But beneath all that, a deep vein of unyielding dedication runs through me that doesn’t start or finish with a swell like the one we had in November. A swell that in its short window of existence displayed the full gamut of Cornish oceanic expression from storm ragged rawness through to mellow groomed perfection. The boastful claims on social media still dripping down my feed as I type.
Gale force on-shores that swung 180 degrees in a matter of minutes (22 minutes later than forecast by the MET Office in fact). Ten feet of jumbled south-west lines, tripping over each other to offer themselves willingly to those in the mix an opportunity to roll the dice on a winter season in its infancy. Maturing overnight into groomed, mirror clean head-high surf for those with a more traditional sense of perfection.
An auspicious week in which the UK surf community had been presented with the entirely novel concept of wave-riding beyond that found in the ocean. The Atlantic decided to gatecrash the Bristol ‘Wave’ pool party in rare form. The carefully curated, instagram ready launch of the unquestionably fun looking ‘Wave’ quickly usurped by the brutish thuggery of storm swell smashing into the most exposed harbour in Cornwall.
The sheer majesty of this swell event, demonstrating the impossibly wide gulf between the nascent form of wave-riding in a chlorinated pool with its traditional, albeit inconsistent, form in the wild. A handful of devotees on longer boards butted up between rocks and the rising tide; charging into the fading light of an autumnal afternoon.