A fistful of twentys and a hurried plan. Charts look average, but potentially quite good. One man down and another picked up and its all off to the ferry port looking like a bunch of immigrants. We look sus, and customs love us.
Arrival in the black of night, to a field where Ben camped before, and got robbed. Wizzo. I drift to sleep listening to Werkies orchestral sinuses, and awake to the tent being manhandled by a brisk breeze. Thankfully its offshore.
What follows is a whistle stop tour of this little section of coastline. Alot of different waves are watched. Some average, some good, some sketchy. We all end up back at a Royal Mail inspired bowl, along with a crew of ex conflicts, who are taking it apart. Some sort of rasta based wetsuit team. They seem bearded and friendly, and we all get along.
After all this whirlygig stuff, We head north, or maybe south to an infamous media whore of a ledge. Its a bit too small for her to be in her spewing glory, and its getting dark, so we call it a day. Maybe next time princess. Its all back to the field for cold beans and an early bed. Living the dream.
Next morning we surf again, I get worked on a few, a fellow cornishman paddles out to show us how its done, and we head north for some tubs. We find them.
Tom G knows his way round a terry or two.
We surf one spot pretty much as good as it gets for the next few days, and all get our share of waves. Everyone has a smile on their visages as we pack for the drive home. The weather is awfull. Tom and I sleep on a doorstep like two homeless folk, and we head back to the shire, mission more or less accomplished.
Next time, less lidding. I promise.