by Tom Anderson
For me, this first half day of an indefinite stay in 'Kernow' had already blown away my presumptions with its clear water, blue skies, sunshine, light winds, steaming surf, friendly faces and the thrill of a hurricane-chasing road trip. All of these were things I had convinced myself didn't exist without getting on a plane – and yet here they were. I'd even slept in my own bed that very same morning.
By coming here on a swell, with no contest in mind, no need to go anywhere near the town that need no longer be named, I had finally found a Cornwall that I could fall in love with.
Rich was delighted. 'Life's sweet down here eh, son? An' this is only the beginning, man. There's days of this swell left. Tons of sick surfing ahead. You won't wanna go home by the time we're done!'
Here's hoping, I thought.
CHAPTER 7
SURF CITY UK: STREAKERS, DRINKING INJURIES AND INFLATABLE CROCS
'The town that need no longer be named.'
No surfer serious about getting to know the British scene can really avoid going to Newquay at some point in their life. A bonanza of Cornish waves had perhaps helped me, for the moment, to start building warmer memories of the place.
And of all of these, my visits to the UK Student Championships stood head and shoulders above the rest. I've told you about the weak attempt to mimic this contest up in mid-Wales – but when it comes to the real thing, it is beyond doubt that the 'Student Nationals' is Britain's quirkiest surf contest. If there is ever a good time to go to Newquay, then this is surely it.
After a few years of hobbling and surf-tripping, and upon finally starting a university course, this contest had been one of the things I'd most looked forward to when deciding to become a student (along with being able to use the Student Loans Company to fund a few more years of hobbling and surf-tripping). The thought of descending on Britain's surf capital for a contest full of beginners and piss-heads appealed to my ego. It would be a chance to be a big fish in a small pond for once.
That said, 'small pond' is probably not the phrase. The Students does in fact boast the largest entry field of any surf contest in the world. The first year I did it the numbers were in excess of 400. That's a hell of a roster of fellow competitors to whittle your way through.
However, the portion of this 400 that would be able to surf to a competitive standard was minimal. Round one is famous for the legendary 'inflatable crocodile' – a tradition that someone invariably keeps alive each year by actually attempting to surf their heat on one. I'd heard rumours of people swigging Strongbow in the line-up, longboarding in fancy dress, surfing naked in February… the list goes on.
But as well as this, there was also the opportunity to be the talk of the town for a weekend if you could surf. A mate of mine studying at Bristol University had enjoyed rock-star treatment by making the final one year. However hard I tried to deny it, the Students event appealed to me as the chance to get on a roll in a big event without having to come up against any of the country's toughest athletes, who were all far too committed to their surfing to waste time doing degrees and the like. It's sad, I know, but when you put effort into competing and yet constantly lose, this attitude can be permitted from time to time.
Nevertheless, the first time I entered – in 2002 – I lost in the quarter-finals, on day two of three (and in the pouring rain of course), to someone who never did contests. While my memories of those events still lead to a chuckle, it remains without a doubt the most painful defeat of my life. Someone who didn't care had beaten me in the event I'd dreamed of doing well in.
Looking back, I think I deserved it though. Taking the Student Nationals seriously is against the rules. It's quite simply not in the spirit of the game.
I returned the following year, honouring the rules by being both more and less determined to get a result.
That second year became my favourite trip to date to the place that can't be named. It had been cold enough to keep the hordes away and yet the February sun had still decided to shine, bringing with it the antics for which the event was famous.
A solid swell had caused proceedings to get moved around the corner, from Fistral Beach to the more urban setting of Towan Beach. An ideal venue for this kind of contest. With Newquay's harbour sheltering its west, Towan was producing tame lines in the knee- to waist-height range, while the Walkabout pub (and later nightclub) allowed competitors a panoramic view of the east side of the town as it proudly overlooked the crescent-shaped bays of Tolcarne and Great Western. Participants could warm up between heats while gazing through the glass façade at either the beach below or the rows of older Cornish seaside homes to the left. There was also the day's Premiership football on screens all around and a beer promotion that allowed for plenty of boozing prior to surfing – another common habit at the Student Nationals. The less water-savvy the surfer, the more likely they were to get tanked up before paddling out.
It was no wonder, therefore, that the inflatable croc had emerged by midday. A soon-to-be-beatified novice from Durham Uni's C team had, in fact, decided to kill two birds with one stone. Not only had he turned out to his heat with a legendary croc for a surfboard; he'd kitted himself out in a Batman costume as well. The inflatable piece of puke-green watercraft was a beauty: about four feet long and it soon drew a crowd.
Usually at a surf contest it takes either a stacked final or the appearance of a famous pro to attract a crowd to the water's edge. But not at the Students. Reigning champ Al Mennie (the same Irish Al that I'd met at Nolton Haven) had managed to attend his heat with little more fanfare than a subtle mention from the announcer. But a quick headcount revealed that the kook on the croc had over eighty fans, cheering his every move from the sand.
Cheering his every move was a tough thing to do – because he didn't actually manage to get to his feet in fifteen minutes of trying. This was partly due to his cape almost drowning him – but largely down to the fact this was only his fourth ever attempt at surfing.
'Got to hand it to him though, eh mate?' one of his team-mates explained to me as I walked to the edge of the crowd. 'That's how you get noticed when you can't do air three-sixties.'
He'd certainly taught us more experienced competitors a lesson.
'I ought to try that,' Al joked. 'Except I'd look like an idiot. I think you need to be from Durham to pull that stuff off.'
'Never mind,' I reassured him. 'You'll just have to try an air three-sixty.'
The cape and croc wasn't the best of the antics I witnessed that weekend, however. Although highly entertaining, it was too obvious, too done before. Fool of the weekend had to go to either my friend Math or the person who gate-crashed the final.
Firstly, Math's moment of madness wasn't in the water – but it did end up being surfing related as it cost him his place in the semis.
Wanting to learn from last year's mistakes (namely taking things too seriously), I set off for Newquay's town centre and its bars and clubs that evening. The plan was to get everyone else who was still in the contest off their guard by being seen out and about, but then to slip away before Britain's most notorious night out could work its evil on my ability to surf the next day.
Despite their furiously denying it, this is usually the plan of everybody else that's in my situation – including Math. But he didn't need to go as far as the main strip before Newquay could work its evil on him. Not needing the persuasion of hundreds of drunk fellow students to derail his campaign, he was perfectly able to see to that himself.
'Did you know those white bollards are rugby-tackleable,' he explained to Dan, another one of Plymouth's hopefuls. 'In Wales they're all creased round the bottoms from when people try it. Watch…'
With that, he promptly threw himself horizontally at an illuminated rectangular white object on a nearby traffic island. True to his promise, it did indeed crumple, as if inflatable, allowing Math to roll over it and stand up triumphantly, as if he'd just dropped Jonny Wilkinson in front of a capacity-filled Millennium Stadium.
I spotted a glint in Dan's eye. 'Fantastic,' he said. 'Go on – do it again.'
It worked. Completely forgetting Dan was his opponent in tomorrow's first quarter-final, Math again lunged for the helpless device of traffic control. However this time I heard a slight crackling sound, mixed with a stomach-churning squelch.
There was a moment's silence before Math's agonised scream indeed confirmed that the noises had come from his shoulder.
With one of his toughest opponents now on the treatment table, it would be a slightly earlier passage to the semis for Dan. Bloody Plymouth Uni surfers; should never be trusted. They're like the Man United of the Student Championships – always over-confident and infinitely willing to indulge in the dark arts of psyching people out or persuading them to hurt themselves on the eve of a big heat. And whenever they need it, luck seems to be on their side too.
But Math should have known better. He had, only a few months before, been the proud recipient of a warning letter under the ASBO Act, when an off-duty policeman had happened upon him 'in an alcohol-enhanced state attacking roadside furniture'. What can you say?
Being the coward I am, I decided on this occasion to refrain from placing myself in harm's way, and after a few bottles of the lightest beer I could find, it was time to slip away. As I passed Burger King, with its bouncers standing in the night breeze trying to hide the fact they were nearly dying of cold, I began feeling smug, ready for a good night's sleep and a carb-heavy breakfast.
Half a day later I was reaping the rewards – walking down the steep hill and across Towan's paved beachfront promenade to collect a finalist's vest, passing the forlorn Math in his sling along the way.
It was at this point that I started to think seriously about things, with a satisfying feeling descending over me that the job had been done. I'd scraped through the rounds in which you weren't allowed too keen an attitude, to the final, along with the only three other surfers who'd maintained any state of sobriety last night. One of them was Al.
'Good to see you made it,' he said to me, as we arrived in the line-up and waited for the horn to signal the start.
'Yeah. Good luck, mate,' I offered as a response, as we both began frowning, ready to hassle each other to the death.
It was then that our thunder was yet again stolen by a member of the Durham crew.
A cheer arose from the beach, which even I wasn't vain enough to think for a moment could be for any of us, before I saw the spectators part to allow a naked man to run for the water's edge – carrying a surfboard under his arm.
Now, you may or may not have experienced the British seas in February – but in any case let me assure you that immersing yourself in them is something that, without a wetsuit, is indeed life-threatening. The cold is so intense it will cause muscles and vital organs to shut down – often very quickly. And if you are going to do it, it's worth bearing in mind that some very important body parts will shrink when coming into contact with the cold. This obviously hadn't bothered Durham Boy, who was displaying himself proudly to a crowd of students, at least half of which were female.
He had a mission, as could be seen from the furnace-like eyes with which he paddled towards us from the shoreline. For a moment it even occurred to me that he was going to hit one of us – but I then realised it was the look of a man who is in great agony, and who is applying every drop of energy to warding off hypothermia.
And, although it wasn't his main purpose, he had also succeeded in puncturing the tension we'd worked so hard to build up for the final. Al took some persuading at first.
'What are you doing?' he barked.
'What does it look like, mate?' came the reply – a voice trembling with the effects of too much cold.
'You're in real danger mate,' Al pointed out. 'You could drown.'
The reply was gold:
'I don't care, man! I just wanna get in the mags!'
At that point both Al and I cracked. Laughter took over and we realised we were in for a tough time regaining the competitive fire.
The moral victory went to the streaker. However, for the second time this weekend, a bout of Durham-born attention seeking was hindered by surfing ability. The naked hero had chosen to borrow a board from someone else that was too short for him (perhaps because he'd thought it would be more photogenic) and failed to get to his feet once he'd managed to stroke in to a wave. It was a shame, because he probably would have got a shot in a surf mag if it hadn't been for that.
So I may have done better this time around, but the competition element of the Student Nationals remains to this day almost surplus to the spirit of the weekend.
Since good waves are rare at such events, it's virtually obligatory for regulars at surf contests to be able to make their own entertainment, which has lead to a real tradition of great raconteurs. Someone always seems to take on the role of storyteller, or jester, beguiling the rest of the shivering, grumbling participants. It helps if the designated person has been eliminated, for some reason – maybe the need to get over defeat leads people to put on a light-hearted front.
Although I had a few tales myself stored up for such occasions, my rare run to the final had meant someone else needed to step up to the plate. Temporarily robbed of his surfing abilities, Math had spent the afternoon in the car park waiting for a lift home – and slowly sipping a few hair-of-the-dog cans of Stella Artois to numb the pain in his shoulder. On the sea wall at Towan, waiting for the results to come in and trying to warm up, Math entertained us with the story of how he gave one unknown Frenchman the worst day of his life by accident:
'We were in La Piste car park, you know, in Capbreton, the beach with all the German bunkers on it. D'you remember when they introduced those new toilets – the ones you had to pay twenty cents to use?'
His audience were nodding, so he continued. 'And they automatically self-wash too when you're done. Stink of disinfectant, like. That's coz they're designed for people to go in and out barefoot see, so the floors get cleaned. Well, me and Davo were staying there one night and we'd been sleeping in the car, like. The gendarmes had moved us in to the forest, but we'd come to check the surf first thing in the morning and I suddenly got the need to take a cack – like one of those really ferocious cacks that you only get from too much baguette and black coffee.'
I stopped loading my car, which was parked a few yards away, and stretched my hearing to take in what came next. Even though I'd heard the story a million times, I started grinning at what I knew was about to follow…
'I reckon I had about five minutes to play with before I had to go literally anywhere – the dunes or whatever. So anyway, I reached the bog and it's out of order. I was gutted.'
Math quelled a round of chuckling to keep going: 'It had some French message on it about the lights being broke and the door not shutting properly, I think. But it looked locked – there was a red light on anyway. So I thought maybe the sign was old, and it was working after all. I thought there was probably someone in there and I'd be able to go in a minute, like.
'So I wait there for a while – and I mean a while. Ages. Like nearly quarter of an hour, and all this time there's just volcanic movement going on in my guts – so much that I've got no chance of managing to walk anywhere else if I can't use this one.'
The laughter was building again. Toilet humour and surf contests are a perfect match. And this tale was as good as toilet humour got.
'Anyway, after ages I decide there's not anyone in there, so I opted to open it and see if it was possible to go in… I reached for the door, opened it like halfway, then by instinct I was like "Shit, sorry" and slammed it shut.
'There was this guy in there, see, on the fold-down seat. He was mid-log, man! I can only imagine it must have been a case of super-constipation. I mean, they do happen in France. He'd been in there twenty minutes, though, easy.
'Anyway, the look on his face, man. As soon as he realised the door was going to close he shot me this look, like "why have you done this to
me?"
'It was only the lock that was broken, see. The second the door clipped closed there was this ticking sound, then a growl – you know, a deep, machine-like one.' Math paused to mimic the violent shaking he was describing. 'The ground literally rumbled as the self-cleaning system kicked in. And he was locked inside the whole time, man!
'Must be hell on earth. You've been sitting there for ages trying to force one out, like, and then all of a sudden the seat folds away behind you, you get locked in and the entire room starts spewing purple disinfectant everywhere.' He shook his head mournfully. 'Around there almost everyone is roughing it, so he probably had no spare clothes, nowhere to go and freshen up – apart from the sea, like.
'Somehow all of that made me able to move again. I ran all the way to the car and was like 'Davo, Davo man – we've got to get out of here NOW!'
He waited for the laughter to subside then signed off with, 'Worst thing I've ever done to anyone, man,' before he slid off the wall, winced with yet more shoulder pain, and started to walk towards contest control.
