady.

Flat Day Fun

I always associate the phrase Flat Day Fun with erstwhile surf queen Jo C. For the surfer it's a phrase heavy with irony, and possibly even an oxymoron. If it's a flat day, by definition it's not fun.

Faced with a flat sea, I tried the age-old surfer trick of staring at the horizon, trying to will waves into existence. It failed. So I decided to entertain myself by going roller-blading, something else I associate with Jo C. In the event, I suspect I mostly entertained the inhabitants of Boscombe. Like having a dog or a young child, roller blades seem to be an excuse for strangers to talk to you. Which is fine if you're walking the dog or strolling a child, but a little less welcome when you're wrapped around a lamp post.
I borrowed the blades from my Dad, who used to bring Vienna to a standstill every morning as he sped around the city. Think The Third Man, Orson Welles on wheels. Orson Wheeles, in fact.

The Boscombe Sainsbury's is fine, but they need to rethink their book and fish marketing, which is sending out contradictory messages.
Talking of Harry Lime, after Boscombe I headed to Lyme Regis to meet David the Diplomat. It was still flat, so we searched for fossils, got caught in bracken and drank.
This is David sitting on several dozen fossils, all of them 150 million years old.

After a charming meal at the Harbour Inn, I have finally came to the conclusion that scallops are over-rated. The only way to eat them is barbecued in Barra.

This is me, sitting on a sofa that is also about 150 million years old. As you can see, I have decided to put myself up for adoption.
No takers so far.

Back again. Again.

The week in Barcelona turned into two weeks in Barcelona. Most of it, especially the first week, were spent with Gabi Delillo's family in Sabadell, where Gabi was fighting for her life in intensive care. I'm happy to say that after several days on life support, she is now recovering well. Here's hoping she continues to make rapid progress, and will be able to come back to Europe fit and well sometime soon. And I have nothing but respect for the doctors and nurses at Parc Taulí hospital.

Inevitably, the day I arrived, Barceloneta was kicking off. The kind of twice-a-year conditions that keep Catalan surfers happy but hungry. And there was no one in the water! Maybe they were all at El Masnou. Or maybe rumours of the death of surfing in Barcelona have not been over-exaggerated after all.
The photo doesn't do justice to the great waves that were breaking opposite Hospital del Mar - not a beach that is surfed often. Or even ever. But it wasn't the time for surfing.

By the time I returned to Barceloneta ten days later, there was the hint of groundswell that suggested there were waves to be had in Sitges or Montgat. But again it wasn't the time. Instead here's a picture of Nuria up in the mountains. OK, it's not quite surfing, but it's the next best thing. Sorry, the second next best thing.
So now I'm back in Britain, picking up the trail in Bournemouth, at Boscombe Pier.
OK, technically in Boscombe, not Bournemouth at all.

The swell is easterly, so the new artificial reef isn't working, which is a shame. Though the charming RNLI life-guards tell me that it's more of a body-board wave. I.e. it's fast and ugly. Perhaps just as well it's not South-Westerly. I don't want to break a board.

Last night was chilly - just above zero, I suspect. But today, the sunshine makes it positively spring-like. Shame about the bitter wind. But at least there's a chance of drying out my wetsuit between surfs. There's nothing as clammy as a wet wetsuit. And nothing less enticing before a surf session.
The waves were very reasonable. Shame I'm so out of condition. But I caught one fabulous left-hander that walled up nicely at about shoulder-height, and peeled off towards the beach. And the other guy in the water - whose name I didn't catch - had the good manners to realise he'd dropped in on me, and kicked out**. One of the best waves I've had for months. Since Yorkshire in early December, if we're going to be precise. And great to surf it all the way to the end - an occurrence that isn't as common as it should be!
**(If there are any none-surfers still following this most infrequent of blogs, the above sentence means he started surfing the wave ahead of me when I had priority, realised his lapse of etiquette, and promptly removed himself from my path, so the wall of the wave didn't collapse before I reached it. Very decent of him, and he should be applauded for it. Many surfers would shrug and surf on.)

Cold and wet and happy

Fortunately, all was not lost. Colin managed to fit the van in sooner than expected, and by Tuesday I was mobile again. That's why he's a saint. Apparently it was the clutch, which no longer clutched at anything except straws.

Here he is (right), laughing at the state of the ruined clutch his assistant is holding. Or because I'm handing over my credit card for the fourth time in six weeks. I was tempted to block book the van in every Monday for the next six weeks, just in case.So, sorry, Katya. Goodbye, Moscow. Do svidanya, vodka. Surf's up.

Still no waves, but what the hell? Not on the South coast, at least. But what's that trying to slip into the Cinque Ports unnoticed? No, not the Spanish Armada, but a sizeable if wind-blown swell.

So I headed back to Kent again. Conveniently, it had suffered an overnight snow fall, stranding drivers, closing schools and leaving Dover incommunicado. Fortunately, with my spanking new tyres, I didn't get stuck, as I would surely have done a few weeks ago.

Ramsgate was cold, windy and snowbound. But there was a reasonably good wave, at least until the tide went out and the cliffs were unable to keep the worst of the wind off. Still a bit chilly, with air temperatures at around 0º and water 5º! But a surf's a surf.

Was I happy? Judge for yourselves:
The following day, I headed along the coast to check out the South Coast. As I suspected, it was all flat as a pancake, starting with Beachy Head, a renowned beauty/suicide spot:

Birling Gap. Renowned lunch spot:
East Wittering. Renowned flat spot:
Life's too short to wait for gutless slop, so as soon as the next burst of swell arrives, I'm heading onwards. Westward ho!

But first I've had to fly to Barcelona for a week, to help look after the family of an American girl who has had a medical emergency. And inevitably, with no board, no wetsuit and no time, the Mediterranean was kicking off. The kind of twice-a-year conditions that keep Mediterranean surfers going through the long months of flatness.

But hopefully heading home and back on the road next week.

Bum. Deal.

The last couple of weeks have been a rollicking roller coast of a ride. Though not necessarily in a good way. After two decent days in Broadstairs, I had to return to Hertford. Friday afternoon found me crawling along the M25 at a top speed of 40 mph. Something was very wrong with the engine.

Fortunately my most excellent mechanic, Colin Gunning (or Saint Colin, as I am thinking of renaming him) managed to sort it out the following Monday, for a modest fee.

By then, the waves had gone flat.

I sat around all week. Finally, the forecast was looking good. Not just good, great - at least by the standards of the South Coast, my next destination.

I set off again, roaring down the M25 with hope in my heart and a spring in my accelerator pedal. Back on the road. It felt fabulous. Swooping over the Dartford Bridge felt like crossing the gateway to a bright, new world.

I stopped off in Deal, which turns out to be delightful, with a small pier, a couple of fishing boats pulled up on the shingle beach and a low fortress built by Henry VIII to keep those nasty Spanish sailors away.

Just after Deal, you go past Ham and then past Sandwich. Honestly.

But then, as I headed towards Dover, something didn't seem right. The van wasn't driving very well. Fifth gear wasn't working. And then neither was fourth gear. Or third. There was a loud bang, and suddenly I was free-wheeling, going nowhere. Except into a fortuitous lay-by, just off the A2.

Three hours later, a man called Bob was attaching a line to the van.

Is it just me, or does the van look slightly alarmed?

This was followed by a sight I don't want to see too often:

The previous Friday, I had been crawling home along the M25 in despair. But at least I had been travelling under my own steam. Exactly seven days later, I was speeding home along the M25 again. Only now I was on the back of a transporter.

Back to kneel at the shrine of Saint Colin.

It wasn't looking good. He couldn't fit it in until the following Friday.

To say I was a little despondant would be something of an understatement. Not least because I was missing three days of decent waves on the South coast. The kind of waves that only happen every couple of months, at most. But don't take my word for it. Several of the local surf shops commented on how good it was:
"OK, so yesterday was super nice..." - The Witterings Surf Shop.
"After yesterday's epic swell..." - Filf surf co.
"Only small after yesterday..." - sharkbait.co.uk.

Arse.

And then, just when things couldn't look any worse, this happened.
At which point, I gave up on the whole venture and flew to Moscow, so I wouldn't have to worry about waves or vans or surfing. I am now very happy growing cabbages and drinking vodka and travelling around on a donkey called Katya.

CLARIFICATION CORNER:
By popular demand (Dan and Kukurusta) I'm adding a second photo of the dent on the side of my board (the rail, in surferspeak). Fortunately the magic of Solarex means it is at least watertight, if not very aesthetically pleasing.
And I didn't really emigrate to Moscow. I went to Ramsgate (though the similarities between the two places are striking).

Surf or school?

I hadn't planned on surfing in Kent - there didn't seem much point. But by chance the forecast looked fairly good just when I was ready to head south: 7 feet at 8 seconds with an off-shore wind (which is fairly good by South East England standards, where 8 seconds is a looong, looong interval - unlike pretty much everywhere else, where 8 seconds is a shooort, shooort interval).

Inevitably, by the time I got there, the forecast had changed and it was closer to 3 feet at 6 seconds. Not ideal. But having slogged my way there in a van that is decidedly unwell, I thought I might as well go in. So I did. And it was rubbish. Not fun rubbish like in Lowestoft. Just rubbish rubbish. But at least I could say I had gone in.
The next morning, it was even worse. Virtually flat at mid-tide, with little prospect of picking up. From the cliff top, I watched two local lads, already in wet-suits, go to check it out, and thought there was no way they would go in. It was too small to bother getting wet in this weather. Portugal in Spring, maybe. Kent in Winter, not. But minutes later, they were out there. Madness! It still didn't tempt me.

I had spoken to one of them, Ryan, the day before, when he skated down to the car park to check the waves on his long skateboard (the kind I'd like to ride if it didn't make me look and feel like a Sad Old Git.) He hasn't been surfing long and was lying too far back on the board, which was stoppping him getting many waves, so I decided to go down and suggest he move forward. From beach level, the waves looked a lot better. Not great, but ok: about waist high, breaking over the flint reef, and while they didn't have much power, they were jacking up enough at the peak to make them rideable.

So of course I had to run backk and get changed. And it was great! Not a classic session, but enough rides to make it fun.
And kudos to Ryan and his mate Kurosh. Not only were they in without hoods, but Kurosh was wearing a 3mm wetsuit. It's basically a summer suit in freezing North sea water (still about 5º in the water, and about 4º out of the water, plus windchill from a 15mph wind.) I used to wear a 4mm suit in Barcelona in winter, and that was cold enough! Still, they were getting some decent waves, and didn't seem to mind the cold too much. Ahh, the benefits of youth! However Eighty Waves cannot condone bunking off school or college to go surfing. Not unless it's really kicking off, in which case exceptions might be made, provided you fill in a surf-note, in triplicate, and give it to the principal the day before.

This is them, standing in the cold wind still in wet wetsuits. They breed them tough in Kent.

Incidentally, if anyone has been wondering where beach huts go in winter, the answer is they huddle on the cliff top at Joss Bay, waiting to fly south.