For years, I’ve assumed that surfing is something that other people do. Younger, fitter, people. People who look good in neoprene and have highly developed upper-body strength. In oceans around the world, I’ve swum around surfers, and past them. I’ve observed the mating rituals of surfer dudes and surfer dudettes — the specialised language and elaborate signalling behaviours. And I have bought into the surfing myth: that it is a tough sport for fearless people where only the strong survive.
And then, on the first day of my first surf holiday, I make a key discovery. Five minutes after getting into the water, and on my second-ever wave, I’m standing on my feet and doing a double-handed victory wave as I power towards the shore. My technique consists of belly-flopping on to the board and then somehow scrabbling to my feet. And moments later I’m plunging headlong into the waves. But I have urgent news from the surfing frontline to report and it is this: surfing . . . it’s really not that hard. The surfing myth might be nothing more than ideological propaganda designed to keep middle-aged people like me from making it uncool. Too late. It’s actually a piece of cake, I tell anyone who’ll listen.
Sure, I exaggerate a little. I’ve come with my friend, Cath, who jaunts up first thing, pleased with her hired wetsuit until someone points out that she’s put it on back-to-front. When she gets into the sea, she’s beaten back by the waves; an hour later, she trudges back to the beach, dejected, while I attempt, not totally successfully, not to crow.