Grey Skies, Green Waves

by Tom Anderson

  'I'm gonna show you a 'no swell' spot called Nuggets today,' he explained once we arrived within earshot, before climbing back in to his van and setting off again.

  This unexpected bit of off-roading brought us right up to the coastline and the breathtaking realisation that we were the only evidence of civilisation for miles. No roads, no buildings, no jet trails in the clear sky – no ships on the sunlit horizon. A piece of headland eventually halted our progress, leaving us overlooking a bay of light-blue water with no apparent surf. I'd decided Dakker was mad long ago, but decided to trust his decision to wait for low tide and the appearance of a 'fast, spitting sandbar that'll break yer boards'.

  While we waited, trying to enjoy the rarity of what was now a warm day in one of the northernmost isles in the UK, an inquisitive generation of rabbits began hopping towards us. Dakker started making noises about killing a few for our evening meal but managed to read the looks on our faces well enough to realise it wasn't our idea of a fun pastime while waiting for the waves.

  A few sets had started to feather off the rock face to our north, so Luke and Jason decided to paddle out.

  Within the hour the rest of us, including Dakker, had raced to join them. The sandbar appeared within one quick surge of tide, to reveal a set-up of head-high, barrelling right-handers.

  'This is the Scottish Superbank,' Dakker quipped. I could see the irony in this comparison – the real Superbank, in Queensland, Australia, was a scrappy, sub-tropical, 200-surfer free-for-all. We had the place to ourselves.

  The water may have been fifteen degrees colder than the namesake but, as far as the wave went, Dakker's comparison wasn't that far off. As the turquoise sets spun down the line, they kept scouring up little patches of gold sand from the bottom. Although still tubing like mad in places, this was a much more high-performance wave than Up the Duff, and everyone was stoked with the opportunity to loosen up. Triton and Jason were smacking every section they could find, smoothly cracking their boards through the thin, clear-water lip, showering the rest of us with sunlit spray.

  Meanwhile, Math and Luke set themselves further down the line, pulling into the racy end-section on their backhand – enjoying the benefits of the soft sandy bottom and gentle wipeouts.

  Dakker and his mates had dubbed this place 'Nuggets' partly because of the golden, medallion-like swirls in the wave faces, but also because fools gold could be found on the beach a couple of times a year.

  'The right swells bring these little shingles of rocks in,' he explained, 'and some of them look like gold.'

  'I like the sound of that,' replied Luke. 'Can we call this spot something else as well though? How does the "Goldie Lookin' Sandbar" sound to you?'

  'Dunno, man. Ye boys already named "Up the Duff" for me. I'll think about it.'

  Nuggets, the Goldie Lookin' Sandbar, whatever it ended up being known as, worked for hours that afternoon – right through low tide and halfway towards mid – leaving us all approaching the point of being completely surfed out. Best of all, the only witnesses to it all were the rabbits and a family of goats that had grazed their way over to inspect this unusual interruption to their daily routine.

  We only had one day left on the island after this, although the general consensus was that we could have gladly gone home then and there. Cold water and hours of steaming surf had taken a heavy toll on our bodies.

  'I hope the swell goes tomorrow,' Triton groaned, as we packed our stuff away for the drive back to Stornoway and our bunk beds, which in our state of fatigue seemed impossibly far off in the future.

  'Better get on your knees and pray then, soft cocks,' laughed Dakker. 'It's already flat everywhere else, so it can only pick up again.'

  That night he showed us more footage of the winter swells. Ten foot, twelve foot, bigger – and each time the locals were still on it. We even saw footage of a deadly suckout breaking at fifteen-foot plus. Behind the trembling camcorder you could hear Dakker crying out to himself in awe, as he watched waves that would test the resolve of even the world's greatest surfers. You could hardly blame him for not wanting to attempt such high-stakes conditions alone – even though he claimed to have been tempted a few times.

  'Pros have been out there for a look,' Dakker said, 'but none of them have taken off. Not yet, anyway. When they reached the line-up all they did was turn back.'

  The swell did drop the following day after all – giving us a chance to take a walk around Stornoway before packing up the Widow Maker for the return journey. Dakker's pledge that it could only get bigger again may well have been right, but that wasn't going to happen in time to worry us.

  Yesterday's generous weather had retreated, meaning it was business as usual with grey skies and the occasional shower blown in from the sea. The town centre was positively bustling for somewhere so remote, with a host of souvenir shops if you felt like buying something silly and Hebridean to take home. Pubs were preparing for a day's trade, as well as the cafes, while the bleating of seagulls reminded us that a harbour was just the other side of the main strip.

  For the main post of civilisation on Lewis, it was still a tiny town – you could map it in your mind after one quick walk. An hour later it was reducing even more in size from the balcony of the return ferry, before finally dropping from view, soon to be replaced by Ullapool and the mainland. I felt a pang of parting sorrow. Something of your soul gets inextricably linked to the Outer Scottish Isles, taking a hold on you, and I knew I'd long for Stornoway again soon.

  As the thick, glacial hills and cacophonous place names finally gave way to the banks of Loch Ness on our journey back to Edinburgh, I began to reflect on what had been waiting for me in the Outer Hebrides – genuine world-class surf, without even breaking out our passports. The chance to see and surf bits of coastline so secluded that human tracks were nowhere to be seen. And the thrill of the road and that sense of quest that had become an essential part of my take on the surfing lifestyle. All of this, yet again, had been available in the UK. The idea of that being possible had seemed pretty alien to me in the spring – but now, I realised, I was well on my way to re-shaping the way I saw home and its opportunities.

  With the relentless fuss of Edinburgh life around us once again, Triton searched for the rental car drop-off spot, while Jason phoned home to tell his folks about the trip – only to learn that a twelve-foot swell had just hit West Oz.

  'Do you care?' I asked him.

  'About what?'

  'Missing it – the swell.'

  He didn't even think before responding. 'Not even! This place is sick. I'm coming back next year…' So, I thought, am I.

  CHAPTER 12

  IRELAND: WAITING FOR WHOKNOWSWHAT...

  'I can see why they call this the bloody Emerald Isle. Greenest place on earth – it's just that people overlook the reason for all that green. This place rains more than anywhere I've ever been. It's official!'

  I was rambling, nearing the point at which I could take no more. Five days in Ireland – and I'd spent most of my time in a stuffy car staring at the wipers as they pushed away a constant layer of rain. Of course, this would all have been worthwhile if it had been for the sake of pumping surf, but so far I'd seen nothing but a load of onshore mush and none of it rideable. So far the catchphrase of the trip had become Mrs Doyle's legendary offer of 'Tea, fathers?' – just about summing up the sense of cabin fever that comes with being penned in by such relentless torrents.

  The Outer Hebrides could have been like this for me, I know, but they weren't, and would forever be seen as idyllic in my mind. But Ireland, so far, had some catching-up to do.

  Behind the wheel was Rhydian, a friend from back home, who had recently begun developing some Irish connections. He was here visiting the family of his girlfriend, Fiona, who was from County Claire. He'd done well for himself – County Claire was home to some of the best surf in Europe. However, today it was nowhere in sight.

  This afternoon, after driving up and down the coast arou
nd Lahinch, one of Ireland's premier surf towns, we'd grown fed up with increasingly futile attempts to find somewhere to surf, and had jumped on a boat to the Arran Islands. Rhyd claimed it was because the place was one of Ireland's most remote pieces of land, and that the beauty of the islands would rival even those of outer Scotland. I knew, though, that the real reason to go there was that Inis Oírr was the setting of the fictional 'Craggy Island' from Father Ted.

  'Tea, fathers?'

  Now on our way back by boat after walking along rows of dry-stone walls, none of which served as any refuge from the buffeting sea breezes, I was watching the wreck of the Plassey go past us to the right. This was the rusted, skeletal ship visible from the sky at the start of the TV show's opening credits and I was staring at its corroding hull in hope. To Rhyd it was just another of the important sights for a Father Ted fan, but for me it was a reminder that these seas, at the moment obstinately devoid of any swell above a light bit of wind-chop, could produce serious waves from time to time. It had been wrecked nearly fifty years ago, but since that time the surf had given it such a hammering that the Plassey now sat well above the high-tide mark. So far our own boat-ride had been much more straightforward.

  Even today, with nothing registering on the swell charts, you could feel that this ocean was capable of coming to life with little warning. We bore east, towards the small harbour at Doolin in which Rhyd had left the car. There was no sign of land in either direction until another rolling wall of mist broke to reveal a series of dark shapes, looming on the horizon.

  'That's the Cliffs of Moher, man,' Rhyd whispered through a single, drawn-out breath, as if the landmark might hear us from over a mile away. 'Biggest waves ever ridden in Europe, probably – right there, in front of the spike.'

  He pointed through the grey, salt-scented afternoon, at a stack of rock that sat just off one of the 400-foot cliff faces. Thin pillars of mist and sea vapour hung between them, steadily rising up, suspended against the wind.

  In recent years a bunch of local surfers, along with a few international visitors, had begun pioneering a wave that broke just off the foot of these cliffs. Known as 'Aileen's', it was a peak that only began to show once the swell was already way beyond anything most people would dare ride. Photos had begun to shake the surfing world of riders at the bottom of waves that looked akin to anything that had yet been discovered in the Pacific Ocean – which until recently was believed to be the world's hub for big-wave surfing.

  The kamikaze act practiced at places like Aileen's was nowhere near what surfers like me did on a daily basis. Aileen's at its most furious would pull waves through its line-up at such speeds that it was almost impossible to catch them – which was why the surfers there would often use jet skis to whip each other in to the peak early. This meant you could get ahead of the avalanche of water that chased any surfer brave (or stupid) enough to catch a wave here. That avalanche of water was not something to naïvely joust with either; it was easy to get slammed straight into the mighty Cliffs of Moher, which in the dead of winter, with thirty feet of swell running, could easily mean you'd ridden your last ever wave.

  One of the first surfers of Aileen's was none other than Al Mennie, one of my co-victims at that ridiculous West Wales surf comp. In the years since he had left contest surfing behind and focused his act on chasing some of the nastiest surf spots on the planet – having even made the shortlist for the prestigious Billabong-sponsored XXL Global Big Wave Awards. He'd become one of the first European surfers to really make it on the world scene, showing up at some of the most famous big-wave destinations on the planet, such as Waimea Bay in Hawaii, the northern Californian horror show known as Mavericks and the open-ocean peaks of Mexico's Todos Santos.

  Rather him than me, I thought, as our boat swung towards the north to Doolin and yet more dormant surf spots.

  Again there was little to suggest to the untrained eye that even this small alcove, protected by an uninhabited island in which the boat was docking, could be home to two more of Ireland's most beautiful waves. One was on the island itself: a ledging peak, known to be sinister and board-breaking, dubbed 'Crab Island'. Then just to the south of that slab of rock, and visible from the quay, was a right-hand point. Today both were home only to a few inches of swell, but the latter was often mistaken for Thurso in photographs. Both awed and frustrated by the potential of what was around, I trudged towards the car. It was all well and good to get up close and personal with the ocean (and a boat-ride like the one we'd just taken always ensures that), but to me it would be worthless if I didn't get to ride a few waves soon.

  Rhyd wasn't feeling the same pressure as me. He came here all the time and had surfed just about everywhere in County Claire, as well as across the Dingle Peninsula to the south. But my stay was limited to just this week – by a famous, tight-fisted Irishman, as it happened. I was here after spotting a one-pound Ryanair flight from Bristol to Shannon, the 'home airport' of Michael O'Leary's infamous airline. Rhyd had picked me up, having driven his own car over, and had already delayed his ferry back to try and score a few waves with me. And since my £2.60 return flight was in three days' time, we needed to get busy.

  Winding our way in Rhyd's car through more saturated greenery, back towards Ennis and the heart of County Claire, Rhyd still had other ideas.

  'If we head off towards Corofin, we can go look at Father Ted's actual house!' he explained, animatedly. 'That part of the set is on the mainland, miles from the sea. It's in Kilnaboy. Good name for a village, eh! Once in a lifetime opportunity this, mate.'

  I stared out the window yet again at Lahinch, a beach town in total hibernation – surf schools, shops and hostels were all closed while the wind blew sand, mist, rain and foam in off the brown ocean. There wasn't much else on offer, and if there was one perk to this mini-obsession we were developing for the classic Channel 4 comedy, it was that it did kind of make the most of the dreary conditions.

  'This is why they chose County Claire to film the show,' Rhyd explained. 'It's the wettest, greyest, greenest part of Ireland!'

  'I already told you that a few hours ago,' I muttered.

  When dawn broke the following day, that same wet weather had led to yet another of Rhyd's once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. We ought, he explained, to offer to carry out a quick 'favour' for our hosts before going in search of surf for the day.

  Fiona's dad, Pat, needed a hand moving something. Forty cows.

  'It'd be a real help to him if you could lend a hand,' Fiona explained, as we finished a coffee in the kitchen of her parents' farmhouse in the tiny village of Moyhill. The River Shannon, just behind Moyhill, was getting a bit feisty and Pat's cows needed herding before there was a chance of flooding.

  I was offered a rod, with which to hit the animals apparently, and a pair of wellies. That was all you needed, it seemed, to be plunged headlong into the world of free-range farming in these parts. Ten minutes later we were running across a crater-filled field with confused cattle spreading in every direction.

  Pat had tried to explain to us the principle of cow-herding, with the help of a sheepdog who seemed to know even more about it than him. But it wasn't much use. A big part of my inability lay in my unwillingness to hit any of the cows – even though Pat kept reassuring me that they couldn't feel much. He was probably right but that didn't make whacking a living creature any easier.

  Two hours later, we'd moved just twelve of them.

  You may think that at this point I'd have felt frustrated – yet again surfing seemed a very far-off prospect. But it didn't bother me at all. The break was welcome. As much as is possible when chasing cows around a field on the banks of the River Shannon, I was having some sort of epiphany. Surfing was speaking to me again.

  What other reasons, I wondered, could someone possibly have for getting into this situation? Nothing else in my life had my attention to such an extent that it could lead me out to run cattle in the rain-saturated, agricultural fields of western Ireland. Who
needed the backpacker trails of Asia or Latin America, or the open roads of the USA and Australia? This was travel – of a more wild and far-flung nature than a lot of transcontinental trips could offer anyway.

  When we got back to the house after walking through the village of Bunratty to grab lunch – that was where we'd left the last five cows – Rhyd checked the swell charts again. There was still nothing, although finally a slight change was on the cards for tomorrow:

  'Wave period shoots right up over night,' he pointed out, tapping the screen of Pat's monitor, while Fiona and the rest of the family looked on with no idea what he was saying. 'So that could be the day. Still gonna be windy, but look how craggy this coastline is.'

  'Craggy Island!' I interrupted, and Fiona's mum, Sue, chuckled. The whole family knew Rhyd and I couldn't get Father Ted out of our minds.

  Rhyd gestured to the outline of County Claire on the left of the screen: 'That's what makes it so good for waves. We'll find somewhere with a good wind direction whatever happens. It's gonna rain again, but who cares?'