Surf Nation

Octavio Paz: The Street

It's been a long time since I read any Octavio Paz and the last time was when I mused over The Double Flame, a series of essays on the nature of love and eroticism. However, by chance I met with a Paz poem this evening and in the hope that the Gods of Copyright are in a benign mood or maybe even that this particular poem is free for the edificaton of all, I hereby reproduce it.

The Street

Here is a long and silent street.

I walk in blackness and I stumble and fall

and rise, and I walk, my blind feet

trampling the silent stones and the dry leaves.

Someone behind me also tramples stones, leaves;

if I slow down, he slows;

if I run, he runs. I turn: nobody.

Everything dark and doorless,

only my steps aware of me,

turning and turning among these corners

which lead forever to the street

where nobody waits for, nobody follows me,

where I pursue a man who stumbles

and rises and says when he sees me: nobody.

 

[Translated by Muriel Rukeyser]

Surfers: should they be banned from Newquay?

Why is it that here in England we make going to the beach so difficult?

I ask because rumours reach me (from Carve's Facebook page, no less) of plans to ban surfers from parking their vans at South Fistral. Yes, the idea is apparently not merely to charge for parking, but to ban a constituency which arguably does more to subsidise Newquay's infrastructure than any other.

If you think surfers should be banned, whether from South Fistral or anywhere else, contact your local council.

 

The Riot Act = The Unstoked Act

A couple of days ago I popped into my doctor's for a routine examination of my latest injury, this a broken metatarsal in my right foot. Before I knew it a minor ailment had morphed into a reading of the Riot Act, that most unwelcome of acts, worse even than the Data Protection Act 1998, and that's saying something.

"Give up surfing. Give up football. Give up all contact sports. Take up swimming. Take up knitting. I'm serious. Your neck is too fragile for any of this stuff."

So said the doc, a straight-talker from the Old School, that most excellent of schools, better even than the Sunset Beach Elementary, and as for boxing, he wasn't keen.

"Boxing? Are you mad?" were his words. No, said I, I'm actually rather sensible - I don't spar any more, well not unless Sam Smart promises only to hit me gently, on the side of my chest that doesn't still ache from a couple of broken ribs - and certainly never in the head.

"Even so," said the doc, "I just can't see how whacking the bags and pads at force can be good for your neck. All that impact, being delivered along your arms, through your shoulders and into your neck? No, it's no good. You've got to give it up."

My medico comrade said he felt "wretched" by the end of this chat, which is rather how I've felt ever since, too. I've been pondering his words for the past couple of days, trying to think of what to do if I really do stop surfing, boxing and all the rest of it. Swim? Knit? Somehow they're not the same, but a journey to Newquay on Tuesday didn't help. In the car with me were Aerial Attack and Kerry Powell. Our purpose was twofold: to make further efforts to resolve the present SGB situation, and, in the case of AA and myself, to check out an art gallery for a Cornwall Today piece. Both aims were accomplished, but on the way to Newquay, in Newquay and on the way home fron Newquay, the talk was of one thing and one thing only: surfing.

AA and Kerry had just scored some decent waves at Sennen and were stoked. We bumped into various surfing types in Newquay and they were all stoked, too. On the way back to the far west there was yet more stoke. The bloke in the Shell garage was stoked, the bloke with the white van by the side of the road - he who spells 'potatoes' with an apostrophe, that most egregious of linguistic errors - was stoked, my hat was stoked, the sea was stoked, the gravel was stoked and even the administrative staff at the ASP were stoked, because they've finally introduced anti-doping tests in surfing.

But all this surf stoke had a negative effect on me. As AA and Kerry regaled me with tales of waves ridden at Sennen, it struck me that it's not just the feeling of riding waves that one has to say farewell to, if one is sensible and decides to heed medical advice, it's a big old pulsing, vibrant and super-stoked community.

"Ah yes," counters the doc, "but you could remain involved in surfing. You could take up surfing photography, for example, or throw yet more energy into helping to sort out the state of the UK surfing nation."

Here, though, is the rub. I've always been a doer. Even as a writer - an occupation that tends to the observational rather than the active - I've always preferred to do the thing I'm writing about. Method writing, moi? Exactly. So the idea of sitting on the sidelines, somehow tangentially involved, is of limited appeal.

No, it's clear to me that what I need is a second opinion. I got one from AA the other day: "I think you should carry on surfing." This was good, so far as it went, but it's back to the consultants for me. If a new one - for yes, there may yet be a medical person out there who has not seen me - says that I have to stop pretty much everything and just pad about in cotton wool then OK, fair enough, I will.

Meanwhile, I'm off to London. Work is taking me there and I'm actually looking forward to it. You see, London is not a place of stoke, and the absence thereof is just what the doctor ordered.

Football: An Apology

It has come to my attention that I have been masquerading as a footballer. This condition manifests itself in the following manner:

On Tuesday evenings, the thought that the lads from the mighty Dynamo Choughs will be playing outdoor football on one of the excellent pitches at Mount's Bay School slithers into my mind. Before I know it, I have changed into shorts, trainers and highly stylish QPR sweatshirt. Then I start warming up in my living room, like a footballer. Next I start flicking a ball about, again very much as footballers are wont to do. Soon enough, my metamorphosis is complete. I am a footballer.

Convinced of this, I arrive at Mount's Bay for the Tuesday evening game. The first indication that I am not a footballer comes when the captains are appointed. Whereas for most of my life as an amateur player of renown amid the muddy parks of London and the south-west, I would always be one of the first to be picked by a captain - why sometimes, I'd even be the captain! - now I am the last to be picked. I stand around, knowing that I will be the last to be picked, trying not to show that I am embarrassed and inwardly convincing myself that I will score a hat-trick and prove the doubters (ie, everyone) wrong. But though I am the last to be picked, I still believe that I am a footballer.

The game begins. I play up front, as I did for 25 years or more for various teams that no one has ever heard of, legends in their own lunchboxes all. The ball comes to me. The excitement! I go to control it. My wonky left leg scuppers this simple act. Frustrated, I hope for better luck next time. The same thing happens again, and again. If I have to run for the ball, I have no chance of getting to it; if I have to turn and beat my opponent, something that I used to be pretty good at, I am doomed to failure.

As the game goes on my frustration grows. Still, though, I live in hope. I continue to believe that I am a footballer. The ball is played in to me from the right wing; I shape myself nicely and connect well with my right foot, that which is attached to the leg that works. The keeper makes a miraculous save. I am played in again a few minutes later. No less miraculously, I get to the ball and hit it well enough, again with the instep of the foot that is part of the leg that works. Again, my shot is saved. But nevertheless, I cannot but wonder. With two decent shots in quick succession, are things improving? Am I, after all, still a footballer? No, for then the ball comes to me and the stupid left leg fails to work. The ball hits it and rolls off for a throw in.

Andy Tanner, a longboarder from these parts, is on the opposing team. He discerns that rage is simmering inside, a clue coming from the choice words I mutter and the pyschotic glare in my eyes. "Alex, keep going mate," he says. "Don't give up. At least you're out here."

Later Mr Greg, the former Mr P Pilot, makes a similar observation. "I can see that somehow things don't quite work, but you still make good runs. At least you're still playing."

But, comrades, I am not playing. Yes, if I'm doing keepie-uppie or passing the ball around I still look as if I know what I'm doing, but the cruel truth is that having a slightly spastic left leg does not a footballer make. Moreover, the constant fear of the ball hitting me hard in the head is a confidence-sapper. This also diminishes my once legendary game. It also means that I don't take a turn in goal, something I'm delighted about because I always hated having to go in goal, but which I can appreciate is frustrating for everyone else.

So, to football, to the Choughs, and to those who, long-sufferingly, tell me that I should quit while I'm ahead and hang up my boots, I would like to apologise. It has come to my attention that I am no longer a footballer.

(Editor's note: People who play football in brown suits have no place in the modern game.)

Wiggolly Wade

Last summer a nice chap from ITV came down to Cornwall and, along with the estimable Caroline Quentin, filmed various characters here in God's own county.

If the rumour is true, yours truly is on Cornwall (the perhaps predictably named show now airing on ITV at 8pm on Monday nights) in a couple of weeks. I fear that I was filmed surfing, bellyboarding, flying a plane and selling a house. Meanwhile, if you check out this link, you can see a lad in a blue wetsuit looking fairly stylish in small surf at Spot G, albeit only for a few seconds. That lad's named is Harry 'Wiggolly' Wade (copyright: Mr S Twisted).

Harry, this is your Dad. Start surfing again! You're too good to let it go (and it's not that cold) (and you need to teach El) x

Guest Post: Holiday Cottages - the Solution for Surfers

Every now and then, this blog runs guest posts. This one is from Web Cottages.

Cornwall is one of the most popular surf locations in the UK, with amazing beaches lining both the North and South coast there is no end to the fun you can have. With some of the best surfing conditions in Europe it’s no surprise that surfers from around the world flock to the Cornish coast to try out their skills in the Atlantic waters.

Travelling as a surfer can present some unique problems. Dealing with transporting your board from hotel to beach, storing your gear in temporary accommodation, and finding out about the best local beaches are just some of the issues the travelling surfer can face. Planning your trip through one of the many established surf travel companies is one way you can avoid some hassles, but another option might be to stay in one of the many self-catering holiday cottages you can find located along the beautiful Cornish coast.

Storing your gear

What do you do when you turn up to a hotel or hostel with your board and a bag of gear? Do you leave it in some kind of secure storage or do you bring it to your room and spend the rest of your holiday tripping over it? If you were staying in a holiday cottage then none of this would be a problem. One of the major benefits of staying in your own Cornwall cottage is the space that it can provide, and many even have a garage or storage area for you to use, making your holiday infinitely easier and more enjoyable.

Proximity

If the principal reason for your trip is surfing then you want to spend as much time as possible at the beach. There are holiday cottages across Cornwall that are located right on the beach, making your commute only a matter of minutes - you’ll only need to pull on your suit, grab your board and head out the front door. Obviously it’s great for the end of the day as well, with your house only being a hop, skip, and a jump away there will be no lugging of boards and gear all over the place: you’ll be in the shower minutes after stepping out of the water.

Local Knowledge

Heading to a new destination without any local knowledge can be quite daunting, and if you want to make the most of your surf trip then you don’t want to waste your time at sub-par beaches. Even if you are an experienced surfer it’s a great idea to contact an established surf company in the area that you’re visiting to guarantee you make the most of your trip. As Cornwall is one of the top surfing destinations in the UK, there are no shortages of schools and it’s a pretty safe bet that there will be one near to where you’re staying. You might even be lucky and get some secrets about the beaches right near your Cornwall cottage.

The hassle involved in organizing your own surf trip can really put people off. When planning your next trip why not consider staying in one of the many holiday cottages in Cornwall and see how much easier it can make your surfing holiday. Whether you are travelling on your own or with a group of friends there are cottages out there that will suit your perfectly and make your surfing trip to Cornwall one that you will never forget.

When you’re planning your next surf trip to Cornwall why not check out Web Cottages who have many holiday cottages in Cornwall to choose from. No matter your requirements we will have a self-catering cottage in Cornwall to suit you.

Dreams of Dreams

Last night I had a dream that I feel compelled to share.

In this dream, I dreamt that I had a dream that I felt compelled to share. Yes, I know - divulging one's dreams is rarely a good idea. Viennese witch doctors are liable to pounce on them, friends sigh with boredom as we embark upon the sentence beginning 'I had a really weird dream last night', and as for relatives, they despair, having heard it all before. But this dream - the one in which I dreamt that I had a dream that simply had to be revealed - was something else. I dreamt that I was dreaming of being asleep on a beach, dreaming. If this sounds like a ridiculous post-modern conceit, consider that the excellent Italian writer Antonio Tabucchi wrote a book called Dreams of Dreams, in which he imagined the foremost dreams of 20 great artists, musicians and writers. Why did he do this, and did he do it successfully? My own dream did not yield the answers to these questions, for, at this juncture in the dream, I was sleeping a dreamless sleep (the best kind of sleep, for my money). All was therefore well, for in the deepest dreamless somnolence lies peace, until reality, in the form of a dream, intruded. Suddenly, dreaming of a dream that had to be shared, Aerial Attack was looming over me.

"Alex!" he shouted.

Yes, I replied.

"Spot M was epic yesterday!"

I thought it might be.

"And so was that special place I've been telling you about. About 6-8ft, clean and hardly anyone out. It was epic, I tell you, epic! There were stand-up barrels galore!"

I thought it might be. I sat in the car park at Marazion, discussing the state of British surfing and wondering whether to go out. In the end, I decided to preserve my ability to walk, for ever since the flight back from Hawaii my neck has been killing me.

"Sorry to hear that, mate," said Aerial Attack. "But it should be good today as well. The Boneyard might even work."

And then I awoke. Spot M will work, the Special Place will work, the Boneyard will work, even the mighty break of D-Bay may come alive, for the chart looks mighty fine. But that damned neck is playing up, and although it has taken me 45 years, I now understand that discretion is the better part of valour.

Pictured: Pereira Maintains by Antonio Tabucchi. Like the beautiful Requiem, it is a much better book than the rather pretentious and unwieldy Dreams of Dreams, perhaps proving, beyond doubt, that one really should keep one's dreams to oneself.

Salutations, spammers

Happy New Year to everyone who reads this blog and everyone who doesn't and those in between and especially the people who read it so diligently that they can't resist posting SPAM comments, my word I love the spammers, some days when I think no one has read the blog, this humble outpouring into the void, this tumble of words devoid of form, this outage of blurb, this pouring of the spoiled, sometimes, yes, occasionally, when I feel alone and rejected and unloved, I find that a spammer has vouchsafed me with a comment, perhaps in Japanese, sometimes in Arabic, but never in French, and at such junctures I feel alive, wanted, read, recognised as the world's leading authority in home loan timberland boots or some other bizarre website to which the spammers insist on linking but why? what is the point? why does anyone want to click on a site about HOME LOAN TIMBERLAND BOOTS and what are they anyway?

Yes, spam is great. Long live the spammers. May they prosper even more in 2012, with, or without, their home loan timberland boots.

North Shore pass notes

Here I am back in England. Jet-lagged, moi? Not a bit of it. It's perfectly normal to be wide awake, wanting breakfast, or lunch, or supper, and writing a surf blog, at 1.30 in the morning. So, without further ado, here is a handy conversational guide to what to expect on your North Shore trip. (Buttons is photographed but lest there are any misunderstandings this Q&A did not take place with him.)

What part of Australia are you from?

I'm not. I'm from England.

You're from England! Awesome! It's cold there, right?

Yes, it can be a little chilly. But not where I live. I live in the tropical bit.

Tropical England? Which bit is that?

Cornwall. It's on the end and sticks out into the Atlantic. There's a palm tree in every garden.

Awesome! I know where you mean. You can surf there, right?

Correct. But we surf elsewhere, too. Scotland, for example, has its very own North Shore.

But dude, it must be freezing.

It is bit chilly, yes, but modern wetsuits are amazing. You can be warm even in the snow and ice.

Dud, you English are hardcore. I've heard of people surfing in the cold but in snow? Man, that's gnarly.

Thank you. But talking of gnarly,the surf you've got here is impressive. That Pipeline wave of yours is three times bigger than anything in Cornwall even when it's flat. As for Waimea when it's working, it is a leviathan among waves.

You English talk kinda funny. Love your accent, though. How're you finding life on the North Shore?

Expensive. A pack of ground coffee in Foodland is $14.00. That's more than double what it'd cost in the UK. But other than that, it's amazing. It's like being on a film set. World class surfers amble past and tear it up in front of your eyes. I've lost count of how many surfing super-heroes I've seen, or stood next to in Foodland.

Bro, everyone surfs here. Did I tell you I used to be a pro?

No, you didn't. But tell me, if I wanted to paddle out at Sunset, or Pipe, or Backyards, or Velzyland or Aint's or Off the Wall, would I have a hope in hell of getting a wave?

Sure, bro. If you show respect and patience you'll get your waves. Not as many as the locals, but you'll get some.

Acutally, I have a bad neck [cue tedious digression to explain cervical myelopathy and ACDF].

Dude, that's gnarly. Maybe you shouldn't be surfing. Shouldn't you quit while you're ahead?

Possibly. But I'm definitely not up for Pipe, unless it's flat. I would probably die. Is there anywhere mellow I can surf?

Sure. There's Chun's Reef or Sunset Point. Beginners can learn down at Haleiwa where Buttons has his surf school. There's also Kuilima Point, at the Turtle Bay Resort.

Yes, I surfed Kuilima Point already. Is it part of the seven-mile miracle?

No bro, the seven-mile miracle runs from Waimea to Sunset. But it's still a North Shore wave. When did you surf it?

A few days ago.

Wasn't it flat then?

Er, some of the sets were well over head high. What would you call that on the North Shore?

We'd call that flat, or maybe a foot. But well done, dude, you rode a North Shore wave! Stoked for you!

Thank you. I have to say that you Hawaiians are a lot friendlier than I'd been led to believe. The surf media portrays surfing on the North Shore as taking your life into your hands not just because of the more challenging surf than Brits like me are used to be but also because of endemic and very heavy localism.

Localism sucks, man. Here it's about the aloha spirit. Give love and get love back. That's the Hawaiian way.

Does that really apply in the line-up at Off the Wall?

Not always, but you get the idea.

I do. Be patient, show respect, and all will be well, even in the water.

That's right, bro. You English learn fast. Just a shame you spent so many years colonising the world and imposing your own norms and customs in places where they had no right to be.

I am not related to Capt Cook. Honest.

No worries, bro. What's that painting you've got there?

It's a sketch called 'The Last Tree on Earth' by my mate Tony Plant. It's on a journey.

The last tree on earth. Bro, that's kinda cool. What does it make you think?

It makes me feel sad. But then again, I met some great people out here, and so did the painting.

So it's been a good journey then?

One of the best. Mahalo.

Leaving Oahu: In Praise of Buttons Kaluhiokalani

Seven days is not enough on Oahu. Each one has been crammed with activity but I've barely scratched the surface of life here. It's time to start packing up now, but as I come to leave (full of resolve to return) I find myself pondering the gentleman I met yesterday, Buttons Kaluhiokalani.

Buttons is a man who's had one hell of a life. When I asked him about his lowest moments, he said there were two - and both were when he'd been clinically dead. On the first occasion, when he was 38, he was DOA after partying just a little too hard down in Waikiki. He came round in hospital when his sister started tickling his feet. Two weeks later, he did the same thing again. This time, a la Pulp Fiction, a syringe full of adrenalin stuck into his chest brought him back.

Being dead a couple of times is on the gnarly side of things. But Buttons - a progressive surfer who was way ahead of his time - was locked into the party scene. It took meeting his Tahitian wife, Hiriata, for things to turn round. They met five years ago, when Buttons was in his mid-forties, and have a four-year-old son, Nuutea, and a baby daughter, Nawaiomalukea. In total, Buttons has eight children and eight grand-children. Nuutea and Nawaiomalukea light up his life today; all his children surf.

When he fell for Hiriata, Buttons got his life together. She played a huge part in his rehabilitation. As he told me: "Hiriata said that if I wanted to be with her, I had to have a plan. So I came up with one - to run my own surf school." That surf school has gone from strength to strength, and Buttons doesn't plan to return to his old ways.

"People still offer me stuff but I always say no. I don't say 'No thank you', because why should I thank them? I just say I don't do that stuff anymore. In that world people are always looking to see you take a fall, to bring you down. I don't thank them; I just say no."

Buttons today is full of charisma, lean and fit thanks to surfing and daily 40-minute home gym routine, and big on the aloha spirit. "It's about giving and sharing. It's the way I was raised. It's the Hawaiian way. If you give love, you get love back. If people come here to surf and remember that, they'll be fine."

The more I spoke to Buttons, the more memories of the Wrecking Machine days came back to me. I felt a kinship that I hadn't expected; I felt melancholy about mistakes made; I felt regretful and sad. Maybe Buttons has these emotions too, but, as his life shows, there's no point dwelling on them. The only thing to do is keep going and try to live a better life, perhaps even the right life.