a digression....

wrote this a while ago, and in lieu of having nothing else that I want to write about today............

Back into the groove.

Imagine if you will, dear reader, an overweight 40 something white male, who looks like a cross between the late lamented Ernest Hemmingway and the equally late and lamented Jerry Garcia, sitting at a picnic table on the south side of Half Moon Bay, watching a couple of no-longer-young-themselves surfers riding the beach break on longboards. Wistfully he looks on, putting himself into their place, moving and tensioning his leg muscles in concert with the riders offshore.

“Bollocks” he thinks “I need to get back into this”. But not now. It’s November 2002, he’s unfit and the cartilage in his right knee needs replacing. He is also a visitor to these California shores, knowing no-one who rides waves here. What he does know though is that he could become an accident statistic if he decides to surf down at Steamer Lane, he has witnessed the crowds and the dog-eat-dog attitudes of most the wanna-surfers-be at that spot.

Fast forward to June 2003 and our hero paddles out into small but sparkling evening surf at his local break, some 9 hours time difference to the east and on a different continent. He sits there on his recently acquired, but previously much travelled [and dinged] Hobie 9’3” and thinks how good it is to be back. It takes a while. His first few waves mark him out as a complete novice and questioning looks and disparaging comments are aimed at him by a few of the others in the water. But he knows it will be only a matter of time, and timing.

He thinks back to the year he started - 1973. He remembers asking an older guy if he would teach him to surf. “Sure” came the reply “have you a year to spare?” And a year it was too, what with the lack of consistency that marked north Wales surf. But there was a hardcore crew of surfers, mostly from the north-west of England, who made the 3 hour trek down from the industrial centres of that region every weekend; rain, hail, snow or shine, surf or no surf. And made the place their own. He was the only true local, but over the years some of the regular crew got out of the city rat race and made the move to the coast. Many more started up, but it was still a mellow laid back vibe, a four mile beach with at least a half dozen viable beach breaks, reef and point breaks at either end kept crowding to a minimum.

A couple of weeks later, and after some consistent if small swells he’s starting to work the rust out of his system, making more waves than he misses. The evening paddles and waves have been mostly alone, midweek the beach is virtually empty, only those who take the effort to make the long drive out, and anyway, since the first session he’s tried to stay away from the more populated peaks until he’s happy with his efforts.

But today the best spot is well stocked with a motley assortment of surfers of all styles and abilities and due to the vagaries of the swell direction, this peak is undoubtedly the best. It’s a while off high tide, time to go in and hope that the increasing size after the turn will thin the herd somewhat. A hard paddle and 10 minutes later he’s sitting with a crew outside the peak. They all studiously avoid him, thinking back a couple of weeks to the fat old bearded guy who spent most of his time falling off and getting in their way.

He lets the first couple of sets, now an interesting 4’, go by and feels the longshore drift take him down the beach, away from the cleanest area. He knows that he will have to paddle back into the west to get into the best spot, hopefully for a leftie. As a goofy that’s his preference. Yes it’s all coming back now. The crew watch him paddle off, no doubt happy to get this antique out of the way so that they can perform for their mates on the beach. He reaches a spot that might just be right, and gets confirmation from the pull from a set. He scratches for the horizon, making it over the first couple easily, but he knows from experience dredged up from memory that the next two will be bigger. He makes number three, just. Number four then. The Hobie is usually a pig to spin, but this time it’s easy. Two stokes and he’s up. A right hander. Can he fade left? No it’s gonna close. Right it is then, straight down the line. As it backs off he cross foot’s forward into a cheater-five, gains speed, steps back and executes a drop knee cut back to keep in the green. He repeats the move again a couple of times before the wave dissolves into white mush and he kicks out, vaguely aware of hoots from inside. Ignoring them, he paddles back out and watches for the next set “Damn but I missed all this” are his overriding thought.

The looks he gets from the crew are a little friendlier now. He may look like a dinosaur, but he’s no kook, they seem to say. As the joints ease and he gets his second wind, he finds that the waves he makes are his own. there is little or no blatant dropping in. It's as if he has reasserted his right to be there and not be hindered.

Afterwards back at the car, he dries off thinking “It’s good to be back in the sea”. Even though he’s stiff and tired, he knows he’s had a good session. As the crew turn up to dry off in their turn, conversation ensues. Pleasantly surprised that these youngsters would even be remotely interested he chats with them awhile, until as he is about to leave a guy asks ‘Can you teach me some of your techniques?’

‘Sure’ he replies, smiling in recollection, ‘you got a year to spare?’