| The Goose Chase |
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Page 2 of 3 It is around this time that my will to live falters. British surfers are a strange breed, we sit here fooling ourselves that we get good surf, but the fact is the south west does not, the continental shelf sucks all the energy out of the swell leaving a comatose shadow of itself to trundle up our beaches. Then came the killer punch, I turned down a trip to Puerto with Ian Battrick, I desperately wanted to go but this is a British mag we want to see British waves right? His emails had been coming about dodgy banks but the odd bomb, then as his latest mail dribbled into view; a sunrise shot with Ian bolt upright in a double overhead pit. You know that Simpson’s episode when Bart keeps replaying a video tape of Millhouse's heart breaking, pausing on the exact moment when his heart broke, well the moment that shot dribbled into view the whole reason for my existence disintegrated and the exact moment my will to go on shattered, it replayed in my mind for hours. Here I was sat on a sofa in England with no hope of seeing a wave like that, ever. Three days of deep depression followed, all I want to do is to get into some proper waves, I can drop everything and trip to any part of the British Isles to achieve this but the spring charts were terrible. Eventually a southerly swell started to push through, not great but it was something. Stokesy tuned me into a righthander not far from home, fun but it wasn’t quite big enough. But the swell is hitting harder further north and the goose chase has to move on, and finally run into a bit of luck. Driving into Widemouth there is a red Volvo driving erratically two cars behind, my phone rings, answering, hands free obviously, Joss blurts out: “That you in front?” I look back, “yeah,” “pull over into the Manor.” Joss and cousin Jack Carter jump out of a red Volvo that anywhere but in North Cornwall would look bad but up here it’s a king among cars. Bent double in the boot with the boards is Reubs who climbs out trousers inside out and a deer stalker/Russian hat on his head hopping around with cramp.
(Above: Now this is some crazy s**t, Reubs glued to his board on a Barrow-esque rotation) Usual pleasantries are exchanged and it sounds like the boys have just scored a barrel fest at a sucky shorey down the road. We all survey the scene, it’s clear that Widemouth is copping a fair bit of swell and the chances of scoring a
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nearby righthander are looking good. The tide is a bit low though and I’ve promised to pick up other Bude local Bobby, so I leave the boys and arrange to meet them in an hour. Bobby is currently car less, I find him in The Surfers Path office chewing the fat with designer Nick, (Left: Bobby going vertical) the usual inter mag banter is exchanged, how said mag is really a pamphlet and when are you going to get any decent shots in their etc, all harmless chatter. Rocking up at the reef and it looks a tad all over the place and whilst the boys do their level best to annihilate it, it’s not its usual hollow self.I can feel a wave of depression starting to wash over when (Below: Reubs again, getting bored of him yet? Can't deny he's flying at the moment though) Reubyn paddles over to the fat shorey in the middle.
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