Searching For Sheltered Spots
Our sheltered spots are found at the ends of pot-hole ridden, flooded farm tracks. Apologising to our poor vans, we convoy to lay-bys overlooking the Atlantic. We change into our suits before making the mission down muddy footpaths, overlooked only by constant Collies and uninterested sheep. Slipping and sliding, a selection of boards under arms and flasks of tea safely stowed in dry bags. We wind through rural landscape, hats pulled low against harsh easterly winds. Standing upon the shoulders of towering cliffs we drink in the peeling a-frames that roll relentlessly and silently into the bay below us. Sections for single fins, twinnies and thrusters alike, and hardly a soul around. The cold is so still, our breath clouds above us as we quietly stash our bags and beanies atop the uneven steps carved out of the rock. We paddle out in unison, hands clawing through calm waters. We sit peacefully, we exchange stories and catch up. We swap boards as the tide drops. The line up empties. We are left alone to take in the dreamscape that is an empty ocean and calm cliffs.
Our sheltered spots are found at the end of long drives on Friday nights. After the hours have limped by at work and the excitement has set in. Van loaded with supplies for a weekend away; coffee, dog food, wetsuits, damp towels, a change of socks. The road becomes unfamiliar as we head north. Mossy trees bear down upon us from all sides, down the rabbit hole with only headlights for illumination. Wrong turns and missed junctions later we finally pull up at the end of a harbour wall, we can hear the point breaking directly below us, but the only lights come from the string of ships on the horizon. Our surf the next day couldn’t be wilder. The point is pumping through, 5 to 6 foot of offshore, barreling walls steaming down the line. There’s a fair few people in but everyone is rallying together. The sky is in turmoil. Grey one second, bright sunshine breaking through the next. Purple veins creep over the horizon, warning us of the storm that is about to unleash hell upon us. Glassy walls are shattered by a sudden gale force, ripping through the line up and bringing with it torrential, neoprene penetrating rain. It pours down with such force that we have no hope but to shelter using our boards, hands, under the surface. Eyes are screwed shut and screams of exhilaration fill the air. Sets clean everyone up and we all make a dash for the safety of the harbour. The wind rips down the valley and the sketchy exit point is made all the more dangerous by the seaweed that covers the rocks. Boards are snatched from grasps, footings lost and shouts and pained laughter can be heard over the howling elements as we fall like dominoes.
Our sheltered spots are found at the far end of popular breaks, hidden behind harbour walls in busy seaside towns, in the stolen hours at dawn, before we start work, on Christmas Eve when we are overdue at family dinners. From dangerous driving in February to catch the last of the light after a 9 ’til 5, desperately trying to dry your suit that you just found forgotten in the boot of the car, to long and leisurely missions down south followed by coastal walks and pub lunches and pints.
Our sheltered spots are fuelled by coffees handed to us by eager housemates. The smell and sound as it bubbles over. Fed by hot water bottles to pour down your suit, trackies and dog towels. Rallied through communal checking of the charts before we fall asleep and waking to the sound of the record player. Other days we wake to the dog scratching at the van door, pining to wander the sea walls, chase gulls, lick the pan from last nights camp stove dinner. The sound of pouring rain keeping us dozing, a gentle lullaby that lets us know we can stay in bed a little longer.
Our sheltered spots are book ended with roasts and red wine in front of the fire, in the pub on a Sunday, drying out mittens and jackets. They are brought to a sleepy close as we climb into the back of the van, towels forgotten earlier on the blankets, pulling each other close, teeth chattering, cold toes, condensation from sodden wetsuits and laughing breath pooling on the uninsulated roof. Weekends that end with flat batteries on Sunday evenings, a sign that it wasn’t quite home time yet.
Image by Clare James Photography.