Why pursue something with such fervour if it
doesn’t consistently bring you joy?
All my life I’ve clung onto things: dreams and ideals;
too small leather jackets imbued with memories of flashing lights
and freedom; Clipper lighters; knackered (definitely not clean)
Vans; obscure cables; a misplaced sense of
self-importance; dog eared adolescent poetry…
But it’s worthless, really. All of it.
Nothing matters except what you’re doing right now.
And so you must cut things loose, the relics and the
wraiths.
Some things should be allowed to drift away. You must slip the
noose from the cleat and turn your back. Keep moving, don’t turn
around. You’ll feel better for it.
This past weekend I put a bullet in another surf dream, and in
some ways I couldn’t be happier about it.
It’s like shedding a skin, piece by piece.
This time last week I could never have predicted the end. I
wasn’t even thinking about surfing. Then a friend alerted me to a
rare swell. After I’d seen it I couldn’t think about anything
else.
There were a million places I could go. A host of safe bets. But
for my money, there’s only one approach to a rare swell:
gamble.
I’m in the west of Scotland, towards the north. If it wasn’t for
swell shadows created by islands (and the predominant SW winds) it
would be pumping here all the time. But it isn’t, and so I drive
north and east or get ferries to islands when I can.
My dreams are likely much the same as yours. They’re dreams of
waves in unlikely places. Waves that might, might break once every
few years, maybe a decade, perhaps a lifetime. Or never. But I keep
a list of spots in my head. A blueprint of potential burned into my
mind, just waiting for the right swell.
Then it arrives: 20ft, 18-20s, the ideal angle, and light SE
winds through daylight.
It seemed like impossible perfection. I might have waited 10
years or more for it. There have been others, but few so ideal, and
none I remember without accompanying onshore winds of 40mph+.
If any swell was going to work, it was this one.
When I moved here it was with the understanding that it would be
a stopover. I’d sworn that when I finally Settled Down it would be
somewhere that made surfing a fulcrum for all else. As I write that
now I realise how pedestrian it seems, nevermind dull and
embarrassingly naive.
At any rate, it didn’t happen. I arrived, got job, met girl,
bought house, had kids, never left.
More pedestrianism, it seems. Except it’s not, because I feel
more actualised now than at any point in my life, just not in ways
I could have predicted, and nothing to do with surfing.
I surf here, of course. It involves a lot of travel, a lot of
uncertainty, a lot of disappointment, some difficult decisions, and
unquestionably a lot of good days missed. I don’t feel connected to
it in a meaningful or consistent way.
When I first moved I was surfing a lot. Raging against the dying
of the light, maybe. But it was untenable, and ultimately
unrewarding. Often I’d come back angry, frustrated, and that would
seep into other aspects of my life. I started to question if it was
worth it.
Why pursue something with such fervour if it doesn’t
consistently bring you joy? Life’s too short, and there are a shit
load of other good things in it.
It can be hard to shake off a bad surf. Not so much when you can
get back in tomorrow, or a few hours later. But imagine you’ve
spent a whole week planning and agonising over it, and you still
need to drive for hours after failing in what you set out to do.
Try shaking off the feeling of inadequacy and failure then.
It became a value judgement for me. It’s not that I don’t think
surfing is glorious, of course I do, I just need more control in my
life, more certainty. Obsessions keep me going. But if they cause
more stress than pleasure they should be cut loose. I’ve never been
short of other things to do.
It’s not about hating surfing, it’s about self-preservation.
It’s about evolution. It’s about growing up. Surfing’s not my
identity anymore, it’s just another thing I do.
But of course I still get excited about surf potential, maybe
even more than ever, and I can’t remember the last time I was as
hyped as last weekend. The van was loaded the night before, maps
and forecasts were checked then re-checked. Every conversation at
work and home happened somewhere in the periphery of my
consciousness. I was already gone.
I had to go alone, but that was fine. Some friends were off
chasing sure things closer to their own homes, others were
committed elsewhere. It would be remote, there would be no-one else
in the water, and perhaps just a few scattered croft houses in the
vicinity. But again, all fine. I left instructions to call the
coastguard if I hadn’t contacted home by 1800. It would be dark a
couple of hours by then. If I was in trouble, I understood that
would probably be too late anyway.
It’s a flaw in my nature to always take a swing, and I
understood again this weekend the elements of surfing that hooked
me so deep in the first place. I still wanted to chase the unknown.
The potential for moments of chance could still have me rapt.
Years ago, in south-west France, living a sandy life of warm
baguettes and warmer wine, I lamented the cold of home to a ding
repair guy as he worked on a damaged fin box. He listened politely
as he worked, nodding sagely. A more enlightened self would have
cleared out and just given the man space, understanding that
surfers don’t really want to talk about surfing, but I was young
and smitten.
At some point, as I was expressing my joie de vivre for France
vs Scotland, he paused, then looked up at me, spreading arms and
eyes wide.
“But”, he said, incredulously, “you are lucky! This is only
beachbreak. You have reefs, points, everything…”
He was right, and I’ve never forgotten that.
It was a lesson not just about surfing, but about place and
context. Make the best of what you have, see what’s in front of
your face.
And so this weekend I drove west with a head full of dreams,
feeling, knowing it would be better than ever.
I won’t bore you with the details.
It didn’t work out, like almost always.
I saw ripples in places I’d expected more. I watched huge waves
break on offshore reefs and thought of boats. The swell wasn’t
getting through. I caught a few mediocre ones at a reef I’d surfed
long ago but didn’t remember being so shallow. I was dumped onto
dry rock twice before calling it a day. I argued at length with a
farmer about parking on his land. Aggression surfaced that was
nothing to do with him and everything to do with my own
frustrations. It reminded me of why I’d quit this shit. It was
nothing like I’d hoped.
But there was good in it, too. There was an unequivocal outcome
that I can’t ignore: I now know that several of the spots I’d been
clinging to are worthless. There was nothing wrong with the swell
this time. And so now I can finally forget them, move on.
I can slip the noose and let those dreams drift.
Piece by piece it falls away, and perhaps I am no poorer for
it.
