Grey Skies, Green Waves

by Tom Anderson

  Elliot pulled all of this off with panache and an apparent absence of any effort. Surfers often talk about the idea of 'grace under pressure', and this was exactly what we were treated to from the moment he paddled out at Porth Ceriad. On a heavy board that under the feet of most would have done entirely its own thing, he glided his way through tight sections and late drops, deftly making slight yet precise adjustments to his feet and body position.

  I'd paddle over wave after wave, seeing the shoulder bend in, horseshoe-shaped – and each time Elliot would manage to get in and out of the lip as quickly as most shortboarders. I'd see him, Dan, Nia or one of the other four surfers in the water drop in and angle across the steep faces, until a shower of wind spray lifted off the breaking lip, blinding me, masking whatever else was going on.

  The intense nature of the ride here at Porth Ceriad made it a very private experience. We'd sit in the line-up waiting, talking to each other – sharing the session – until a wave came along. From there a few yards of paddling would be all it took to drop a world away from the serenity of the line-up and into a grinding peak.

  With the waves bending in towards you immediately from take-off, predicting the movement of the lip was very hard; although Elliot seemed able to do it by using that sixth sense that some surfers are gifted with.

  After slipping down a solid wave myself and scraping to hold on, I found myself careering towards an oncoming section. The power under my feet was a rare sensation – that bliss of feeling the perfect line on a wave that is stacking up exactly as you want it to. Blessed for a moment with the exact sense of what to do, I jumped down from a floater to land metres from the shore, kicking out just in time to avoid running aground. Behind me a lull between waves had temporarily calmed the sea. I paddled back out, energised by the feeling I'd just had – the wind in my hair as I raced across the wave, the responding board under my feet, water drawing up the wave face, transferring its power through my body. Around me was the light crackling of white foam left by the wave I'd ridden, as a gentle backwash helped carry me back towards where the others were floating, each completely absorbed with the swell North Wales had given us.

  'How was that one, Anderson?' Elliot asked. 'Some sick ones out here, eh? Should have seen Harris on that last one, too. This is what it's about.'

  'So you wouldn't rather be abroad somewhere?' I asked him.

  'Why? This is pumping.'

  Dan nodded in agreement.

  Already, just one trip in, I was getting more from British surfing than I remembered being possible. This was close to the eagerness I'd felt when first catching the bug as a teenager.

  Conversation halted, as we drifted around the line-up. The sea was resetting itself, preparing for another series of thumping waves.

  I knew that this evening, as night fell, I would be driving home with that feeling of a warm, sun- and wind beaten face, the salty skin and aching shoulders: all the welcome side effects of a day saturated with surfing.

  The others were right. Why would I want to change this for anything else?

  That moment back at the Welsh had been every bit as significant as I'd hoped. This was exactly what I needed to be doing more of. Of course surf stoke was alive and well in the British Isles. I just needed to venture away from the backyard for something other than a contest from time to time in order to find my own slice of it.

  I thought now about that morning back at Fresh West and realised something had happened to me since. I'd lost the sense of resentment. I started to recall other times from an age long ago when I'd wanted to go to a contest, or dashed along a motorway on a freezing day in search of swell. And then it occurred to me: I wanted that stuff again. The youngster who would awaken bouncing with anticipation to get out and about on the British surf scene had never left, and now it was time to catch up with him all over again.

  Looking at the other surfers I'd driven up here with, I saw the same expressions of enjoyment and dedication as they'd always worn, whether competing or not. And I wanted it too – wherever I went. Contests or not, I could still love surfing on these shores.

  This was going to work.

  CHAPTER 2

  A QUESTION OF FAITH: CROYDE BAY AND THE JESUS SURF CLASSIC

  Surfing has always been regarded as spiritual to its faithful, so it's not really surprising that the organisation 'Christian Surfers UK' is such a huge movement within the sport.

  Dubbed CSUK, the group have held an annual contest at Croyde since the beginning of time (almost) – and, oddly enough, the event has never been greeted by flat conditions. Rumours abound that they pray for surf, and it has a reputation for being a really fun event to be part of. This was just what I needed next, I thought – a no drama, late-summer trip to North Devon with a bit of a contest thrown in as a side attraction.

  It's not unusual for Britain to suffer immense droughts of surf in the height of summer. Even though my still fragile love of my homeland was ever so slightly on the rekindle, I bailed to France for a couple of weeks in August – just to make sure the wave-count was nice and high before resuming this quest for a good surfing experience in the British Isles.

  It was a wise decision. This year, as with most years, that sun-drenched flatness had run over from August into early September – when the Christians ran their contest. Naturally, all the relevant surf-predictor sites were still forecasting no surf at all by the time it turned up on the calendar, so a little faith was called for in deciding to go. If the Jesus Surf Classic was running then there would be surf, I reasoned. I was reminded of Field of Dreams, and the immortal line, 'If you build it, he will come.' It worked for Kevin Costner's character Ray, and so, I figured, it would for me.

  Daylight hours had reluctantly started to shorten for the winter ahead, so it was already dark when I arrived in the little car park at Croyde Bay. I parked up, a few narrow lanes beyond the tiny crossroads of thick-stone pubs that did about ninety-nine per cent of their trade in two to three months of the year. The Ruda caravan park and campsite was tucked away behind me, sufficiently hidden from view by day so as not to interrupt the otherwise bare coastline and Clearwater Beach – which was actually owned by the same company as the campsite. I could hear the ocean only yards away, with its high tide lapping against the cooling sand, and decided to walk through the little lane that led to the almost empty beach. Was there any sign of the miracle swell these guys routinely conjured up?

  Of course not. It was dead flat.

  A figure was standing by the shoreline, alone, deep in thought. For a moment it made me nervous. Open minded to the power of prayer, you could never rule out anything – especially when a sign over the marquee back on the beach mentioned 'walking on water'. In the darkness, the person in front of me could have easily been contemplating just that. I squinted and, as they came nearer, I recognised him as the director of CSUK, Phil Williams.

  We knew each other quite well, because Christian Surfers ran a contest in my local beach, Rest Bay, every autumn called the Tsunami Cup. Due to my role as chairman of the Welsh Coast Surf Club, I'd been involved in helping them set it up as a fundraiser for Sri Lankan communities affected by the deadly Boxing Day tsunami.

  Ironically, the Tsunami Cup had last year become one of my very few contest successes. Mind you, it felt odd winning in knee-high slop against a couple of juniors to claim an event that you helped found – kind of how the spoilt kid in the playground organises games so that he can beat everyone.

  Still, it meant I knew a few of the CS guys, and I really liked the way they did things. They were exceptionally generous, benevolently minded people, and had never tried to force their beliefs on anyone. After years of waiting for the moment when their ulterior motives would finally reveal themselves, I had, like most other surfers, decided their kindness was genuine. Their desire to give to the sport of surfing was unconditional, and the worry they'd suddenly try to brainwash you had long been proved a false fear.

  'How's things, Phil?' I asked, of
fering a hand.

  'Not bad, boy,' he smiled back. 'Surf's a bit late getting here, but all's still going to plan.'

  'Bit late?' I asked. 'Is there any coming at all?'

  'Well, you never know. But we're going to keep praying.' He paused, as the two of us stared out at a two-inch, perfect, moonlit shore break. 'And I have faith.'

  A few more conversational pleasantries were exchanged before I headed for the local campsite to find a place to pitch my new quick-assembly, pop-up tent (which I'd bought specifically for this ongoing re-discovery of British surfing). Meanwhile, Phil remained on the beach, coolly focused, hoping, waiting, praying.

  Saturday morning emerged with soaking dew all around and a stiff, stiflingly cold offshore breeze. That faith Phil had mentioned was already being tested. Utter flatness – the kind that makes you abandon the beach for the day with no fear of missing anything – is what Christian Surfers were faced with.

  And still they were not deterred in the slightest.

  'Welcome to the fourteenth Jesus Surf Classic.' Phil's relaxed voice crackled out of the PA system that had been set up in the car park, just as I started to feel the first hints that today's sun might just carry with it a little bit of autumnal warmth. 'As you can see, conditions are not ideal yet, but we're registering people and will be returning at twelve to reassess the surf. Still hopeful that some heats can be run today.'

  A couple of moans could be heard. Contestants began grumbling, some packing their bags for the journey home. To many of them Phil was a madman (albeit a friendly one), because Sunday's forecast was for conditions to be even smaller. Perhaps it came as no surprise to most, then, when twelve o'clock approached with no sign of any change in the surf predicament.

  During this first wait I'd sat in the back seats of my friends' camper van, accepting their offer of repeated coffees and getting into the familiar routine of being at a contest that was 'on hold'. The Blythe family from Newport, about an hour up the motorway from Porthcawl, were regulars at UK surf competitions and always made the most of things. Their son, Rob, was on his way out of being a junior and competed in anything he could find – including contests on the continent. Anne was a school headmistress during the week and an ardent surf fan by weekend; while Bob divided his time between building houses and helping to run the administration of surf contests, including the Tsunami Cup. Bob was one of South Wales's true characters. On the way down to the Welsh one year I'd seen him at the side of the road, having run out of petrol. He claimed this was something 'every surfer in the world should try at least once'. Most of his stories from the sixties and seventies both began and ended in foreign jails and he was wildly opinionated on matters far and wide – from economics and politics to what odds Betfair should be giving on Cesc Fabregas scoring the first goal in the lunchtime kick-off.

  When the midday call was for another two-hour adjournment, Bob naturally went straight to the bookies. Arsenal were playing Spurs this lunchtime – the former being my favourite team – although even that wouldn't tempt me to lose a tenner on some whimsical bet.

  Still, as others upped and left, the chance to watch the match in the pub of the Ruda campsite kept me there – as well as a shaky belief that Phil and co were going to extract some surf out of the ocean by the end of the weekend, of course.

  Many, many times have I ended up in pubs on the afternoon of a surf contest, watching either football or rugby matches. And, of those occasions, I'd say the reasons were split exactly fifty-fifty between drowning my sorrows over an early exit and whiling away time waiting for the next 'call' on whether to run some heats.

  It's a stroke of genius by a good event organiser to postpone until just before kick-off for a big game. The lure of a quick pint (with plans for a coffee at half-time and then a drive home) often results in keeping annoyed competitors at the event. Naturally, it worked again here. A few of the Llantwit surfers had also turned up. As this was the next big surf town east of Porthcawl, there was always a heated rivalry between these guys and most of my mates, so any opportunity to wind each other up was taken with glee. On this occasion one of their ranks was an unlucky Spurs fan – and before long that quick pint had, even for those who'd been keenest to head home, was threatening to turn into several.

  With a crew from Wales up for the night, I began mulling over my own options. It really did look as if there was no surf at all for days – and yet I had a feeling I should stay.

  The best journeys allow important decisions to be made by circumstance, and this would be no different. Walking back to the beach, feeling pleased with myself for sticking to the one-drink-plus-coffee plan and enjoying the lukewarm sun on my back (which was no doubt enhanced by yet another victorious encounter for Arsenal), I bumped into Simon Tucker and his teenage son, Max. Simon was another Porthcawl surfer and a rep for Santa Cruz clothing. By mixing business with his trip down here, he'd been able to cover the cost of a bed and breakfast for the weekend.

  'All right mate, how's things?' he asked, with a typically calm voice. The cadences of a man who had got used to waiting at surf contests – and indeed, beyond that, had got good at it. Temperament went a long way when events were 'on hold' – as the hapless Llantwit crew were currently proving with an impromptu afternoon on the piss.

  'All right. Any sign of surf?'

  'Nah,' he confirmed. 'Nothing. We'd stay, but there's this family thing tomorrow.'

  Max looked up at him, forlorn. Simon continued.

  'Max wants to hang around – the other groms are all still here – but he's got to be back too really. I mean, if there was even a tiny chance of surf we'd stay but, well, I checked Magic Seaweed again and it's impossible.' (Magic Seaweed is a well-known surf prediction site.)

  'Fair enough,' I said. 'Not sure how sold I am myself on another night in a tent.'

  That was when Simon came up with an idea: 'You can have our bed and breakfast room if you want. It's paid for.'

  'Sorry?'

  'Someone might as well stay there. You can get slaughtered with the Llantwit boys, then.' He put his hands over Max's ears.

  'I had surfing in mind,' I replied.

  Simon laughed. 'So did everyone else at nine o'clock this morning, mate. But I tell you, there's no way in hell there's gonna be even the slightest ripple.'

  'Dad, you can't say "hell" here!' Max announced.

  'Sorry, er, "heck"?'

  'Same thing,' I frowned.

  'Oh, whatever. It's all nonsense anyway – if it wasn't there'd be surf. So what d'you want to do? If you stay there I can give you the key now and you can bring our boards back for us – saves us going there again. Just tell the lady, Jenny, that you're me for tonight and she'll understand. We can shoot off straight away then.'

  After thinking about it for a moment, I took the keys off him, bade them well and made for the car park to get the latest.

  A pastor was running a skate competition on a temporary half-pipe, egging tiny kids to jump higher and higher off precarious pieces of coping, while others watched, soaking up the sun's high point – which out of the wind was amicably warm. Cake sales were raising more money for 'Surf Relief', the charity that CS supported at the Tsunami Cup, while beach volleyball volunteers, with cross-symbols on their T-shirts, gave out free lessons. A sign scrawled with a marker pen at contest control read:

  Main event off until tomorrow – next call 8 a.m.

  Paddle race at 4 p.m. – £5 entry – £70 first prize –

  see Phil for details.

  Glad of having left the drinking to the others, I reached into my pocket to see if I had a fiver.

  Oh well, I thought, looks as though I'm staying. There'd better be surf tomorrow.

  That evening, over a couple of drinks in the popular surfers' watering hole, The Thatched Inn – a series of old, straw-roofed cottages just behind the main beach at Croyde – I took the chance to talk to one of the more prominent Welsh members of CSUK, Phil Johnson, about the definition of faith. He was known as
'Welsh Phil' – with the main man being 'English Phil' (even though his surname was Williams, which in my book made him part-Welsh anyway). Original nicknames, I know, but at least this way Welsh Phil and English Phil never got mixed up.

  With all the stuff that had been written about Christianity lately – and books by Richard Dawkins and the like really attacking what these guys stood for – I wanted to know how they held onto their beliefs. I was also intrigued as to whether or not surfers were particularly open to the idea of faith. That said, after a day of flatness, which had for many turned into an afternoon of heavy boozing, there wasn't much of the spiritual on display around us right now. The night had yet again allowed temperatures to plummet, but inside The Thatch some live music and a swaying throng of worse-for-wear surfers was keeping things cosy.

  'The most important thing about faith,' Welsh Phil explained to me, 'is that it must be tested.'