by Tom Anderson
On top of this, I had run a headcount of the line-up. We were sharing this nirvana with only ten other surfers. Half the waves were left unridden – to grind along without intervention from humankind. Seeing these waves as you hopped back along the rocks to paddle out again fed the imagination. It helped you marvel at where you might be, if that had been your next ride. It loosened the mind ready for when, liberated of any worry other than riding perfect waves, you next dropped in.
And that moment was never far away.
Animals in the wild may feed until they pass out, as they don't know when they may get the next chance. In that sense, it can be said they share something with surfers. Like I'd done in Thurso, and so many other places when you know you're riding waves that will thrill you for the rest of your life, you shut out thoughts of cold, of hunger, fatigue – anything that may stand in your way. This was one of those sessions where you'd keep going until either you, or the waves, ceased to function.
With toes that no longer belonged to my own nervous system, a lower back frozen to where it might as well have fused, lips blistering from the salt and ruthless sub-zero winds, a stomach hungry enough to begin digesting itself and shoulders ready to drop off, we kept surfing.
Three hours in, I'd begun weighing up what this session may mean. As we whiled away the winter morning, ignoring the need to stop surfing, I tried to hold on to the moment once again. I needed to guard it in my subconscious – a keepsake. This was what the last year had been building towards. The unadulterated joy of surfing at home. Mid-winter had done nothing to shake off that love. I'd come through in the end. My status as a fully-hooked British surfer had finally returned once and for all.
When the tide did finally release us all from the spell of the Welsh Pavones, it was left to the two we'd indirectly followed down here to sum it up.
First the Gill wandered over to Jean's van as the three of us tried to pack our stuff back up. With the wind still slashing its way down to us from across the rest of the freezing country, it was a labour to pause and talk to anyone. But this was the Gill, and he looked as if he had something meaningful to say.
'Nice wave you had earlier,' he nodded to Breige. 'I've, er, racked my brain, and I think that's the best wave I've ever seen a girl ride. Outside of Hawaii, of course.'
This was a conversation killer that nobody seemed to mind. It was all he had to say, beyond wishing us well, and we watched him stroll away.
Jean ran the van up past Guts, who was also loading his board up for the drive back to Swansea, and wound the window down to say bye.
'All right? Bet Porthcawl was all right today,' Guts quipped.
'Yeah.' I couldn't tell if he was joking. 'Wind wouldn't be any use, though.'
I tried to quiz him briefly about the spot. I wanted to know just how good we'd scored it and how often it broke. I already knew, deep down, that it was unlikely I'd surf this place again like this for years, if ever. Guts didn't need to say anything to put me off trying to come back with a crew from back home. It wasn't necessary to fabricate tales of how rarely this wave appeared, to try to convince me of its elusive, enigmatic status. The truth would be enough.
'What can I say?' he barked, opening his arms out to an emphatic shrug. 'You could come here a hundred times and never see it like that again. This is one of the luckiest days of your surfing life. Remember these waves well. Ride them over in your head. It won't happen again. Not for a long, long time anyway.'
A second, equally satisfying conversation killer.
The best bit about a session like the one we'd just had is that you can indeed do that. Not only is it easy to run the waves through in your mind, it's addictive. This session would be distracting me and drawing me to daydream through all kinds of situations in the future. The changes these waves had made to our moods would last days, weeks. In years to come I'd be able to lift my spirits by recalling some of the sets I'd caught at Pavones today.
'Let's swing into the town that can't be named, get a hot broth from the main hotel and then go home to die,' Jean suggested, as he flipped his indicator on and waited for a chance to pull out on to the main road again. It was all part of the routine: sliding back in to the main stream of traffic, falling in line – putting the enormity of where we'd just been that little further behind us.
There were no objections to his proposal. It would keep us that little bit closer to the experience for perhaps an hour longer. We were all cold to the core by now and would need the energy anyway for the ride home.
'I'll be more wrecked today than if we'd stayed out all night partying,' I gloated.
'Typical New Year's Day feeling then, eh?' said Breige.
'For me, normally, today would have been all about a hangover and nothing else,' Jean mused. 'But good to have a change this year…'
'Are we gonna tell anyone where we were then?' I asked.
'At some point. I'll have to. Can't keep a sesh like that a secret forever. Telling people's half the reason you go, innit.'
'But let's not say just yet,' I suggested. 'Keep it to ourselves for now. It'll be kind of cool to see the evening of New Year's Day in with the same drained, chill-out mood as everyone else. Except our heads'll be fried for reasons known only to us.'
'Deal,' said Jean. Breige laughed.
'So if anyone speaks to me tonight,' I confirmed. 'I'll just say I knackered myself at the cocktail party. You can be my alibis. I mean, you two were there anyway, weren't you?'
POSTSCRIPT
'Where were you yesterday afternoon, man? You missed it! Middle Bay was firing, and Ianto got pummelled by Black Betty. And I mean pummelled! He ended up climbing the bigger rock on the inside, man. Like a flippin' mountaineer – with his board hanging off the end of his leash. It was like Flea done that time at Mavericks in all the mags – remember?'
I was back at the Welsh Nationals. And it was day two. I'd had to do a double-take myself, but it had happened. Day two. I had finally advanced through some heats.
The best bit though, was that it had happened in a new category: the seniors. It may sound a bit overly honourable a name for a category that simply required you to be twenty-eight or more on 1 January, but I was proud enough. I was on for a piece of silverware at last. As well as at least three weeks out of the water once this was done. I had ibuprofen to thank as much as anything for my progress.
Maybe it was the impact of entering something called 'seniors', but whatever the category lacked in rusty limbs and decrepit journeymen had been more than made up for by my antics. After getting dunked out of the Open as usual, I hadn't held out much hope for my first foray into this new world of the more elderly surfer, especially when I drew the same guy I'd just lost to in the main event.
But this time, stoked just to be here, a much more content me had headed down to the water's edge looking forward to a heat in fun, low-tide peaks. On the way another surfer in my heat, Greg Owen – who lived about a hundred yards from me in Porthcawl – was telling me how one of our friends had gotten into a spot of bother with Black Betty during yesterday afternoon's proceedings. I'd missed it, having gone for a surf myself. As I said, I was here for the crack now. Competing was just a secondary consequence. My outlook had become irrepressibly positive.
Until I'd jumped over the shore break two minutes later, and noticed a popping feeling behind one of my lower ribs. Immediately my right shoulder seized up and I winced with pain. I'd done my back in before the heat had even begun.
Still believing it might paddle off, I floundered my way into the line-up, moaning the whole time. Greg later said he thought it was a mind trick. (As if I'd care for that nonsense these days.)
I could see why he thought it, though. With five minutes left, and not having caught anything of use, I decided to call it a day – and paddled for the first wave that would take me to shore. An innocuous left-hander trickled through and I stood up; only to find myself pain-free and looking at a beautifully lined-up wall. Seven turns later I realised I'
d fluked my way, via injury, into a big score. The pain returned as soon as I tried to paddle but, even so, this time I wasn't going to make my favourite mistake. Gasping for breath, and minimising shoulder movement, I struggled another twenty yards back out to sea and stood up on a small right-hander, which reformed in to the shore break and allowed me to do two small manoeuvres. When I limped back to the car it was to the news I'd sneaked through to the next round.
An hour of immense fuss followed as a volunteer physio from Christian Surfers (who were helping run the event out of the kindness of their hearts) checked me out.
'Nothing serious,' he confirmed. 'It's probably just a popped rib. Wrap up now and go home if you want to surf again in a few days. Otherwise take loads of painkillers, keep it cold, and you'll make it through the event – just. The time out'll be longer, mind – more like a couple of weeks – but it's your decision.'
I looked at the heat draw, at my name in fresh ink in one of the next round's heats, and opted for a bit of mind over matter.
Twenty-four hours, several boxes of pills and a few heats later I was in the final.
Although this was an achievement to toast for sure, there were still a few comfortingly self-depreciating statistics looming over me to place it into context. The last final I'd made at the Welsh was exactly a decade before, and also in an age-restricted sub-division. As an eighteen-year-old I'd made the final of the juniors, before having to fend for myself against the real grown-ups in the Open for years to come. That had been the point from which I'd embarked on my wonderful losing streak. But now this losing streak, which I had almost grown affection for, had ended with my eligibility at long last for one of the age-biased categories.
'Welcome to the gentlemen's event,' another competitor had said, smiling warmly. 'You're old enough now. None of those aggro kids – just us wise old guys, chilling and surfing together, with a couple of trophies up for grabs as an afterthought.'
He wasn't exaggerating either. As I tried to ignore the pain in my back for one more heat, I was aware that the emphasis was no longer anywhere near trying to prove your prowess. This was about like-minded surfers, who wanted a reason to drive out west one weekend, getting together for a bit of a surf-off. Coming out of heats, your opponent would say things like 'That was fun, eh?', rather than frowning and running off to get warm for the next round.
The best bit about all of this was how obvious the lessons of the past year had suddenly become. This, I realised, was no different to any of the other jaunts I'd embarked upon in the past twelve months. I'd suddenly seen this hallowed event for exactly what it was: a surf trip. Nothing more; nothing less. And one that drew a community of kindred spirits together. It was an excuse. A catalyst. A rendezvous.
My problem had been a complete failure to recognise that. I'd been going to the Welsh with nothing to give back. Ashamed of any attempts to celebrate surfing in a corner of the world I'd come to see as a non-starter of a surf destination, it was no wonder I'd been reaping what I'd sown. I shuddered to think why on earth I'd thought I was coming down here if it wasn't for the satisfaction of wanderlust, or to catch up with friends who pursued the same road to who-knows-where. For a dreaded moment it crossed my mind that it could have even been vanity, insecurity, a desire to prove myself. But then I realised that I'd never really known my reason for coming here. Maybe I hadn't even had one. At least I'd been true to myself in that much. That was fine, I thought. I'd gotten a bit lost. That was all. Nothing wrong with that.
And anyway, if that hadn't happened, there'd never have been a journey. It was healthy to get lost once in a while.
Strapping my leash on to paddle into the clear waters of Pembroke's most famous beach, I thought about my game plan. It was simple enough. Even through the ibuprofen, my slightly wiser backbone was telling me this was the last go-out for a little while. There would be time to sit back, recuperate and reflect. But for now, that could wait. There were waves to ride and the me of today was going to enjoy them on behalf of the me that would exist in the next few weeks. I knew I'd be thanking myself for it.
I smirked, wondering what the me of last year would make of this. Tough shit. He had no say any more. He really hadn't had a clue. But it was OK. The me of right now was willing to smile about it. I forgave myself – as long as the promise was made never to fall into that trap again.
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