by Tom Anderson
To make things worse, only a few paces further on, the wave rose back up and the last thing I saw, before realising that I quickly needed to get out of here, was Breige and Anne jumping up and riding smugly away into the distance.
Having one chance and one chance only to catch a wave that you've waited fifteen minutes for is completely alien to most surfers, for whom the general frolic of trying to catch hordes of waves in one session is part of the pleasure of the sport. That feeling of being active and dashing around the sea in circles, chasing wave after wave, is often synonymous with the height of surf stoke. But something has to be said for the crescendo of anticipation that comes from standing in flat water and waiting on a one-off opportunity. It's got more of the mystical element to it – like the 'fifty-year storm' that Point Break's makers so infuriatingly invented in that famous scene when Bodhi is beatified by giving his life to the one wave that he had always dreamed of. Here, though, in the heart of Gloucestershire, that same idea was very much a reality – a wave that felt like an entity to be sought out or hunted down.
And its followers were a different tribe altogether; a bunch of beings innocent in their knowledge of the fashions and codes of surfing as I knew it and free of the bullshit that it came with – but with just the same dedication and desire to break away from the crowd.
It was a good twenty minutes before the girls found their way back to the car, which I spent sitting at the curbside feeling the light warmth of the autumn sun on my wetsuit and chatting to a pair of long-haired bore enthusiasts, who were changing in the Transit van next to me.
'Hey – you were one of the ones that stood up back at Newnham, weren't you?' one of them said to me. 'Respect, man! That's hard core. You should get a bigger board – then you might get a few miles on it. On your feet, like.'
'Yeah, maybe,' I nodded. 'I'm not sure boards do get much bigger than this, mind.'
'I dunno. If you go down to the coasts they might. I've heard about these things that they stand on like – as they paddle them. Crazy that, eh? Saw it on a video, man.'
He meant the stand-up paddle craze that was driving people in Porthcawl mad – involving boards that were sometimes twice the size of the one I'd ridden today. These crafts were so oversized that riders could stand on them and move through the water with a kayak-style paddle. 'Yeah – I've seen those things too,' I nodded.
He put his keys in the ignition and then called over to me: 'Anyway, mate, we're off for lunch. Severn Bore Inn, if you wanna swing by on the way back. Might see you there. Nice to meet you, man.'
As their aged van turned noisily on Redrow's fresh tarmac, belching a quick dose of exhaust fumes in my direction, I was left dwelling on one thing from the conversation I'd just had.
Down the coasts, he had said – as if it were a place nobody had ever been to – least of all me. Britain, I realised for the first time in my life, had a surf scene that never went to the beach. It was strangely humbling.
That afternoon I paddled out in windy Rest Bay, mainly to wash the mud out of my wetsuit and to check that my body could still get across an ocean wave with all these bruises. The swell was laced with a bit of autumn juice and the usual crew of familiar faces were out and riding – moaning about the shape of waves, the speed of the tide, water temperature, weather fronts. Whatever they could think of to trivialise what was, to them, just another meaningless go-out in a lifetime of addiction to the sea and all its moods.
Of course, I can't deny being as underwhelmed as the rest of them. This session was nothing out of the ordinary and I'd suffered nowhere near enough wave-deprivation lately to appreciate this for anything more than the light exercise it provided. But there was something in me that was relishing every wave, feeling every inch of every turn. My perceptions of what surfing was in the UK and what it meant, although already undergoing a huge metamorphosis, had changed more in this one day than any other I could recall.
'Tides are getting smaller soon. Can't wait,' one of the groms was promising his younger brother. 'Waves'll get easier to surf again then.'
He had a point, but with those smaller tides the bore would also shrink, hidden from both view and memory for the next stage of the lunar cycle. The ocean would always be there to satisfy an appetite for surf – but I knew already that the next time the bore was expected to break there was a strong chance I'd again be dashing east across the M4 at dawn – away from the sea – to that ludicrous wait for a bucking, twisting wave that, although borne of the sea, had broken free from its rules and rhythms. On the wildest tides of the year, the Severn Bore exists as a quick display of dissent or escapism for the ocean-minded. It's a cheeky bit of infidelity, as well as a solid reminder of what surfing is ultimately all about: the wait, the chase – and then, as I had been learning of late, nothing but the moment.
CHAPTER 10
FIRST BROKEN BOARD
Porthcawl Point's most experienced and hardened locals can be distinguished from the rest of the flock by one characteristic: they jump out rather than paddle out.
This is often the case in point breaks. There will be a set of little-known rocks that allow easy entry into the line-up without needing to paddle from the beach – which is by far the safest route. You can get out to Porthcawl Point – which is, as the crow flies, the closest surf spot to my house – from either Coney Beach or Trecco Bay each side of it. It takes ages, and this is really frustrating as on a good day it means having to watch set after set of great surf break on the horizon, while all you can do is puff and pant against a rip. The line-up gets closer at a patience-sappingly slow rate, and if you're at all out of practice, you usually need a breather once you do make it.
But, throughout the decorated history of the spot, the toughened locals, the cream of the crop, the ones who run the show on crowded days, have known about and used another method.
Apart from one of them: yours truly.
The 'keyhole', or 'jump rock', was, I think, deemed out of bounds or off-limits to Andersons by some higher power.
My grandfather, John Anderson MBE, one of the most renowned swimming teachers ever to grace the beaches of South Wales, famously got in to trouble there about fifty years ago. My father Paul, a champion surfer in his day, had an experience on those rocks that he won't even talk about, and as a result will always leave the house twenty minutes early for a Point session, so that he can have time to paddle from one of the beaches. And then there's my brush with the place. It's not an exaggeration when I say that, to this day, my run-in with Porthcawl Point's keyhole as a sixteen-year-old is indeed the closest I have yet been to death. In fact, it's the closest I ever plan to come to death until the Reaper himself arrives with an irrevocable warrant from up on high.
And to put off the signing of that warrant, I am proud to be one of the only Porthcawl Point regulars who never, ever, in any circumstances, jumps off the rocks.
Again, like so many of my lesser moments in surfing, the ordeal I suffered that day was inextricably linked to the Welsh Nationals.
As a grommet, I belonged to an age group that had both good and bad luck on our side. The Junior European Surf Championships were held every two years – on the even-numbered years, as it happened – in a different location around the continent. This meant that, being born in one myself, I was always amongst the oldest in my category during the crucial years. Eligibility ran from 1 January, so I could compete in the 'youth' (under fourteen) at the maximum age of fourteen, 'cadets' (under sixteen) at the age of sixteen and then juniors while being eighteen on paper. It meant I had much more chance of making the national team than the half of my mates born before January. That bit was the good luck.
But this meant nothing to my mother. She was a teacher, and to her biennial consternation, it also meant that the most important surfing competitions of my life fell right smack in the middle of first GCSE and then A Level seasons. That can indeed be the undoing of many a grommet – Rich for one, who won the cadets category the day before his maths e
xam, and reckoned he couldn't concentrate on the sums in front of him for more than ten seconds.
He was lucky; his mum, Val, used to let him train and surf as much as he wanted. My villainous mother was nowhere near as accommodating and, with my dad nodding vaguely behind her, had drawn up a structured revision and surfing timetable with an incentive scheme at the end of it.
It was torture. I was allowed an hour of surfing a day on a weeknight and two a day on weekends – nowhere near enough to try and make it to the contest of a lifetime in Portugal later in the year – which you could only qualify for with a placing in the top two in your category at the Welsh.
She appointed my dad to work out a reward for getting the right grades. I'd been paying him in instalments for my favourite surfboard and he decided, in classic parental generosity, to make this the bargaining tool.
'If you get the grades your mother's decided you're capable of then I'll waive the rest of the surfboard debt,' he announced proudly.
'Great,' I replied, rolling my eyes.
I was, however, a step ahead of them. By coasting in school, I'd managed to con my mother into setting slightly lower ambitions than she may have otherwise had. As a result, while feigning pulling my hair out at the seeming impossibility of her targets, I was able to relax a little, knowing that both the free board and the Europeans berth were well within my reach – as long as I could get in the water enough. But that remained the hardest part to pull off.
There was, of course, one time of day when I could surf as much as I wanted. This was during school hours, when my parents were both at work. On the most important swells I would wander out of the gate at lunch or break times, whereupon the only challenge became concealing that my wetsuit was soaking when mum came home.
As it happened, the day before the Welsh Nationals presented one of the best swells in months. Study leave hadn't yet begun but, keen to make full use of the last-minute practice opportunity, I duly faked leaving for school only to turn around again and come home once I knew there was nobody at home. My part-owned surfboard was waxed up ready and, with my spring suit around my waist, I ran the few hundred yards towards the Point, which was breaking well overhead, with an offshore wind grooming its sets into fiercely hollow, thundering sections.
Thinking the universe was mine, I hopped along the sharp prongs of rock that indicated the route to the jump rock and keyhole, worked through a few quick and largely ineffective stretches and warm-ups, strapped on my leash and prepared to leap.
I'd never encountered any difficulty with the jump rock, after following one of the senior locals out one day. But then again I'd never tried to use it in a solid six-foot swell. The usual markers weren't there: the little spike of sea-worn bedrock that was supposed to submerge beneath the incoming wave when it was time to jump, the gulley that dragged you out into the deep patch behind, almost catapulting you into the line-up with the receding water.
Today, the whole launch pad was just awash with foamy, angry sea. Each incoming wave would slap loudly against the rows of jagged reef that marked the start of the Point. Seemingly miles behind me, I took a second look back at the beaches and wondered, only for a moment, whether it wouldn't be wiser to walk back and do it the safer way. That moment was enough for doubt to set in – and as soon as my feet left solid ground I knew it had all gone horribly wrong.
I landed in water, but had chosen a wave much smaller than the one that had broken before it. This meant that the wave had run into shallower water than usual and was about to suck back too quickly.
Sensing that I was in trouble, I kicked frantically with my feet and stroked desperately forwards, at this point still believing I could make it. I had to believe it. The alternative was horrendous.
As my board's fins caught rock below me, a million thoughts raced through my mind. I remembered another Porthcawl surfer, Anthony Cross, who had once had such a kicking here that for a moment his feet were sticking vertically up in the air with his head wedged between two ledges of sharp reef. Crossy's battering was captured on film and shown in surf club one night. I also remembered the times I'd personally seen people get crucified here. I'd usually enjoyed watching that from the comfort of the line-up, laughing and enjoying their misfortune.
The wave had now drained all remaining water from under me and I was left lying on my board with rock below me, rock in front of me and rock on both sides. The keyhole is a passageway between two much higher ledges that were now boxing me in, holding me in just the right place to get mercilessly smashed by the next oncoming wave – which was two or three times the size of the one I'd tried to jump.
As it hit me, survival instinct kicked in. Nothing else would matter as long as my head didn't smack anything. I heard the fibreglass of my board splintering as the wall of water made impact. That gushing, liberated water; a wave finally releasing its energy after thousands of miles at sea. It rolled me over and pinned me to the rock behind. Recognising it as a part of the shelf that seldom went underwater, I gripped on and tried to cling to it as the wave receded. Just as the bulk of it had drained away I lost hold though, sliding on my back across the ravine until my board, now wedged across the gap in front, broke my fall. I had a few seconds in which to take a breath and regain my balance, before the next one hit. This time it held my board back against me and flung me from the keyhole onto another slab of sharp rock. I was now marooned, hopelessly nowhere near either of the safe points. Unable to reach either the keyhole or the line-up behind (where I'd be able to tread water); all that was left to do was shriek.
The lifeguards stationed at the edge of Coney Beach, meanwhile, would have heard only half of that shriek as another wall of water slammed the air from my lungs.
This was now a very serious situation; realising drowning could be as little as one mistimed inhalation away. For some ten or twelve waves in a row, all I could do was get pulled across the rocks and then thrown back up them. All the while my board remained strapped to my right leg, weighing me down. Usually in this event you're supposed to release it, but I was never free enough to reach my foot. There were simply too many forces acting against me. How I escaped serious injury remains a mystery.
When I did eventually find myself back on dry land, it was only because the ocean had done with me. For reasons unknown, a sudden sideways surge had deposited me back at the keyhole, just as the sets held off for thirty seconds. It was as if the sea had decided enough was enough – as if it had taken pity on me, or at the very least grown bored of tormenting me.
Realising this could well be my only chance, I drew on every ounce of strength left in my body to climb back out of the gulley I had jumped into about a minute ago. Seeing the ground beneath take on the lighter grey hue of a rock yet to be wetted, I realised it was over. Almost.
My board was still attached to my leg, about to pull me back in.
In one last burst of panic, I began reeling my leash in like a fishing line. For something supposed to have a six foot surfboard on the other end it wasn't offering a lot of resistance.
When I saw why, it was the final straw. At the end of my leash were the last few inches of my board, and nothing more. About half the tail was left – the rear fin and one side fin.
Not only was my board broken, but my spirit was too. As I surveyed no less than four separate pieces of unpaid-for surfboard floating in the hell below, I burst into tears.
And then another thought, also of pure survival, kicked in. What the fuck was I going to tell my dad?
Bleeding, with a torn wetsuit and eight inches of surfboard, I trudged across the rocks back to the grassy part of the point where the two lifeguards were standing, arms folded, having elected not to try and help me. It had been far more amusing to watch.
Like a typical teenage brat, I started yelling at them.
'What the fuckin' hell are you doing? I almost died. I almost died!'
This was when they started laughing.
In the years that followed, though, I reali
sed the importance of this kind of disdain towards grommets. I deserved the embarrassment and ridicule that came with the fallout from that dreadful morning – in the long run it probably did me good. They say what doesn't kill you can only make you stronger – well surely that would apply here.
Of course, since they knew I was skiving school, the lifeguards were well aware of the pact that I had no option but to enter. If I didn't accept their banter – which went on to be pretty cutting – then they could always take things seriously and ring my parents.
Later that afternoon, I thought briefly that they had chosen to take it seriously. I walked in to Black Rock Surf Shop to ask the advice of Herbi, one of the godfathers of Welsh surfing. He tutted and expressed his sympathy, before showing me an 'incident report' that had arrived through his fax machine from Coney Beach lifeguard station.
