by Tom Anderson
'Which one of ye poofs is from Porthcawl then?'
I looked at Dakker, not sure whether to 'fess up. 'Er, why?'
'D'you know someone called Rhino?' he asked, raising an eyebrow. I was sure this could only lead to something good – Rhino was loved by everyone he ever met on surf trips.
'Yeah, he's one of our best mates,' I replied, pointing to Math as well.
'Well, tell that wee bell-cheese to get his arse up here, tomorrow! He promised to come next time some Porthcawlies made it for a swell. Piker's probably scared. It's gonnae be huge in the next few days. I hope ye boys like yer surf life-and-death, like.'
Fortunately, he had decided that for the daylight hours remaining there was no point going surfing as the winds needed to blow over.
'Good in the morning, though,' he promised, before proposing to cook for us – an offer the seasick members of our party could only just conceal their reluctance to accept.
A big pot of curry was brought out. Dakker then fired up his VCR player and proceeded to spend the rest of the evening terrifying us with footage of monster swells, explaining how the one currently building on the horizon was 'as good as any of this here mush on me videos'.
The uneven coastlines in the more northern reaches of the world usually mean that somewhere will always have an offshore wind. Given the thumping south-westerly that had kicked up overnight, Dakker decided first of all to take us on a tour of some east-facing spots. This seemed a win–win situation for me, as it meant that besides the wind direction being way preferable to the fury that would now be annihilating the west coast, the swell would be considerably tamer too.
Following Dakker, who was in front in his own van, we drove out of the overcast and empty streets of Stornoway and on to a lane with tall hedges either side. Half a mile later, the hedges turned to dry-stone walls and then there was nothing around us but coarse grassland and the odd rocky outcrop. The van ahead then turned off at a crossroads, taking a right on to the intersecting road, which wasn't even paved. A red Royal Mail pillar box appeared a few hundred yards further on, squeezed into a break in the dry-stone wall, although there wasn't a building in sight.
The Widow Maker rocked from side to side as the road turned to cobblestones, dropping in and out of deep, puddle-filled potholes. Ahead of us the ocean, deep blue and covered by a thin film of mist, was getting nearer.
When we glimpsed the shoreline for the first time I realised there was to be no running from this swell. Even though we were on a coast facing almost the opposite direction to where the waves were coming from, lines were mounted as far as I could see. Dakker pulled up and got out of his van, gesturing to us to do the same. Triton opened the doors just in time for a pounding noise to echo across the road. It was from a wave, at least three times overhead, that had walloped a ledge out in front of us, its lip making direct contact with dry rock.
Half the rising mist was from the salty spray of waves exploding against the edge of a vast slab of flat granite, hundreds of yards wide.
'Good swell, boys!' Dakker declared with glee. 'Real power. Real raw. Saddle back up. I know where to meet this baby!'
Another wave rumbled its way across in front of us, blowing scented sea air and spray upwards into the low clouds of fizzling vapour. I could feel it breaking through the ground beneath my feet. Dakker was already back in his van and driving.
There were, apparently, dozens of world-class reefs and point breaks along these eastern shores, but we only got as far as the first one.
'No way!' Triton called out from the front, as Dakker bleated his horn ahead of us. 'Sick!'
'Aaah! We're in there.' Jason, otherwise contemplatively quiet, exclaimed.
Across a cobbled beach in front of us a peak rose out of the dark ocean surface and pitched forward. The lip feathered for a moment in the wind and then chucked, leaving a tube wide enough for anyone to stand tall in. The wave then turned in on itself and rolled, still wide open, towards a deep water channel, before chucking the air and water it had stored within out into the open air. After that it clamped shut, disappearing into nothing but a patch of turbulent foam over the reef in front of it.
My jaw dropped in awe. Although it was enormous, the wave had broken so cleanly, so wide and with such compliant symmetry that any surfer able to get to their feet would surely be able to get barrelled to the brink of their sanity.
'Well,' Dakker chuckled, walking over to us. 'Will that do? What are ye waiting for, boys! It's even good enough for me to join you.'
Each time the ledging right-hander spat, we lost a little more of the patience needed to wriggle into heavy, five mil winter suits.
Jason was mumbling sweet nothings to himself: 'Perfect pits on the first day... Siiick.'
Despite having the least experience of neoprene, he was first into the water and screamed with cold shock as he jumped the shore break, but soon forgot the pain in his toes as another one turned inside-out only yards in front of him. Given that Jason rode this kind of stuff for a living, it was clear we were about to see a real show.
It was just as well he did go out first, because he did the rest of us the favour of discovering the nasty rip that was trying to pull you behind the peak. The reason for this was the immediate increase in depth as soon as you jumped over the shore break. The wave was rising out of open ocean, straight on to a clearly defined outcrop of rock just beneath the surface. This was the reason it was able to harness such energy onto a concentrated spot. But all the disturbed water around would take you in a range of unpredictable directions.
We all had to take our share of beatings before anyone wired the place enough to start really charging it. Again, the man for the job was Jason. Just as it was starting to look as if this place would be too much of a challenge to get the hang of during our first session, he stumbled on the key. Almost caught in the way of a solid set, he was stuck paddling up the face of double-overhead waves with a real risk of getting pulled over with the lip. Jason had other ideas though, and instead of diving through the face to the safety of the other side he about-turned and took off – not so much jumping to his feet as dropping them down onto the board. Somehow his rail connected and he swooped under a twisting lip, gaining pace like a runaway train as the tube pulled him towards the shoulder.
The rest of us were ecstatic just at the sight of that one and we began screaming like playground children.
'Up the Duff, mate,' Luke punned as Jason sunk next to him.
'I think you just named the spot for me, boys,' Dakker grinned.
Jason had cracked it. The only way to stay out of the rip and get into the best waves was to place yourself perilously close to the impact zone and to hook into the wave at the last possible moment before it broke. It was easy enough for him, but the balance required to negotiate a drop like that with so much water moving around you is something that takes years to acquire, and something that comes a little quicker when you grow up in West Oz. For the rest of us the session was going to be utterly hair-raising.
All this terror wasn't without its rewards. The adrenaline that came with successfully making it to the bottom of one of these heaving waves reached the bottom of the soul, and left you hopelessly hooked on trying to get another one.
The machine-like predictability of where and how the wave would break also played into the hands of those less familiar with such conditions. Once you'd gone for a few the place began to feel more inviting, and we each took turns trying to slow ourselves for the tube. Within the hour I had started daring to hold myself back enough to see the lip throwing in front of me, and to hear the rest of the world's background noise getting cut off by soundproof tunnels of water.
As we toyed with how deep we could adjust our own personal lines, Jason set about pushing the boundaries of what you could do with this wave full stop. Anchoring his arm in the face, right up to the shoulder, he'd stall himself until the foam vortex in the furthest recesses of the barrel began causing his fins to shudder. Then he'd s
tart extending and recoiling himself, driving desperately for the exit – often with such bravado that he'd only escape with inches to spare as the final section slammed shut.
And so it was that our love affair with the 'Up the Duff' right-hander began. It turned out we'd only had a taster of it that evening, as the wind dropped over the coming days to make the place even more perfect, and easier to ride.
The rest of us remained in awe of Jason's knack for making things look simpler than they really were. By the mid-point in the session he was getting tubed on just about any wave he picked. His control of where he was, and how he was moving, was total.
'Up the Duff' was an ideal wave if you liked the stomach-churning experience of dropping straight into the barrel, but for me the next two days of surfing were as adrenaline-filled as any period I'd experienced before – anywhere. The wave would swing wide on approach, making for a real heart-in-the-mouth take-off as you angled headlong towards a warping section.
But, then again, I had it easy. Math and Luke were goofyfoots and had to surf with their backs to the wave, meaning they had to go through the whole process without being able to really square their bodies up properly. They needed intuition in abundance to survive the sessions – as well as a gung-ho attitude.
Jason's antics had attracted some of the hard core local surfing population, here to see their waves being torn apart by this world-class surfer. Two guys in a converted camper van had arrived on the beach and suited up. One was a photographer, called Mark, who swam into the line-up to score in-the-tube photographic evidence of the Australian's prowess, while his mate Jim calmly took to the line-up on a big yellow pintail.
Softly spoken and patient, Jim commented on the quality of the waves, exchanged conversational pleasantries with Dakker and then paddled for one. It was a middle-of-the-range set, which had sucked itself deep behind the reef. Fully expecting Jim to get crucified, I started wincing as I saw the wave fold. With an instinctive understanding of the spot though, Jim had gotten himself into it early and gently rose to his feet. As his board caught the trough of the wave he held his weight over his back foot and waited confidently, knowing what was to happen next. He'd read it perfectly: the barrel poured around him, breaking several feet beyond the nose of his board, as he transferred his weight back to the front and shot out into the deep-water channel with barely a change of facial expression. As if that wasn't impressive enough, the last touch to Jim's tube riding had been the epitome of grace under pressure – he'd clasped his hands neatly behind his back before coming out, no doubt giving his mate Mark a better surf shot than anything Jason had done all trip.
As the rest of us stared in amazement, Dakker let out a rallying cry:
'Yeeeah! Pro surfer rippin' the place to pieces, but you can always trust the island boys to get the wave of the day!' Obviously spurred on himself, he then turned to paddle for the next wave, which had suffered from the foam Jim's had left behind. This time the lip threw out, uncontrolled and malevolent, ensuring there was no chance of making the drop.
But that didn't stop Dakker. Once he realised he was doomed, he just made a star shape with his arms and legs and threw himself into the air, almost completing a full somersault on his way to the reef below.
He popped up spluttering, shook the water out of his hair and then yelled, 'Your turn, boys! Time to get kamikaze! Who's 'avin' it next?'
The relief I felt when the swell dropped was manifest. For three days we'd gone to sleep shivering and shattered from hours of oceanic pummelling, only to wake up to the sight of Dakker standing in the middle of the dorms making such declarations as, 'Still ten foot of swell making it round the butt. Wind's good. We're missing waves already boys, let's get 'avin' it!'
That last bit – ''avin' it' – had become his catchphrase and a phrase I was coming to dread as it meant being expected to throw life and limb to the mercy of more pounding reef-break waves.
But on day five things had finally changed as Dakker proposed taking us over to the other side of the island for a whole new set of spots. (The range of surfing possibilities in Scotland's more remote islands can be an unsettling thought, if you entertain it too long. It makes you feel like dropping everything to move up north and start exploring.)
The wind had dropped and, as we stocked up on bananas, chocolate bars and soft drinks at the petrol station on the edge of Stornoway, I could feel both the sea and land around us welcoming in high pressure.
Before bombing off ahead of us again, Dakker explained his habit of driving really fast whenever he took people surfing: 'It's so that no bell-cheeses from the mainland can remember how to get there again.' Given that this morning we would be following him through the middle of the Isle of Lewis and a winding road of hills with hardly any cars, I was a little uneasy with the proposition – especially considering Triton's propensity to endanger life by driving through red lights.
'Do many surfers know their way around here?' Luke asked Dakker.
'No. These islands are some of the least-known coastlines in Europe,' our host explained. 'And I really want it to stay that way. I love how you still have to search for the spots up here, without yer Stormriders and yer guidebooks. Up here we just 'ave it good and proper.'
A chorus of ''Avin' it!' came from Math and Luke in the back of the Widow Maker.
Dakker continued: 'There's still that element of discovery up here. And you tell me of a place that still makes ya feel that? Not even Caithness and Thurso these days. And I get stoked seeing people finding waves instead of looking them up. Real surfing, my boys.'
As we chased him around the first bend of many, and the g-force gripped me, I wondered what prompted people like Dakker to surf such freezing conditions, often all alone. Was any wave worth that lifestyle? But the answer was obvious. This guy got to ride raw, open-ocean juice probably almost as often as you could in Indonesia or Jason's home of Western Australia – and without the crowds. He was just lucky not to really mind the cold and seemed to have the required screw loose to thrive on having these landscapes as home.
The road ahead threaded its way beneath us, as slopes of thin, short grass and scrub rolled away to each horizon. Sometimes little walls appeared at the sides, as well as bigger hills and outcrops, with unsecured scree slopes that often spilled onto the carriageway. At the highest points the greenery would disappear, leaving just plains of grey rock and rubble. Signs of life were minimal.
'This is like the surface of the moon, man,' whispered Jason, leaning his forehead against the side window. 'There's nothing like it in Oz.'
I remembered an anecdote Rhino had told me about when he made the journey from east coast to west coast on the Isle of Lewis. He'd gone via the north coast of the island, past an outer head known as the 'Butt of Lewis'. Simply a geographical term in the local dialect, his party had found great humour in this signpost – especially as they had another Porthcawl surfer named Gary Lewis in their midst. Rhino got the idea of making Gary pull a moony next to the sign 'Butt of Lewis' and for the others to take a picture. Gary agreed. It was with embarrassment that the group of guffawing surfers, cameras in hand, spotted a local dog-walker passing by. The dog walker seemed unsurprised. 'Another Lewis, eh boys?' the gentleman had apparently noted. 'Aye, we get them all the time.'
There would be no such opportunities for us though, even if we had had a Lewis with us, as we were being given a crash course in the more direct route from east to west – almost literally a few times, as Triton swerved around unfamiliar bends and kinks, desperately trying to keep the rear of Dakker's van in view.
'This guy's driving is deadly,' our pilot complained above the sound of screeching rubber.
'That doesn't mean yours has to be,' Luke barked.
'It does if we wanna find out where he's going.'
As the west coast drew near, the island was being blessed with more and more greenery. I wondered if it was because the moisture-laden sea air got pushed in so often by the prevailing Atlantic winds. A co
uple of trees started appearing here and there, and then we arrived at a road that was running south to north – pretty much along the furthest shoreline of the Isle of Lewis.
Without indicating and using only the barest tap of his breaks, Dakker swung onto this road heading north. The road was so long, and flat, that we were able to keep tabs on him from a good way back, and Triton took the liberty of negotiating the T-junction with a bit more care.
Then, after a few undulations in the road, Dakker, again without any warning, veered sharply to the left and promptly bumped up and over a mini sand dune. It took us twenty seconds to reach the same point, by which time he was gone. Triton tentatively mounted the same dune, just in time for us to glimpse Dakker going over another one.
Once we'd repeated the process a few times and it was clear we weren't going to keep up with him any more, a sudden change of heart seemed to occur. He stopped up ahead and proceeded to wait for us, sitting against the bonnet of his van and enjoying the mid-morning rays.