Surfing in Goa

(For more info, see the next post, here)

My trip around Britain has been temporarily interrupted by a three-week trip to Goa to hang out with Karen, who has been travelling around India while I've been bumming around Britain. Check out her blog HERE. She also took all the photos in this post. Swapping the chilly waves of Devon for the bathwater-warm waves of Southern India has been really tough.I knew from a visit in 2006 that there are very few surfboards in India, and even fewer you can get your hands on, as most of them are owned by individuals who don't want some snotty stranger dinging their pride and joy. There are no surf shops, no surf hire and no surf repair workshops. If anyone is looking for a business opportunity, this could be it. (Not me. As the comments on the post below show, having taken advice from a civil service lawyer, I'm off to become a chartered accountant.) The only boards are big foam things for the lifeguards at the more touristy beaches.The big question is, is it worth bringing a board to India? Along with no boards, there seemed to be no waves (a possible explanation for the absence of boards). A couple of websites hinted there was some swell, particularly in the monsoon season, May to September. I was going in April.

I certainly wouldn't want to bring one of my normal boards. Consigning a board to the hold of a plane is a complete lottery. Mostly they emerge unscathed. When they don't, it's pretty gruesome. And that's before submitting them to the rigours of Indian trains, buses and tuk tuks. Also I had booked a flight with BA, who will only carry boards under 195cms. Or 6'3''. My shortest board is a 6'5'', and I wouldn't want to lose 2" off the end. Either end.

But I once rented a 6' NSP Fish, which was quite a laugh. Plus, being a shell (an injection moulded plastic board, I think), it would better withstand the rigours of the journey. In South Devon I found something similar - a secondhand 6'2" epoxy Southpoint for 160 quid. Basically one step up from a BIC or NSP. They let me rent it for a few days first, and I took it for a test ride in Salcombe. It rode OK, but it isn't really what I was looking for. I was literally on my way to return it, when I found a chat forum on the internet raving about surfing in Goa. What the hell. I might as well take it. It's fairly light, counted as part of my baggage allowance and I could always sell it or donate it to some beach-side orphanage if necessary. Better to have a board and find there is no surf, than to have no board and find there is.I'm staying in a dozy huddle of beach huts stretched around a small bay, about 2 miles south of ( a fairly well-known, fairly busy destination for backpackers in Goa. The bay there is shell shaped, and while the waves are clean and pretty, they are weak and virtually unsurfable at the moment. Here looked similarly unsurfable, with a steeply shelving beach. There are waves, but they rise up abruptly then crash down violently only a metre or two from the edge of the sand. Impossible to surf.

Here is one of the many beach dogs, desperately waiting for the swell to pick up.Here's one who has given up waiting.

The cows have definitely given up waiting.

But at the far end of the next beach, around a short outcrop of rock, there seemed to be something happening. On my first evening, Karen and I went to investigate. Sure enough, it was a surfable wave, breaking on a shallow sandbank at the mouth of a river. The next morning I got up early, grabbed my board, paddled round the rocky outcrop, made the long walk along the beach and dived in. After a winter wearing a thick wetsuit, hood, gloves and boots, paddling in trunks feels really strange. Not just light and free, it feels as if you're going to float away. There was a nice, shapely wave there, rising up to about chest level, peeling nicely.

On the way, you pass the big, fuck-off hotel, an utter abomination which is currently enlivened by a big Bollywood film crew who have built a film set by the beach, and are currently filming. Fortunately, they don't seem to mind me surfing, as there is a better break right in front of the film set schoolhouse. In the mornings, there isn't a breath of wind, so the water is smooth and glassy. Chest-high peaks rise up and peel for twenty metres of so, easy to catch, easy to surf, but closing out rather too quickly, and breaking in shallow water. It's not the most dramatic surfing, but better than nothing, so I've been getting up early and getting into the water for an hour or two every morning before breakfast. By about 11, an on-shore wind picks up, making the already weak waves virtually uncatchable.

But one evening, at low tide, I went for a classic sunset session and managed to catch a few.
Karen was on the beach, and before she got bored of watching me, managed to snap this fabulous action shot. Finally, proof that I can actually stand on a surf board.
Soon after this, I noticed something about fifty metres further out. I couldn't be sure, but eventually I saw it again. A fin arcing lazily out of the water then disappearing under again. I wasn't quite surfing with dolphins, but they were definitely out there. Later we watched it idle slowly along the bay, parallel to the beach:It's not all surfing and lazing on the beach - I've been hard at work on the outline for a screenplay. To prove it, here is a picture of me at my desk!
Now where was that application to become a chartered accountant?

Saving the best til last

I was beginning to feel that Bantham wasn't all it had been cracked up to be. Sure, the group of lads who were getting out on Sunday as I was getting in had all been raving about it. But still. I wasn't convinced. Wanting to try something else, and to get out of the wind, I was going to have a look at a fairly unlikely spot, on the off chance. As an alternative, the guy in the surf shop recommended a beach I had grown quite familiar with. Nah, I thought. I've spent too many hours staring at a flat horizon there. I was going to stick to Plan A. Until I drove past the sign post to the familiar spot. Only a couple of miles out of my way, might as well have a look.

As these things sometimes work, a couple of local lads were just getting out. A good sign. They told me I might still catch a few decent waves down there, so I decided to give it a go. And had a really fun session. Small waves, but reasonably powerful, and enough of a ride to make it worth the effort.

I decided to camp there and surf it again the following morning. Except the following morning, it was flat. Curses. I had to head back to civilisation later that day, and was eager for a final South Devon surf. So rather reluctantly, I headed back to Bantham.

I needn't have been quite so reluctant. There were three cars already there. Knowing time was of the essence, and the tide was on its way in, I didn't bother walking the quarter of a mile down to the beach to check it out. Big mistake! Instead I asked a guy who was about to head down there with his board if he had had a look. He had. Fairly mellow was his analysis.

Fairly mellow? Are you kidding?! They were the best waves of the week! Absolutely fabulous! Somehow the wind had moved round and was off-shore, cleaning up the faces of beautiful big, clean waves rolling into the bay with metronome regularity. And only a handful of surfers out there.

I caught the rip out, fluffed a couple of waves and got caught inside among the whitewash. Not part of the plan. But having surfed there on Sunday, I realised I knew what I ought to be doing, and told myself to do it. I paddled back to the beach, caught the rip out again, and had another go. Having surfed nine sessions over the past six days, I was at the end of my energy. But somehow I managed to catch a wave. And stay on it. I couldn't believe it! Just overhead, a steaming freight-train of a wave that powered on for a hundred metres. I came off, not fully realising what had just happened but glad to have surfed a decent wave at last.

As I paddled back out, on the rip again, I saw one of the locals catch a monster. Easily double overhead, clean and rolling, it was one of those cinematic waves that etch themselves on the retina. And in a way, helped me realise what I had just surfed. I got out to the back and waited.

Soon enough, another wave came rolling into the bay. Not double overhead, but certainly overhead. I turned and paddled, and somehow, against all expectation, caught it. Got to my feet and made the drop. These were all right-handed waves, so I was on my backhand - though I'm beginning to feel I'm better at catching back-hand waves for some reason. I stayed in a low crouch, holding the left rail until I felt I was stable enough to stand. This wave was bigger, hollower and more powerful than the last, with a vertical wall of water beside my left shoulder, and above my head, the start of a curl showering water onto my shoulders. Not a cover-up, but the closest I've come. It was fabulous. Not as big and powerful as the session at Thurso, not as much to play with as the left at Sandsend. But for the combination of power and control, perhaps the best, most exhilarating wave I've surfed so far. And easily the longest, powering on seemingly for ever (or about a hundred metres again, which when you're surfing amounts to the same thing). I surfed it to the end. And got out, trembling, exhausted and ecstatic.

Devon Cream Tease

After the fossilised frustrations of the Jurassic Coast, Devon is fantastic - lovely beaches, picturesque camping spots and plenty of waves - eventually.
I arrived ten days ago, just in time to catch the tail-end of a burst of swell, and between Paignton and Bantham, managed a handful of sessions of average waves in bright sunshine, or under beautiful sunsets.
Things went flat and sunny, which was a little frustrating until the waves came rolling in again last Wednesday. It's been a bit messed up by on-shore winds, but I've managed to surf at least once a day for the last five days, and often twice. Plenty of drizzle and fog, too, but when you're surfing, who cares?!

Bantham is the classic spot round here, so I camped out in front of the No Overnight Sleeping sign for three nights, until I was asked to move on by a rustic employee of the family-run estate that owns it all. I headed to Bigbury-on-Sea across the Avon estuary (not the same Avon that Shakespeare used to surf). It's no more than a mile or so along the beach, but about 10 miles by road - or slightly less if you want to risk the tidal road.
There were fabulous waves here on Thursday - just overhead, with good, clean faces, but fairly easy to catch. They were mostly right-hand waves, so I was on my backhand, and though they offered an exciting, dramatic drop followed by an exhilarating few seconds hugging a gleaming wall of water, they didn't open up quite enough, and the rides ended quite quickly. And wetly.

Then on to Wembury, a foggy, Gothic bay overlooked by a looming church and dark satanic mill (now coffeeshop), with a fabulous left-hand wave.

It's not far from Plymouth, so there were quite a lot of locals on it on Friday morning. But the mood in the water was friendly and it wasn't too difficult to get the occasional wave. And they were fantastic - well overhead, but again easy to catch, and with a long, long, exhilarating ride towards the beach followed by an easy paddle back out again. Epic!

If it's Saturday, it must be Salcombe, sheltered from the howling South-Westerlies, surfing clean, waist-high waves by the ruins of Salcombe Castle.
Then back to Bantham for a crowded Sunday surf in soggy waves. Not the best session. Or sessions - I got in at 7.15 on Sunday morning, but the tide was too high, and what had looked promising soon petered out. So I had a huge breakfast and went in again once the tide had dropped. It was a bit better, but still not great, and very busy - long-boarders, short-boarders and even a knee-board. Whatever rocks your boat.

Today it's howling out there, so unless the wind drops later, I might be able to give my aching arms a day off. On the other hand, there's another beach I've got my eye on, so if there's half a chance of getting in later, I will.

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.)