Wavelength Surfing Magazine

Issue 146 July '05 Words and Photos: Tim Nunn

Mid afternoon on floor 20 of Wavelength Towers. The editorial suite is a low buzz post deadline. From my recliner craning my neck to glance into the neighbouring office I can see Ed Steve mid massage sipping a Pina Colada.

On my desk are three monitors, one is a live link to the repro house drum scanner where previews of next months shots keep blinking up, the middle screen has isobar and swell charts constantly updating themselves, monitor three is on a loop of surf movies. Jon and fellow design guru James are snoozing whilst getting gentle foot massages in the vast creative studio next door. Ad guy Mark is sipping champagne in the corridor with Reef models.

The scene of post deadline contentment is one to behold, until the alarm starts ringing. (Above Right: Alan Stokes in what can really be called a green room, tiny day, the only good wave that came through) A screen from the ceiling drops down and a swell proximity alert starts flashing, I pick up the intercom through to Ed’s office but before a word is uttered a hand reaches from beneath a steaming towel mid buttock massage and the red button on the desk is depressed, a circular hole in the middle of my office opens to reveal a fireman’s pole to the garage, I look to the design room and get a cursory wave from James as he tucks into a Daiquiri, I jump for the pole and slide, twenty floors straight into the front seat of the Length mobile, a slick black 05 reg Merc Veto, alloyed up with a nice purple satin interior. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals three water rigs which are lined up ready to go as well as two land rigs. The topless assistants give me a longing wave as the cave doors slide open and I race into the late evening glow of a Cornish May day. I stop at the police station and get my speed limit waver pass and am doing a hundred on the A30 within five minutes. The video phone blurts into life and the office crew are all there reminding me that we’re close to the sales target for a new set of alloys and to get some good shit. I confirm I will and switch off as the boys are describing (Left: Stoker slashing apart a bumpy right near home) the merits of hydraulic systems to each other which is the next incentive. The chain of drool hits the plastic cup in my lap, ah shit I’ve dropped off in a service station again, I glance to my left and the passenger well of my tiny Peugeot is full of coffee cups, sandwich rappers and a damp wetsuit, the backseat is a pile of camera gear. I briefly remember the dream I was having as I haul myself out of the fart stenched front seat and stretch in the cool pre-dawn air somewhere near Leeds.

Goose chasing, it is the ultimate surf trip, you spot a chart and go, then when that swell wanes you spot another and chase it too. So here I am on a cool May morn Goose chasing, heading north in the hope of scoring waves. Wandering into the service station, it’s a mix of suits in a hurry, lorry drivers downing coffee and school parties clamouring for a Maccas breakfast, I look longingly at the bowl of water for dogs in the entrance way as my bone dry halitosis ridden mouth craves liquid. I reach the shop and briefly think about a coke but my over 30 head kicks in as I tongue a cavity and realise water is a better option. I pay and leave, my phone rings. I am eight miles over half way to Northumbria, Tom speaks: “It’s a bit cross shore up here and the swell isn’t as big as we’d hoped I really wouldn’t bother coming up.” I think for a second and remember what anything but perfect big conditions are like in the frigid spring waters of the North Sea. “Ahh ok, thanks for telling me, I haven’t left yet so no worries.” The call ends, I’m near Leeds, it’s cold, the chart for the whole of the UK is rubbish, there’s three weeks to deadline and ten pages to fill.

I can’t remember the drive home; it’s funny how that happens sometimes. I turn on the computer and sink into depression, there is a weak low in the south west approaches, the wind is due to be onshore and the swell crappy, everywhere else in the whole of the UK is looking rubbish. The television provides little solace, in fact the next day the BBC, the friend of surfers everywhere, unveil their new multi million pound weather graphics, no isobars, shit wind maps and a map of Britain that looks like mis-shaped road kill, the great dumbing down of society continues.

It’s approaching the end of week one when a chart rears it’s head, but it’s for Cornwall. I so wanted to get out of the rut of Cornish surf, but goose chasing is goose chasing and you chase the goose wherever it chooses to go. The swell arrives sloppy and slowly, annoyingly the best surf is at the end of my road, hardly chasing. Stokesy (Below: Stokes on the second best wave of the day) and Johnny Fryer are on it, but it’s poor. The next three days crumble along, not big enough for sheltered spots and crumbly and weak for the main beaches.