Weblog - Surf Nation - Times Online November 20, 2006

Crowded line ups - spongers take the flak

Andy Cox has a novel solution to the problem of crowded line ups

There is nothing quite like the approach of Christmas – supposedly the season of peace and goodwill to all men – to bring out the curmudgeon in me. The annual slide into depression gathered pace when my wife informed me that my presence was required for an all-day shopping expedition to stock up for the festivities. My misery was made complete when Saturday morning, the scheduled date for my day in purgatory, dawned with the first decent surf in weeks. Desperate times call for desperate remedies: was it me that my wife wanted to drag around the shops, or my credit card? A disconcertingly short period of time later, my beloved wheel span her way out of the drive. I scraped the mould off my wettie and headed for the beach.

I picked up a friend en route. Steve is a class act. He surfs with precision and style, always in the pocket, no wasted effort and absolutely no thrashing about. He is also one of the more mellow blokes I know, slow to anger and with a genuinely sunny disposition. Just the company I needed to restore my sense of humour.

We paddled out and almost immediately I knew there was trouble ahead. The line up was packed, strung out like blown confetti two days after the wedding, and just as appealing. A gaggle of spongers were grouped together, looking as innocent as highwaymen freshly returned from a night’s sport on the M5. A head-high wave loomed and I dropped down the face and bottom turned, only to find an esky lid dropping in on me. I straightened out and stared at the culprit who surfaced only feet from me, the section of the wave having closed out. There was no apology, no expression of remorse; in fact, there was no gesture at all. I paddled back to Steve who smiled comradely sympathy at me.

The next set rolled in. Steve eased in to the first one, as ever, in prime position. Another boogie boarder dropped in on him. He paddled back out, his smile betraying the first hint of strain. After a lengthy lull, he found another small one. Quick take-off, sharp bottom turn and an arc of spray suggested he was finding his rhythm. Then I heard him shout. Dropped in on again.

The miscreant flapped over to his comrades-in-foam but Steve did not flinch. He paddled over to him and, in a voice that shook the windows in the Bishop lighthouse enquired, not unreasonably: “Am I f****** invisible?” No answer. Nothing but a blank stare of indifference, replete with ignorance of surfing etiquette. We decided to call it a day. There was no point trying to cope with the spongers anymore. We cut a dejected pair as we trudged back up the beach, and to console ourselves made our way to the nearest pub. Two pints of its finest brew later and things began to look a little brighter. Steve is a reasonable man, so I asked his opinion: “What’s to be done?”

Steve took another long pull of his drink. Perhaps, somewhere in the midst of his pint, he found the answer - or maybe it was something he had known all along - but either way, he was clearly experiencing an epiphany. His furrowed brows loosened up, his nostrils flared rather ominously, his eyes sparkled with clarity. His face cleared. And then he said it.
“Shoot them all.”

It was stated so simply, so unequivocally, that his conclusion brooked no argument. But worse was to follow: “And while you’re at it, round up those goat-boats and surf-canoes.”
This was nothing less than a call to arms, albeit sotto voce. Steve was proposing a cull on a massive scale, a complete clearing out of the line up. Temptation raised its head. Surf left to surfers: I could live with that.

“Would never happen,” I offered after several moments’ reflection.

“Suppose you’re right. But just think if it could.”

The thought stayed with me as I journeyed home. It has stayed with me since. It sustained me when my wife returned with a credit card that had seen more action than the Foreign Legion. It kept me going when I heard Slade’s “Merry Christmas Everybody” during the first week of November. It brought me some semblance of peace when I realised I would have to endure Noddy’s blight on the music world for a further two months, and it even inspired mild feelings of hope when I saw Santa doubling up as a petrol attendant.

Surf left to surfers. Now there’s a thought.

And here's a vision of what it would be like - (C) Tony Plant. See http://www.surftwisted.com/. Other photographs courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/
Posted by Alex Wade on November 20, 2006 at 10:03 AM in Weblogs Permalink
Comments

I feel your pain, surf etiquette should be a compulsory lesson before people are allowed to enter the water! It isn't difficult to show a little awareness and respect.
Posted by: Charlotte November 20, 2006 at 11:25 PM

If you paddle out at most places and go straight to the peak and take off on a set wave then odds on you're going to get dropped in on, gut slider or not. The boogers were probably complaining about the 'arrogant surfers' thinking they own the joint. Try paddling out at Bundoran, Raglan, Pipe, Hossegor, Macaronis, anywhere really and jump to the front of the queue... See what the response is. It'll be alot worse than a drop in.Surf etiquette is more than drop ins and snaking, its also that British preserve- the queue...
Posted by: Sharpy November 21, 2006 at 12:19 PM

I'll provide the guns...
Posted by: alf alderson November 22, 2006 at 05:46 PM

you complain about crowded line-ups yet want to promote surfing in mainstream media? if people want to get into surfing they can find out about it themselves, it doesn't need advertising
Posted by: oli November 22, 2006 at 06:18 PM
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Respect the parents

A father's goodness is higher than the mountains; a mother's goodness is deeper than the sea.

I stumble across this Japanese proverb while searching for inspiration. My creative well has run, if not dry, then a little on the thirsty side of late; the product, no doubt, of too much to do, too little time in which to do it, and not enough sleep to boot.

My daughter, Hannah Kerenza, was born on 12 March this year. The birth of a first child is reputed to be the happiest time of a parent's life. Alas, for me, I cannot say that was the case. Hannah was a fortnight overdue causing my wife, Carla, to be induced. The induction failed and, after a day's labour, Carla was wheeled to theatre for an emergency caesarian. I shall spare you the gruesome details but she suffered a major bleed - losing over six pints of blood in less than three minutes - and necessitating an emergency transfusion. As befits anyone with a blood pressure of 45/30, her life hung in the balance for a while, and I will never forget placing the 'phone call to her father to advise him of the position. Happily, mother has recovered fully and Hannah was never in distress.

At such times, it is important to be able to rely on friends, family and colleagues. My friends and family were magnificent. My colleagues took the opportunity to oust me from the partnership in which I had worked for nine years. When I asked for a reason, I was told by the messenger (who professed to come as a friend) that he was not there to be interrogated. But that is another story.

The point I am labouring (please forgive the pun) to make is that having a child is not easy. And the delivery is only the beginning. A fortnight ago, we went to a lovely lunch with some other mums and dads we had met on the NCT course. Within 48 hours, 12 of the 15 present were ill. Most of us recovered within a day or two. Hannah was ill with D&V for 10 days. A stool sample confirmed salmonella poisoning.

There was no prospect of her being able to go to nursery while she was unwell. We had to be full-time parents. Needless to say, the period of illness coincided with my first week's office work for almost eight months. As deputy coroner (see earlier blog) I was simply not able to take a few days off. My wife, as a GP in a local surgery, was similarly committed. It is a big deal to cancel a day's appointments. To cancel two weeks worth is just not possible. And so we worked as best we could with our parents helping out while dealing with a poorly baby who needed changing and hydrating several times a night.

I said we were full-time parents; clearly we were not. Both Carla and I went to work.

I look now with fresh eyes on one-parent families. I have a very different response when I see a mum struggling with multiple children than was the case when I was a singleton. I have an inkling as to the effort that goes in to being a mother or a father. I know the frustration, the fatigue and I can begin to understand what, on occasions, becomes the desperation.

Respect the parents.