Surfing

Taken from my experience of surfing off the Pembrokeshire coast, near St. David's.

I remember surfing. Carrying the wetsuit, still wet with brine, to the changing rooms. Squeezing into the wetsuit feet first, then body and arms. The cold, musty fabric hugged me tight. Zipper up, boots on, surfboard out, and the slow walk down the coastal path towards the beach. Shivers of early morning light reached out through the dewy mist as I trudged down the path, leaving watery footprints as I went. I creaked the wooden gate at the end of the path open. A cow mooed. A rocky cliff rose up to my left, and jagged boulders leaned against them. They stared at me. The surfboard made a soft ‘thump-thump’ sound as it bumped down the path, followed by a smooth sliding noise as gravel and dirt turned into sand. A small lifeguard hut stood hunched to the far right, as if it didn’t want to be seen. Hanging on the railing I could just make out a deflated balloon of what must have previously been bright yellow, long having since lost the helium in it, and its colour with the constant sea spray. Farther along the beach, rocks and pebbles replaced the sand temporarily, covered with seaweed and dotted with shallow pools, a remnant of the high tide soon to return, smothering it all like a blanket. The drier sand up the bank would pretend nothing happened. As I entered the sea, water seeped into my boots and smaller waves that had already broken lapped at my feet. I pushed the board out in front of me and started to wade. Soon a massive wave washed over me, pummelling me to the ground. I got up and looked for my surfboard, and finally saw its familiar blue form lying prone washed ashore. It was at this point that I remembered that I needed to tie the leash around my ankle.

Back out at sea, I mounted my board and started to paddle out, the white water of wave crests washing over the board. The silence of the rhythmic crash of the waves was broken by only a seagull overheard. When I was out far enough, I got off the board turned, making sure that I was always in between the board and the waves, so it wouldn’t crash against my head when a larger wave broke. I slung my right leg over the end of the board lazily, and sat there bobbing up and down, waiting for a wave to ride. And I waited. A boat drifted slowly across the horizon, shimmering a little. Bared branches danced farther onshore and their maple coloured leaves danced to the wind. The remaining oaks were red bombs among the smaller aspen. When I looked back the boat had disappeared.

Finally a large enough wave started to crest and I mounted the board again, lying flat facing towards the beach, and started to paddle. The wave started to pick me up and I did three more powerful strokes just as the wave broke, sending me crashing ahead. As I started to stand up on the board, my supporting hand slipped, and I brought my hands up to protect my head as I fell into the churning ocean. Submerged among the waves, only a dulled cacophony could be heard until I surfaced, once again by the shore. I picked up my board, turned it around and began to paddle out to sea.

Too soon it was well past noon, so I decided to head back in for a late lunch. Dragging my board along the sand I noticed an old man lying on a deck chair, basking in the sunlight, his wrinkles prominent like the yellow balloon tied to the hut. A child screeched in the distance in the water, watched over by his smiling mother. Dry sand began to stick to my soggy boots as I dragged the board, leaving a trail in the sand. The rock and pebble bed was nowhere to be seen.