A voyage off the map into a feck off big storm and a week of remote adventure…
Seemed like a simple task— to rendezvous at a Glasgow retail park to receive instructions, Top Gear style, as to what our mission was. Except it’s not so simple when there are three surfers, two photographers, three vehicles and bodies strewn across the land from Kernow to the Vale of Glamorgan via the Big Smoke.
Somehow it came together (a good few hours behind schedule) and as we settled in to a few bevvies and slap up pub feed in the Premier Inn Rent-A-Tavern Sam Lam’ hit us with the plan.
Being modern times he simply fired up Google Maps on his battered iPhone and pointed to an island, zoomed in to the satellite image and took us on a birds eye tour, “See that, there, and there, hmm, interesting huh?” Four heads nodded in agreement at an array of river mouths, sandbars and likely looking reef set ups. He continued, “We’ve got four metres of swell, good winds and odds on not another surfer for a few hundred miles.”
We raised our glasses to that.
Booze, mates, food, open fire (the early spring surge hadn’t quite made it this far north yet) and a promising adventure brewing puts a grin on yer face.
The grin sagged a tad when Stu Campbell pointed at the muted TV set glowing in the corner of the bar, “That big green blob, the massive, ugly, violent rain storm that they are issuing ‘wave your hands in the air’ weather warnings for tomorrow is pretty much covering our whole six hour drive through the Highlands tomorrow then?”
Ah. Bugger.
Now I like a bit of extreme weather. Heavy rain and strong winds make you feel alive. When Mama Nature gets her knickers in a twist it’s fun to be twanging the elastic. Unless you’ve just driven the length of the country, shared a room with two Olympic standard snorers who made sleep impossible and are then expected to do another all day drive on progressively deteriorating mountain roads.
We breakfasted dejectedly staring out into the first salvos of the approaching maelstrom.
Down south the tweets and FB updates were flying thick and fast regarding the rather spiffing weather. Pretty much everyone we knew was busting out the flip-flops, bikinis, suncream and 3mm wetties as the burning ball of fire in the sky I like to call ‘The Sun’ had come back off it’s winter hol’s.
The irony was not lost on us.
The weather was being racist against Scottish people.
The next day was hell.
Rainy, stormy, flooded, scary wildness. All day.
Every dry stream bed was a raging torrent, every waterfall a thundering cataract. It was impressive but I yearned for a Land Cruiser as opposed to a cheap and cheerful Astra that was burying itself to the axles in each deepening flood. I was just waiting for it to flood the electrics and the call to the AA to not go well, as there’s no reception in the wilds. I was going to be left to the elements, like a Greek bastard of myth, to die at the hands of exposure.
As we neared the coast a cheerful sign blinked that the ferry we were aiming for was cancelled and wouldn’t be running until the day after at the earliest cos it had blown away— buggery arse. That added three hours on to the drive to make the next ferry up the coast.
Suffice to say it wasn’t a barrel of laughs. But we got to a ferry which got us where we wanted to go and as the weather-shocked crew regrouped on the ferry deck the sunset popped out from under the clouds and the storm faded to the east.
We’d survived the green blob of doom.
Our destination island was odd, Wicker Man odd, the only word to describe it is ‘sparse’. The main town wouldn’t even be considered a hamlet on the mainland and we were staying way out in the sticks. An hour on single track but stunningly empty roads lead us to our gaff, the landlady greeted us as we pulled in and her chirpy chat sounded like Norwegian. Come to think of it she looked like a Viking, her horned hat must have been down the dry cleaners. The Norse influence in these parts was obviously deep rooted.
So there we were. In a comfy little house with a rather overboard swag of mainland ASDA groceries to see us through the week (for our surfer based Come Dine With Me homage). All was good. Until we hit the hay. I was sharing with staff photog Will, turns out Stu and Sam are proper shit at snoring compared to Will … and he sleeps deep. A meteor could strike the earth just outside the front door unleashing firey armageddon and he would sleep through it.
I, as a light sleeper, was doomed, ear plugs were no use as they’d get shaken out by Bailey’s somnambulistic sonic assault. Luckily I left my car on the mainland so could sit, sleep-deprived-zombie-trance like, in the back of Stu’s van as we explored the island in the coming days.
And boy did we explore…
Every nook and cranny that looked likely got sniffed, scoped and perused. Which is all well and good but the surf was bum. The four metre swell was nowhere to be seen. Odd as we had the whole Atlantic on our doorstep. So we drove, we walked, we explored.
We said things like, “With swell that could be good.” Which is a dumb thing to say.
As it was the first day we weren’t too stressed about scoring, the weather was sunny but freezing, and the swell had to be turning up any minute. So we got our bearings and figured out the lay of the land.
We woke up the next morning, for another supposedly sunny day, to find someone had painted all the houses windows with grey paint. Or it might’ve just been insanely foggy. Which it was. So foggy we couldn’t see the waves from the waters edge. Which is spooky when you’re on the edge of Europe and the currents are fierce. Didn’t stop us looking though.
We popped back down one of the few lanes that went to the coast passed an abandoned farm house we scoped the day before, there was a potential slab that had got Micah and Sam quite jazzed. Or we tried too. As we pulled off the single track main road onto the dirt track a 4×4’s lights came out of the gloom, drove to the bridge between us and parked squarely on it blocking our path. Sam and Micah wandered over to chat. The simple message was, “Farmhouse not abandoned, get the firk off my land, now do one.” All delivered from a scarred face farmer straight out of a low-budget horror film. If we’d been up on Scottish access laws we could have parked on the road and walked in exercising our ‘right to roam’ but we didn’t know that, so we created wildly slanderous scenarios as to what happened in the spooky farmhouse that even DIY SOS couldn’t fix and fantasised about the slab we’d been denied.
Heavy fog in unknown waters is a bit of a sod. We lost days to it’s damp, soggy blanket. We got the odd surf in here and there but nothing to write home about. Not that we could as we had no phone reception and the interweb hadn’t reached these parts as yet. Which to be honest, was quite refreshing, not being at the constant beck and call of emails, texts and the deep claws of social media was as fresh a breath of air as the clean goodness blowing in from the North Atlantic.
Our time on Wicker Island was coming to an end. We’d not scored. Will was tamping as his track record with these kind of trips is pretty stellar. A couple of two foot beachy sessions were not what he’d signed up for. We’d explored as much as we could but it just wasn’t happening.
So we gambled. Another little island, another ferry, a quick hit on our last day to try and save the trip. Which kinda worked. The fog remained clung like an overly clingy girlfriend to Wicker Island and as we cleared the sound to the next island the sun returned to our vitamin D deprived lives (little did we know it was ACTUALLY summer now down south). We rounded the bend to the first exposed beach, it was clean, there was swell, we could be on. We found a beach that had an epic little bar at one end and got stuck in, on cue the wind kicked up from zephyrs of offshore to gale force offshore but it was still barrelling.
Fun was had. Blood contracts made to visit again such was the potential. Chatting to local old fellas revealed they’d hardly ever seen surfers there. In fact in the whole week we’d met one other surfer. A local on Wicker Island who’d been out the water for a few years with a bad back. Think about that. Being the only surfer on your island, an island with more waves than you could surf in a lifetime. A bit spooky really. No wonder he was keen to surf with us.
Oh and for those of a culinary bent I reckon Sam won the cooking contest…
1. It used to be called Ceylon.
So you knew that already? Well, aren’t you clever? Did you know it should have been called Sinhela? But the colonial Brits couldn’t pronounce it easily so it became Ceylon and way back when the island was called Serendip from whence we get the word serendipity. As for the reason that the name changed from Ceylon to Sri Lanka? Well, with all the thorough and exhaustive research I’ve done it seems to have been changed because they could. Much like the Marathon to Snickers debacle it seems the idea was to take a world renowned and recognised brand name like Ceylon (read it and you immediately think: tea) and change it to something which means nothing to anyone. Good marketing skills!
2. A Scotsman started the tea trade.
Yup. Read it and weep. Coffee was the main product of Ceylon until a disease wiped out the plants in 1860s. Sensing diversification was needed an estate owner called in a Scot, James Taylor, to start a tea crop in 1867. His first tea made it to London in 1873 and production rose from 23lbs that year to 22,000 tons in 1890.
The best Ceylon teas (which retain the Ceylon name) come from bushes grown above 4,000 feet and are considered to be some of the finest in the world. Bizarrely tea snobs reckon Ceylon teas should be served with a dash of milk.
3. Cinnamon on your coffee sir?
Sri Lanka is the world’s leading exporter of Cinnamon spice, producing 80 percent of the world’s output as well as knocking out the choicest grade uberfine gear. It actually comes from the inner bark of a tree.
4. Elephant milk? No thanks.
Sri Lanka is big on elephants. Weird as it sounds you can, if you are very, very hard, milk elephants. Not that you’d want to, as their titty-dribble is so rich that it’s unpalatable. To recreate elephant milk at home here’s the recipe: 6 bottles of fresh cow milk, half a bottle of ghee, 27 eggs minus the yolk and 2 measures of boiled rice. Yumm!
5. The civil war is over.
Yup. Supposedly. In a deal brokered by the Norwegians (How the Scandies, with all their experience of civil strife got involved is another mystery) the dominant Sinhalese and minority Tamils downed arms and hugged each other a few years ago.
6. U.F.Os, astral portals and other crazy shit abounds.
If you do your research it becomes apparent that Sri Lanka is one crazy place. Some ‘scientists’ believe there are portals to parallel universes, Einstein-Rosen Bridges and lord knows what else there. U.F.Os are common. This is all either a) true or b) the jazz cigarettes are bloody strong.
7. Carom or Carrom is dangerously addictive.
Whatever the spelling this infernal game, a weird mix of pool, draughts and Subbuteo is annoyingly addictive and may ruin any trip to Sri Lanka. Word on the street is the Indian players have the edge over Sri Lankans and the bi-annual test series is a nail biter. Just don’t bring a board home, eh?
8. There was a man made bridge between Sri Lanka and India.
No word of a lie. Adams Bridge is visible on NASA satellite images and according to boffins was built over a million years ago. If you believe the crap some people write. The sandy shoal is actually a natural feature that may have been dry enough to cross when sea levels were much lower thousands of years ago.
9. The legend of Cyril.
Sometime ago, in the not so recent past, when there weren’t too many local surfers, some travellers would take the piss a bit and drop in a lot. Story goes that an English surfer dropped in on the wrong guy too many times. The offended local, known to everyone as Cyril, calmly paddled back to the beach, trotted back to his pad, grabbed a knife and paddled back out with the blade between his teeth ‘pirate’ style.
He calmly paddled up to the drop-in-king and stabbed him square in the shoulder. Teaching him a lesson in manners he’ll never forget. No one ever dropped in on Cyril again.
10. Thanks, I think?
Hard to explain or believe but the tsunami that caused such horror, carnage and made such a royal mess of Sri Lanka and caused so much strife across the Indian Ocean actually improved the quality of the wave in Arugam Bay?!
I’m laying in a field in Ireland staring into the blue. Mountains stretch out into the distance. Endless bays break up the shore. Sometimes the stillness of small corners of Earth can provide life’s most precious moments.
A time to stop and ask: “How good is this?”
Right there, right then, I was loving life in it’s simplest form. Laying in a field in the middle of nowhere admiring my surroundings and just taking it all in while listening to the sound of surfers having fun. Is there a better thing in life? I’m not sure there is. The sun was warm on my face. It felt good.
Out in the water four friends are riding a few waves. Enjoying the moment. Just four lads brought together by a love of surf, music and vagarity of chance. Rob, Jed, Pete and Rory. As a collective they are the Sunset Sons. Four surfers who are on one of the roller coast branch lines of life’s path. They are riding, laughing, smiling, making tunes that put a skip in peoples step, packing gigs and having a whole lot of fun.
Two years ago they hooked up to play a few covers and make a few bucks gigging in the hard partying bars of the Alps. By March this year they were at the heart of a music industry maelstrom and as a result signed Polydor’s biggest deal of the year. A five album deal no less. Which in this day and age of quick fixes and easy come, easy go, is testament to steadfast belief, a bidding war and some canny negotiations. From here on in however you should know them as ‘the lads’ because in surfing parlance that’s what they are, and good lads too.
So there I was in a remote field, sun shining, feeling surfed out and there they were in the surf. Every now and again I’d raise my head as one of the lads cruised across a deep blue wall. It had not been by any imagination a smooth trip, but it was possibly one of the best. Missed flights in an early morning rush, obstacles placed at every turn, yet every time a door shut another opened and a new friend had been made.
Skindog, Sharpy and I had arrived in Ireland on the Tuesday afternoon navigating life’s merry twists and turns as well as we could before arriving at a barrelling break in the middle of nowhere. Two surfers got out as we arrived so we paddled out into empty perfection as a double rainbow formed against dark clouds to the east, while the sun broke through blue skies to the west. A magical light illuminated most the session and our hoots and yells echoed in the silence. After a day that could have broken a weaker spirited person it was a triumph over adversity and one that had equally reminded us all why we love Ireland so much: the people and the environment. As for the lads, well they had been somewhat waylaid with press duties. Indeed two of them had to change flights and we would pick the other two up in morning.
The next morning was a typically Irish: dark, drizzly, dank. Skindog and I set off for the airport where Jed and Pete were waiting. We took the scenic route, inadvertently, but it was good to chat to the Dog about the vagaries of his world. Hugely respected and liked where ever he goes, yet to some still labelled “longboarder”. It’s a weird label seeing as most of the international surfing population see him as a very good surfer and he rides pretty much every type of board and size of wave with boundless enthusiasm. Longboarding and two second places in World Games have brought him fame and recognition where ever he goes, but high visibility will only get you so far, popularity and respect are much harder earned. He has an abundance of both.
Dog and Jed had hit it off at the Son’s gig in Perranporth the previous week, the afterglow of which had apparently gone on into the small hours. I’d never really met Jed despite us running shots of him and his Geordie crew when he was based in the Toon. He’s a big lad, but quiet and considered in his manner, a good surfer. One of the best younger east coast surfers a few years back. He has his head screwed on. After years of playing in cover bands and surf instructing in places like France and Fuerte’ he is now the drummer of the Sons. We have a lot of long term mutual friends so the strange ritual of meeting and greeting someone for the first time at an airport had the edge taken off. He was amping to know what the surf was like and how soon we would get in there. The lads had been busy with work stuff that had kept them out of the water for weeks. Jed just wanted to get barrelled.
Alongside Jed was Pete. He’s the random Aussie bass player. Pete’s cousin moved to France a few years ago and set up the Le Surfing bar, where the band met. Originally from Wollongong it also transpired we also had mutual friends both near and far so the car was soon filled with, “How is…” And, “What happened to…”, laughter, banter and funny tales. The vibe was good. Unfortunately other two band members were stuck in London due to the band being named as an MTV Break Out Act Of 2015. They were all supposed to be filming an indent for broadcast next year, but on seeing the chart Jed and Pete had bailed and sent the others to film. Possibly not a decision Simon Cowell would have let them get away with, but I had to admire their tenacity.
And thus their road trip began and we hit the track searching some of the quieter corners of Donegal Bay. Lifes merry twists and turns were soon joined by this stretch of coasts hard to call mix of swell direction and the effects of a spring tide. The search was on, and off, and on again as the tide dropped off slabs and onto others. The lads spent a day in wetties as opposed to music studios. All was good. Until back in London MTV twigged they only had half a band turning up for a very important video shoot. Predictably they threw one and demanded the full package be at their studios the next day. Imagine being let loose on a surf trip, getting up early, hitting the airport, on plane, off plane, picked up, dash around the coast and then being called back to London. Yes. Philosophical was the mood. But let’s face it, MTV demanding you go and film with them is not the worst problem to have.
So off they went while Skindog, Sharpy and I reassessed and relocated. Bundoran it was. Good old Fundoran. It would be pumping. And that is how we came to be surfing with dolphins. Just the three of us at a fun little peak. Earlier we had rocked up at PMPA which was kind of okay, but acting as meeting point for the local crew rather than the end destination. It was a good crew at that, both in size and in attitude. Numbers had been swollen by many visitors but the Bundoran boys are always a good mannered, solid surfing, bunch. One of my favourite crews from around the globe as it happens mainly because they work the old school rules; give respect, gain respect. Old smiles, new friends.
HQ established we were soon in the sea on a little running right. We had it to ourselves for hours until couple of local lads paddled out. We said hello, called each other into waves, got barrelled. Then off to the north fins broke the surface. Dolphins. And then they came. Swooping, diving, surfing, circling right around us. It was a pretty epic five minutes. Then they were gone back out to sea. It was shame to see them go, but we shouldn’t have worried. 20 minutes later they came back swimming right between us. Jumping and surfing waves. So close if you had reached (and they let you) you could have touched them. It was almost as if they were saying “See ya!” and off they went into the sunset. We’d been barrelled for four hours and surfed with dolphins. Pretty damn epic. Not of course if you are heading back to Ireland from an MTV recording and reading about it all in text message. Still after making the flight by two minutes and with an ETA of 12.30, base sorted and and all time forecast for the morning all was not lost for the lads.
It’s early morning. The wind is offshore. The swell is pumping. It’s a crisp, sweet, sunny day. The house is in chaos as the full line up of the Sunset Sons try and find their relevant boots, hoods, gloves and wetsuits. They go about it in a manner which suggests they are a close bunch of mates who had perhaps been travelling with other just a tad too long the previous day… and got up an hour too early. The other two members include Rory, the lead singer, keyboard guru and object of most ladies affections. He ended up being conscripted into the band after a performance at, yes that bar again, Le Surfing where he was spotted by Jed singing. He had arrived in Hossegor looking for waves, got adopted by Wales’s favourite surfing son, Carwyn Williams, and there he stayed. I liked Rory. He has a voice for sure, and presence, but he has a great ability to make you laugh. Chicks also love Rory but you can’t hold it against him. He’s that kind of guy. You would have beer with him except he had to stop drinking as he likes it too much so he sticks to water.
Rob meanwhile is different again. He is the quiet one. The axe man. Possibly, I thought, axe murderer as he was so quiet among the dawn mayhem. But then he came out with a dry quip and everything was alright. While all others are probably what I would call surfers turned professional musicians, Rob was bought in due to his musical proficiency… and then thrown in the deep end as the lads taught him to surf at places like the heaving shore dump of La Graviere.
20 minutes later and we are overlooking sunny offshore, if slightly inconsistent, four foot barrels. The lads, amped to a factor of 15 on a scale of ten really didn’t need any encouragement from a Skindog who was frothing harder than the last pint of Betty Stoggs from a hand pump, but they got it anyway. It was a start of a six and a half hour session. I asked Jed later when the last time he had surfed for so long was, “When I was about 13?” was the answer.
To begin the tide was a little high and with morning sickness affecting many of the other breaks it was more crowded than I had seen this little stretch of coast, but it was still pretty epic. The lads were joined by Emmet O’Doherty, Conor Maguire, Andrew Kilfeather, Barry Mottershead and Dylan Stott. But it was as the tide dropped and the crowd dispersed that the magic started to happen. With a dropping wind and tide the swell began to line up, the crowd started thinning and people started calling each other into waves. There were eight second pits, hoots, a rotation in the line-up, smiles and a general vibe often lost in other areas of the world. As the sun started to drop the tubes became golden to the point where it was hard to see as you travelled through them, light glinting off the hollow face. Lips becoming translucent, mesmerising. It wasn’t heavy, it was fun. As fun as fun gets. A moment in time that stays in your memory. I remembered two friends who are in hospital at home and got one each for them. I shouted, whistled, hooted, smiled again. We all did. And we all surfed for hours. Six people eventually became four, became three, became one. On exit we found Rob and Rory had done a shop run and handed out roast chicken, sandwiches and cakes. It was pretty perfect.
That evening was pretty special. Emmett, who’s family own the Chasing Bull pub, managed to get the lads the loan of all the instruments and equipment they needed for an impromptu gig. The place was packed with Bundoran surfers old, second generation and visitors all having scored during the day. It was good. Many pints were drunk. And this is how I ended up laying in a field in the middle of nowhere on a Saturday afternoon pondering life’s great path on the last full day of the trip. I wondered where we would all be in twelve months time. Then I wondered if the guys a Shells in Strandhill would have any nice cake. They did, and they also had more surf and sun out the front, the lads dug in again.
The Saturday night turned out to be less rock and roll than I imagined spending a Saturday night with a rock and roll band would be. The lads have a pact not to make the mistakes of previous bands and drink themselves into oblivion within six months of signing their deal. They are grounded and they have their heads screwed on. They know this is their shot and they are going to take it. Plus the forecast was good again, and they wanted to get up for a dawny before once again hitting the road. So it was a steak in the Bridge Bar, laughs and conversation. A world away from life on the road, and even, heaven forbid, computer screens and wifi. We were into the realms of a good old fashioned surf trip. We talked of the band and what was happening all around them. They are very down to earth, and self effacing, “We’re not the best musicians the world, but we just love what we do.”
“It’s a kinda weird when you walk into a bar and people are kinda pointing, want you to sign autographs or have their photos taken. I mean it’s just us..?”
“The best gig we have ever played was in Ullapool. The people up there just go crazy!” That was it. No antics, no airs and graces. Just the pub with mates, a discussion on making the most of the rented cottages laundry facilities, a constant battle for the road warrior band, then a bit of QI.
Next morning Rob and Rory chose a lay in so Jed, Pete and I go to the reef. It is misty but three foot and pumping. We have two hours so suit up and head in. As soon as we reach the peak the sets stop so we sit about looking at each other. Ashore a van draws up with some surfers in. We all sit and wait, and wait, and … you get the picture. The van drives off. As it clears the bend and goes out of view the first set arrives. The swell pulses. We start hooting, calling each other into waves. Cold it be a perfect end to a surf trip? The mist eases back from the water to the shore and turns orange in the daybreak. Yes it could. It’s another incredible view for the memory bank. Three out, soon to be joined by our good friend Emmett, sharing waves. Jed and Pete have their best surf of the trip.
The trip back to the airport was filled with laughs and comfortable tired silences. It was the end of an epic little road trip, but I’m convinced just the start of something special for the lads. And off they went, off into the real world, a whole random road of life as a rock and roll band awaits. The love of the finer things in life bonds them though. Surfing and friendship. We wish them luck.
(You can check out their first two EPs and pre-order the new one on iTunes)
Pro surfers with a heavy competition schedule use their free time to relax at home, or travel and discover new places.
Featured here is Marc Lacomare, gambling with Mama Nature to find waves in Nicaragua, before heading to California to compete at the US Open of surfing.
On his journeys around the world he has the privilege to experience local culture, and one day, looking for food, some music and screams attracted our curiosity that led us to witness the wild world of underground cockfights…
Clark Little used to be renowned for being the lone surfer with the minerals to surf big Waimea shorebreak with the hungry pack of boogers. Now he’s the world’s most famous shorebreak photographer. A photographer that’s taken his own path and now inspired a legion of acolytes. Keiki shorebreak has been shot for years by different photographers but none have made it’s sandy, warped caverns their own like Clark. Join him for a day in the office courtesy of Tournotes.
So. As you know Mick Fanning stole a march on his fourth world title yesterday in Portugal. With Gabriel Medina throwing his toys out the pram and Slater’s uncharacteristic loss to Aritz it’s all to play for coming in to Pipeline. The scenarios below lay out who needs what. It is, in essence, Medina’s to lose. If he bungles it in the early rounds then it becomes a duel between Fanning and Slater. History would favour Slater in such a scenario. But Medina is no North Shore slouch. Even with limited experience at Pipe he has already made the quarters there. It’s going to be a fascinating tussle. Assuming the locals let the ASP run the event with the only two local wildcards…
If Medina finishes 2nd or better at the Billabong Pipeline Masters, he will clinch the 2014 ASP World Title.
If Medina finishes 3rd at the Billabong Pipeline Masters, Fanning will need to win the event and Slater will be out of contention.
If Medina finishes 5th at the Billabong Pipeline Masters, Fanning will need to win the event and Slater will be out of contention.
If Medina finishes 9th at the Billabong Pipeline Masters, Fanning will need to finish 2nd or better and Slater will be out of contention.
If Medina finishes 13th or 25th at the Billabong Pipeline Masters, Fanning will need to finish 3rd to win or 5th to send the title race into a one-heat “surf-off” between himself and Medina.
If Medina finishes 13th or 25th at the Billabong Pipeline Masters, Slater will need to win the event.
A voyage off the map into a feck off big storm and a week of remote adventure…
