Clare and I learnt to surf together back at university 7 or 8 years ago now. We would head down to the closest beach, mid-winter, head to toe in neoprene. Wetsuits too big. Gloves laced with holes, barely keeping our fingertips warm. We learnt to surf on the North coast, catching a ride wherever possible from the south. Neither of us had a car, it was our first year of uni, we didn’t really have a clue what we were doing but we headed out in the walls of white water anyway. I still remember running Clare clean over on my 8ft swell board as if it were only yesterday!
We swore to each other we would keep on surfing. We were hooked. The bitterly northerlies, and relentless whippings from the cold Atlantic failed to deter us. We were addicted, and from these early winter days, we both knew we were in it for the long haul. We promised ourselves, repeatedly over and over again, that we would get better. We would keep trying, keep practising, never giving up. We wanted to get out back, paddle past that great churning wall of white water the Atlantic threw at us day in, day out. We wanted to travel the world for surf, seeking out new destinations, tropical surf spots we had only read about. These goofy teenagers in their hole-ridden, rented wetsuits made a pact between themselves.
