by Tom Anderson
CHAPTER 3
AN OVERNIGHT RUN ON BRITAIN'S BEST WAVE
Of all the seasons, autumn is surely the one that holds the most promise in the mind of a northern hemisphere surfer. It's the time of year when water temperatures remain high while the cooling land scares the tourists away – and sends the wind offshore, blowing out to sea and lifting the faces of oncoming waves, making them steeper and faster to surf. Wherever you are, it'll be the same. Swells start to get serious, building ominously and lasting for days at a time. The waning sun is something you forget about, just as your imagination postpones the tortures of the oncoming winter.
But once things turn, they really turn. There always seems to be a particular week of the year in which the remnants of summer seas in Porthcawl suddenly toughen into a frigid mass of winter briny. And in this particular year that week fell in early November. A series of days appeared so gloomy you hardly noticed it getting dark, along with the first flat spell since autumn.
Surfing drifted away into distant memory as the air developed a bite none of us had felt since the dying throes of last winter. I knew, with the first full frost of the year, that when a swell next appeared it would be time to don my thickest wetsuit along with gloves and boots, followed soon after by the dreaded neoprene cap.
So far I'd been getting it easy. My real test of faith would be in being able to maintain this stoke through the coming blizzards, gales, freezing fogs and deathly crisp dawn patrols. Reaching for the credit card and a stint on lastminute.com would be too easy an option – but a cop-out nonetheless.
Meanwhile, my girlfriend Breige (whose efforts to learn to surf I documented in Riding the Magic Carpet) had no need for such worries. In the seasons that had followed since Magic Carpet and my horrid experience of sitting in plaster and watching her surf perfect Costa Rican left-handers, she had become a respected surfer. So much so that she had just received an offer she couldn't refuse: an all-expenses-paid trip to Galicia as assistant coach for the Welsh Junior Team at the European Championships. Over a thousand miles south of Wales, the beach breaks of Ferrol in La Coruña would be a world removed from what was in store for Porthcawl in the immediate future. Then again, I supposed, if this was the worst form of jealousy I experienced as a boyfriend, I couldn't really complain.
'Enjoy it,' I said through gritted teeth. 'I'll have to try and rustle up a surf trip of my own while you're gone.'
The best way to deal with winter would be face on, I decided. And fortunately it wasn't long after Breige and the team's departure to northern Spain that my next opportunity arose.
Having decided running south would be the coward's option, as well as too much like imitating Breige, it was with instant delight that I received a phone call on the second Friday evening of the flat spell, just three days after she'd left. It was a close friend from Porthcawl, whom I'd recently alerted to my availability and willingness for wave-seeking in the British Isles. 'Rhino' was a renowned charger of heavy surf with a voracious appetite for thick reef breaks and foreboding weather charts, as well as someone I'd never seen be put off by a bit of cold, so I knew he was serious about this one.
'Tom. Rhino here. Me and Jeremy Evans are gonna go to Thurso. There's a mental swell showing on the charts and we've got room for one more. What you up to this weekend?'
'Nothing really. When you thinking of heading up?'
'That's the catch. How quickly can you be ready?'
'Pretty quick, like. When are you talking about?'
'How about ten minutes? Jem's with me now. We'll leave for yours right away if you're in. Have you got a gun, by the way?'
You may think this is an alarming thing to be asked before going on a surf trip to Scotland (home of the lauded reef break at Thurso East). And you'd be right. It's a downright terrifying thing to be asked to bring – but probably not for the reasons you're thinking.
A 'gun', as well as being a deadly weapon, is in fact the name given to a surfboard especially designed for catching and riding the biggest waves imaginable. Many people would probably rather be asked to bring the first kind with them, though, including me. If you need a gun of the surfboard variety, it means you're in for monster surf.
'I haven't got anything more than six-foot-three,' I replied nervously. 'Why? You expecting it big up there?'
Rhino chuckled and repeated my question quietly to Jem – who I promptly heard yelling something back.
'Will I need something longer?' I asked. (The bigger the wave, the longer the board – I only kept a six-three ecause I didn't often plan on riding anything that needed more length.)
'Yeah, you will,' Rhino replied, matter-of-factly. 'But it's OK. One of the boys in Thurso will lend you a gun. So, you in or not?'
'Er…'
'We need to know now, man.'
'OK. Yes. I am.'
And that was that. Ten minutes later we were fuelling Jem's van in the nearby Esso garage, with our next planned stop being Thurso in Caithness and the wave known among other things as Coldwater Nias – a reference to its uncanny resemblance to the world-class Indonesian point break of the same name, despite the fact the original Nias broke in front of tropical jungles and in an ocean warmer than a swimming pool.
Staring through the front window as the catseyes and white lines of the floodlit motorway disappeared hypnotically and endlessly beneath us, the thought that we were on our way to a surf session seemed out of kilter. Signs flew by for Stoke-on-Trent and Manchester, then Wigan, Preston, Carlisle – followed by the illegible Scottish names that show you're starting to get somewhere. Or so you think. In the case of Thurso, itself only a few miles shy of John O'Groats, you haven't really broken the back of the journey until Inverness is behind you.
I'd been to Thurso one time before – with Jem as it happened, on our way back from the Orkney Islands during the trip that later became part of Riding the Magic Carpet. At the time he went by the pseudonym of 'Joe'. His van had been our mode of transport then too and we'd been lucky enough to get the wave close to as good as it gets.
'This time we're gonna get it absolutely as good as it gets,' he grinned, allowing his eyes to drift away from the empty M6 for a brief moment.
There had been real method in the immediate nature of our departure. Jem, having worked for years as a rep in the north for the clothing company The Realm, knew exactly how to spot the right conditions for a solid Thurso swell and reckoned it was only possible to know for sure by checking the wind charts (usually on the BBC weather website) less than twenty-four hours before going. As it was a ten- to twelve-hour drive up there, this meant you needed to be on your guard and ready to drop everything.
'What's the time?' he asked Rhino, once we were several hours into the trip – and well on our way across England.
'Ten-ish.'
I could feel the van accelerating. 'So we've got nine hours till daylight,' Jem muttered aloud. 'We need to really cane it to catch the dawnie.'
A master at long journeys, he placed both hands on the wheel and straightened his spine as his right foot dropped again to add an extra ten miles an hour to our average speed. If he was right about the surf we could expect, then it would be worth any amount of time behind the wheel of a van.
With another cold, early winter night closing in outside, though, and only the monotony of the dark, straight lanes on offer as distraction, all three of us began to feel the need to sleep.
I was the first to nod off – pressing my face against the side window, leaning away from Rhino in the middle seat. Drifting in and out of varying levels of slumber, which is all you can manage in a barren Citroën Dispatch that's rattling its way along at ninety miles an hour, I began to lose track of the journey.
'Huh – check it out, there's a sign for Cumnock,' Jem laughed at one point. 'Imagine living there. You asleep, Rhino? Rhino?'
Rhino and Jem were one of the greatest buddy duos ever to surf around Porthcawl. Both were as dedicated to the lifestyle as you could get. Each worked in t
he surf industry, made a point of getting out on the road within Britain to score waves and had the same passion they'd probably enjoyed since first meeting each other as fourteen-year-olds. They both had a string of titles between them, including Rhino's modest haul of having been Welsh champion four times before moving away from the contest scene to have a family. Usually I wouldn't consider someone's contest CV as being important in introducing them to a story, but in Rhino's case it's important for you to know how gung-ho he could be as a surfer. With a build-up of speed and momentum that bordered on the reckless, he would absorb himself completely in the act – often looking as if he was waking from some sort of trance when he pulled off a wave having unwittingly demolished it. Jem, meanwhile, had garnered an equally fearsome reputation in big surf having spent months on end in Indonesia, where rumours were rife of his having played Russian roulette with all kinds of horrifying, life-and-death reef breaks.
And when the two of them got together the results could be carnage – especially with a swell on the go.
Given the fact I was bearing irreversibly towards a session in heavy surf with these two, it was understandable that sleep didn't stay with me for long. Rubbing my eyes, I soon sat up to look back around the cockpit of our van and realised one of us still hadn't logged a minute of shut-eye. Rhino had moved to the back and nodded off, leaving the same person behind the wheel since initial departure. Jem was a man possessed, staring ahead with tunnel vision. Better offer to take over, I thought.
'Want me to drive?'
'Nah, I'm all right for now,' he replied, showing determination in his now watery eyes. 'It's gonna be light soon, then I'll be fine.'
When light did start seeping out of the horizon, it began illuminating a frost-coated wilderness of flat grassland and plain rocky outcrops. This was the final run to the town of Thurso – at almost exactly the time Jem had predicted.
This is also the stage of a surf trip at which you get the most nervous. Until now you've been able to relax into a long journey, knowing that there's an almost infinite amount of time at your disposal to talk, wait, eat, sleep, change the CD, flick through a magazine, think about the surf ahead. With minutes to go before your first sight of surf though, you often start to get edgy. What will the waves be like? Will the wind be right? Once you realise that the time to sit and wait is almost over, anxiety takes control.
Until you get that first glimpse of the surf – after which worry usually dissipates and it's all about adrenaline. Usually.
Jem rolled his van smoothly and uneventfully through the yet-to-wake town centre of Thurso and on to a little farm track that led up to the point at the northernmost end. It rocked across the stony car park to the edge of a muddy verge – whereupon we were able to feast our eyes on a ten-wave set, each rising peak easily measuring triple-overhead in height. They were being groomed by an offshore wind, causing light wisps of spray to rise off as the waves barrelled wide and hard.
Neither of us said a word. The surf was enormous.
In front of the dilapidated castle that served as Thurso's second most important landmark (after the wave), we sat and stared. Surrounded by barns, a small row of houses and a few bails of hay, this little car park was deserted but for two vans and a car – each bearing surf stickers and empty but for the rolled up clothes that indicated exactly where you could find their owners. Grey skies dropped a light drizzle on us to usher in the new day, while the town remained still. Surfers here went about their business away from the eyes of most residents – the intensity of their experience, with its fear, nerves and ecstasy, was something to be endured discreetly, out of the way. If you got scared here, nobody would be around to sympathise. And if you wiped out the only people who noticed would be too busy trying to get a good wave themselves.
I remembered driving down this same little track years ago and recognised the cottage in which I'd been given a cup of tea by two of the top local surfers, Chris Noble and Scott Maine, after Jem and I had befriended them in the water. I knew that since then the Association of Surfing Professionals had run some big-money contests here (giving Chris, as a local, a wild card into a few that allowed him to surf against some of the best surfers on earth) – and that the wave had become a household name. Chris, who wasn't around this week, had warned me that if I ever came back I'd think things had changed but so far, early in the morning and in between a couple of storms, it looked as though Jem had helped us find a day that belonged to the Thurso of old.
We'd seen a very different side to this wave last time – on our way back from the Orkney Islands. It had been much smaller, tamer, user-friendly. 'Fun size', as most would call it. Then the emphasis had been on 'good'. This time it was huge, which may have been another reason for the apparent lack of bustling surfer activity. Out of the dark northern ocean, mountains of water were repeatedly rising and detonating before us.
Secretly, I was already hoping Jem might say something reassuring about how he too was a little afraid of what we had no choice but to do.
His first words, when he did break from the trance that had come with ending his marathon drive, were nothing of the sort:
'It's gonna be a job for the big boards. That's about as good as surf gets, man. Can you believe it? How good is that? How good? Let's do it!'
And with that he promptly peeled himself away from the driver's seat and stepped out, heading around to the rear of the van to suit up. In the blink of an eye he'd psyched himself up to it.
It was then I realised that Rhino was still asleep in the back. I wondered how many times in someone's life they would be able to awake and sit straight up to the sight of surf like this. If that were me, I'd need a strong coffee and a stretch before I could even think about heading out there.
But Rhino was just as keen. The opening of the back door was enough to stir him. He stepped out gingerly into fresh air, but his eyes were wide open within seconds. Guffawing, childlike, he jumped on the spot as the next ten-wave-plus set blasted across the flagstone reef. His moment of celebration was cut short only by his soaking wetsuit hitting him on the head. Jem was unloading all of our boards and gear, clearly intent on wasting no more time getting into the waves of his dreams.
His dreams.
I was scared. Neither of these two was going to have the slightest bit of time for that, though – as the sight of my own wetsuit flipping through the air towards me confirmed. It was followed by a banana.
'Some energy,' Jem grinned. 'You might need it.'
'Thanks,' I said, trying to look enthusiastic. 'Did you say something about being able to borrow a gun?'
'Oh yeah,' Jem paused for a second. 'Well, I've got a six-five. How's that?'
A surfboard six-foot-five in length would be painfully inadequate to negotiate drops the size of a small building. But in the absence of a better offer, there wasn't a lot I could do about that. I'd have to just pick off the smaller waves and hope I didn't get ridiculed for it.
During the past fortnight winter had indeed been firming its icy grip. It was now late November, and we had gone and driven seven degrees further into the northern hemisphere – 600 miles closer to the frozen edge of the planet. Water is denser when cold – and the line-up here at Thurso East looked a dark, uninviting place. The black rocks below made the grey ocean surface appear dead calm, ruthless. Each time a wave broke in front of the ledge that defined the take-off spot, it would make a tremendous crashing sound. From the comfort of the car park, the thick, perfectly turning tubes were a thing of awe and beauty. But from the channel, halfway towards paddling out, it was like staring into the eye of some undiscovered, misunderstood monster.
It had been well over a week since I'd last surfed, so my wetsuit had been dry at least. While that made getting ready a slightly warmer affair than for Jem and Rhino (who kept theirs in buckets rather than airing them anyway), it had led to feeling a bit out of tune and rather rusty. As if I may need a few waves to get back into the swing of things. Again, this was a luxury I'd h
ave to forego. It was do or die out there – which was just the way my two travel companions liked it.
Jem had led proceedings so far and this was also to be the case in the water. The man who had driven us up here overnight, without resting beyond stopping for petrol, timed his arrival into the line-up just right. Each of the other surfers had just ridden a wave, allowing him to be in place to set himself up for a huge peak, unchallenged apart from the encouraging hoots from me and Rhino. With a look of calm concentration he took a deep breath, summoned up the energy needed, aimed for Lord Thurso's castle back on the shore and began paddling. I saw his eyes widen as he pushed himself over a ledge, before the tremendous pull of water towards the trough of the wave caused me to pull back from watching any further. A squall of spray lifted off the pitching lip, dousing us in sea water as an explosion of white water went up. And that was the last of Jem – until he popped up casually, still standing, into the channel at the end of what must have been a spectacular first ride.
Rhino yelled his approval, as I noticed two of the other surfers who had been in place to see the whole of Jem's wave congratulating him. Jem had a wild grin emblazoned on his face and was practically drooling as he made his way, as fast as he could, back to get another one.
