"For as long as I can remember I wanted to be a surfer. But at some point it became a noose around my neck."

It’s funny what we hold onto. We assign value to things we keep in dusty boxes under desks, in lofts and garages.

I have boxes, Important Things, surely, that have been through multiple house moves unopened. At each new place, at the turn of each new chapter, I usher them to a safe corner, tucking them away like rare bird’s eggs. They rest in the recesses of my mind, in great nests of broken branches and feathers and mud, but in my heart I know they are hollowed out.

One day I think I’ll sit down and go through the boxes, and I will laugh or cry, examining the tiny fragments that symbolise who or what I once was.

But I won’t.

The boxes are cradled, unopened, from one safe space to another, and as the years pass, and who I was becomes ever more distant, and ever more alien, the contents become ever more useless. They hold shards of a person I don’t want to know.

What Chas Smith said recently rang true for me, too. Surfing used to be a world of rebels and bandits. It was something that felt edgy and different. It was a place to run to. In some parts of the world I’m sure this hasn’t been the case for decades. But in Scotland, as recently as the nineties, surfers were still rare. Surfing was an outpost. Those chasing it were outlaws. It was a clear path for a young man looking for a tribe.

For as long as I can remember I wanted to be a surfer. I’ve cherished the idea of being “a surfer” sometimes more than the act itself. It has been my identity. But at some point it became a noose around my neck.

What Chas Smith said recently rang true for me, too. Surfing used to be a world of rebels and bandits. It was something that felt edgy and different. It was a place to run to. In some parts of the world I’m sure this hasn’t been the case for decades. But in Scotland, as recently as the nineties, surfers were still rare. Surfing was an outpost. Those chasing it were outlaws. It was a clear path for a young man looking for a tribe.

But this is gone.

There are still places where you can find empty surf, but that statement feels like a vile cliche to write, nevermind to have as a goal.

I’m not sure when it changed or exactly what did. Geography changed, work changed, family changed.

In the end, I think I just grew up.

Why have anxiety about VALs, or what the WSL are doing, or crowds, or forecasts, or the Olympics, or what wavepools might mean for the future of surf?

Why not just give it up?

Why not just stop pretending that it’s any more important than kicking a ball around the park, or swinging a club round 18 holes once in a while?

It’s not a fucking lifestyle. That’s what the teenage me with the straggly hair and the lump of dirty hash in his pocket and the shit sketches of waves on his jotters would say.

Move on, you dumb cunt, the adult me says.

To chase surf is not a good use of my time. Constantly checking forecasts before I commit to things, then not committing anyway in case the forecast changes was a burden. Driving for hours for mediocre surf instead of spending time with my kids was untenable. Surfing, at times, felt like a penance. Without it, I’m free to do things without feeling the great weight of unfulfillment pressing me down.

Surfing is not for me anymore. Not really. I get my kicks elsewhere. I’m lucky enough to live surrounded by mountains and gorges and rivers and forests and lochs. A land compressed and released from the grip of billions of tonnes of ice. I found myself wondering why I was regularly ignoring the beautiful, unflinching wilderness in front of my face in pursuit of waves that always seemed to let me down.

I stopped gambling, too. Like all addictions it was something I ran to when I was pissed off. Not surfing used to piss me off. Shit forecasts, shit sessions, and all the aching time in between always sent me back to the bookies. I hadn’t placed a bet in months til Teahupoo. Hadn’t watched a comp either. Lost a fortune there. Shouldn’t have bothered.

Surfing is not for me anymore. Not really. I get my kicks elsewhere. I’m lucky enough to live surrounded by mountains and gorges and rivers and forests and lochs. A land compressed and released from the grip of billions of tonnes of ice. I found myself wondering why I was regularly ignoring the beautiful, unflinching wilderness in front of my face in pursuit of waves that always seemed to let me down.

The land here is still wild. I can run from my front door and be completely alone amongst trees and rock and tumbling water within 20 minutes. In 40 I stop seeing signs of civilisation altogether. And beyond this I can be at the mercy of weather, or a slip away from death. People die in the hills here with regularity. It feels like you’re doing something consequential.

It’s much harder to find this sort of exposure in surfing. I could dedicate my life to giant surf or death slabs, but that’s hardly realistic, or sustainable. Surfing, for the most part, is too soft. We made it too easy. Wetsuits, surf schools, wavepools, foamies and funboards. It’s a massive, multicoloured foaming shitfight. It’s more like a pre-teen birthday party at McDonalds than a stimulating outdoor experience.

And running. Fuck me. Have you ever ran? Like, just ran, with no care for where you are going or why?

Man, it’s exhilarating. I have genuine moments of euphoria. No word of a lie, it can be like you’re coming up on a pill. And you need nothing to tap into it. You rely on nothing.

But it’s the shedding of ego that I’ve most appreciated. Like an old, useless skin has finally flaked away. Running for me is a solitary thing, there’s no ego, no excuses. I don’t need to obsess over style, there’s no-one around to impress. There’s no equipment to use as a scapegoat. It’s just simple. And I can do it anytime.

So, to all intents and purposes I’m done with surf.

I mean, I went last weekend, but that was primarily to spend time with someone I’m writing about. It was good. I can enjoy it again without feeling like it has to be something more. For my second surf I grabbed a foamie I bought for the kids. I’d never tried one before. There was a little left hand wedge, waist to chest high at best. The sun was out, and with it a crowd. There were a few guys on shortboards, but they were stretching. I paddled for everything, consciously ignoring everything I’ve learned. I caught a ton of waves, backpaddled, caught waves from way outside, ignored all the glares.

And you know what? I fucking enjoyed it. Surfing isn’t serious for me anymore. I don’t care who thinks I’m a kook. If you can’t beat them, join them.

It was the first time I’d been in four months. Maybe five? Who cares. Easter it was. A

few days of great surf on an idyllic isle. The memories smoulder gently in the back of my mind, suspended, as if in amniotic fluid. They are free of burden.

Quitting surfing?

I feel like I have, at least in some way. And I probably should have done it a long time ago. I’ll still surf when I can, I just won’t feel like I need to. You should try it. If you let it go I promise you’ll feel better.

As for those boxes, I’m never going to open them.

I’ll just burn them. Probably.