Just before Christmas I was a bag nerves. My heart was beating fast as I drove the now familiar ‘Atlantic Highway’, and it was nothing to do with the icy conditions. I’d had the call. It was VP day; the day I would be taking my Vanity Project home.

Thanks to the snow I couldn’t make it up for the pin lining or final glassing, but Mikey from Seed had kept me in the loop about how my board was shaping up. And now I could see it in all its glory. Which is why I was worried. What if it wasn’t glorious at all?

What if what I thought would look beautiful was actually going to be garish, bright and all together tasteless?

This was the bitter side of bespoke board making. Before now I hadn’t experienced the worry that can come with custom orders. I trusted Mikey to do a great job, and he seemed happy with how it was shaping up;  the look and feel of the board wasn’t keeping him awake at night. Or maybe that’s what he tells all his customers – even if their decisions are way, way off.

As I passed the Wild West Theme Park, the turnings for Padstow and St Merryn, my concerns about how the board might look took a swerve towards panic. Panic that I’d never be able to ride it.

Mikey and I talked a lot when we started this; about how long I’ve been surfing, what sort of waves I like to ride, my paddling strength, my ability. He responded with a shape that he said would satisfy and challenge me, but what if it wouldn’t? What if he misunderstood? Thought I was more capable than I am? Created something that would be great for someone a little bit quicker, faster, stronger – but out of my league.

I could hardly breathe as I pulled into the industrial estate and switched off the engine under the Seed shop sign.

This was it.

The shop was quiet. I called out. Mikey’s grinning face peered out from the office.

‘Want to see it?’

I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure. Half of me just wanted to leave, so I could preserve the perfect image in my head of how my board would look; would ride. But before I could say anything he was off. Bolting up to the shaping room to bring it down.  There was no escape now. I would just have to go through with it.

It came through the back, tail first.

Rails pulled in to a point; it’s muted brown and orange stripes gleamed in the bright winter sunshine. The smooth rocker planed off to a wide nose which begged for a cheeky five to hang over the edge. As Mikey flipped it over, I saw the striking patterned inlay; its quirky ’60s screen printed pattern framed by precision pin lining; a gentle curve separating the colours from the creamy white panel up front. It was beautiful. Thank God.

Mikey’s grin was still there; he liked it too. It was all alright. No need for the panic, worry or wheel skids as my mind had been wandering on the way up. I loved it.

As I stroked the rails, felt the weight, held it under my arm, we talked again. This time about the fin set up, what would work best, when I would get the chance to get her in the water. I was getting excited.

And now I am here. Still excited two weeks later. Out of the water a third time after its first few sessions.

Blue sky, cold air, punchy waves; perfect board. Mikey was right – he’s made something that fits me perfectly. Pushes me but responds to me. Something I find easy to paddle, take off and turn. But something that I know will make me a better surfer too.

As I stand here with my brand new board under my arm I think back to why I started this in the first place. To have something I was proud of, something that made me feel great in the water. Something that looked beautiful; to me.

I know that custom made boards are all about personal taste and that one board isn’t going to look and feel right for everyone. But stood here right now, on the shoreline, after a great surf, I have to say the taste of my own little Vanity Project is pretty sweet.

Find out how I got here with The Vanity Project part I, II, III and IV.

I never really thought about how much dust one surfboard creates. I suppose I’d never needed to. But standing here in Seed’s workshop, watching as the final resin lap of my little vanity project gets sanded down, I am amazed at how much of the stuff is flying around. It’s everywhere. Coating the surfaces, the posters, the floor, me, Mikey –there’s no escape from the continuous flurry of microscopic powder that’s pluming from the board’s surface.

“It’s funny,” Mikey talks as he sands vigorously, “surfers have this reputation for being environmentally aware. I think a lot of us try our hardest to be green but then surfing itself is a pretty polluting activity, what with the boards, the wetsuits, the sunscreen, wax…”

It’s a frustrating truth. Stood here, brushing the white from my sleeves it’s hard to ignore the toxic edge to surfboard making. Mikey points out that in essence the process and materials haven’t changed much since the ‘70s when significant quanitities of foam boards started coming out of shaping rooms. Which means four decades of foam filled bin bags, vicious chemical resins, and snowdrift upon snowdrift of dust.

Of course, there’s guys like Tom Wegener and companies like Patagonia doing their best to lift the eco-credentials of the sport one paulownia board and merino-lined wetsuit at a time, but it’s still elitist; only for those with enough pounds in their pocket to go green. When it comes to the rest of us, for the time being it’s a case of trying to forget the bad stuff and focus on the good (while making sure we recycle properly, use the car less and buy Fairtrade to counterbalance our wave habit).

So to focus on the good for a moment, I can see that in amongst all this dust there’s a beautiful board almost ready to take flight. Since my last visit, Mikey’s managed to take her from a resin-dripping, crazy cloth covered wannabe, to a striking, bespoke piece of craftsmanship; so close to being surf ready I can almost see the saltwater rolling off her rails.

He continues to scour the resin leash loop into shape as we talk fin boxes, pinlines and other finishing touches – the excitement is back in his eyes after last time when solving the board’s challenges weighed heavy. He’s found the solutions, resolved any issues and come up trumps. I can see he’s pleased with the board; we both are.

The end is in sight and if what I see right now is anything to go by, I’d have to say it looks like it’s going to be a mighty pretty one.

Check out how we got here, with the earlier instalments of The Vanity Project, Part I, II and III

I always new surfing was about quick thinking. There’s no time to dally when you’re hunting for your wave of the day. A second’s pause could make the difference between total stoke and total slam. But shaping? Well that’s more considered, right? Carefully and tenderly crafting something beautiful, purely through skilful hands and measured movements.  Not exactly.

Of course, it’s all about know-how. Talent, knowledge and experience are required by the bucket load when it comes to top notch boardmaking but so, it seems, is a rather speedier cog whirring ratio than I’d ever bargained for. That is, if the Vanity Project is anything to go by.

Mikey is up to stage three on my bespoke board and the atmosphere in the Seed workshop feels decidedly different. Less excited about the possibilities and more focused on getting it exactly right.

His eyes are moving left and right and I can practically hear the brain cells fizzing.  “Our spur of the moment decision has come back to bite us,” he mutters, looking at the fabric as he gets out his scissors, curves, string, pencils. He’s calculating how to make this work; to make the best looking board he can out of a raggedy square of ’60s style print. “There’s the logistics of the pattern to consider, lining it up with the colours on the underside, making sure it’s perfect.”

It’s not just my board being difficult. Fabric inlays require some serious brain time. Choosing a fabric that won’t add too much weight, making sure the material doesn’t bubble under the resin, ensuring everything lines up and looks good; getting neat, sharp edges. It’s a risky business, but a worthwhile one. I’ve seen the results. There’s some tasty examples out there from the classic styles sported by Bing Lovebirds, to the quirkier stuff that Joel Tudor’s Kookboxx is turning out.  So making sure the Vanity Project steps up to the mark is obviously going to take work. And all Mikey’s faculties.

“I’m not willing to compromise,” he explains as he airjets off a pencil line that doesn’t have quite the right curve in it for his liking. “It’s such a permanent thing at this stage and I can just tell if it’s not right, by look and feel.”

Of course I am happy about his perfectionist tendencies. My board is going to be all the better for it. And there’s something exciting about seeing someone working in such a precise and focused manner on something that ultimately I get to walk out the shop with. I feel lucky as I watch him measure by eye; executing his plan for a better curve with a homemade compass. I’m safe in the knowledge that at the end of the day I’m going to reap the rewards. Mikey’s furrowed brow is my sleeping easy.

“It’s funny, because you have an idea in your mind and sometimes you have to tweak and tease that idea as you go along to make sure you get the best result,” he explains as he mixes up the resin to lap over the fabric, which is skirted by masking tape as an raised indicator for him to feel where it will need cutting. “There’s no point thinking about it too much though, often you’ll try and find a better solution and end up coming back to plan number one in the first place. I have learnt to trust my instincts and believe in the process but there’s still a bit of thinking on my feet involved too.”

I leave Mikey as he starts to glass the board, all this quick thinking is making my head hurt. Although that could just be the fumes. Again.

Until next time…

Read previous instalments of The Vanity Project; Part I and Part II

“I always knew that for me, working life was going to be about making stuff.” Mikey is smiling. And so am I. Looking at my board as it sits, bright, crisp and clean in the workshop I understand what he means. Making stuff is clearly in his blood.

I’ve come back up to Seed Surf Co. in Wadebridge to talk about phase II of the Vanity Project, but at the moment I’m too busy revelling in phase I; how Mikey has taken those early discussions we had and turned it into something bespoke, beautiful, rideable.

“I’ve brought the tail right in, rolled the rails slightly, given you a rolled entry into single concave and flat out the tail. This should help the water flow and create a nice bit of glide. It’s light, but I’ve kept the volume so it is easy to get onto waves,” he explains, “it’s going to be great fun to ride – in fact I think I might have to make one for myself.”

As we talk he runs his finger along the rails, peers down the stringer, lightly sands an edge. Even though shaping’s over, you can sort of tell he’s not done with it – that if he could he would be fine tuning for days. “I am definitely a perfectionist,” he laughs as we carry the board through to the glassing room, “I think it comes from working with my Dad when I was younger – that was pretty meticulous stuff.” He tells me that he spent his teenage years in Surrey masking and spraying for the likes of British Aerospace and Mclaren F1 as part of his Dad’s business. That coupled with restoring old cars and making skateboards in his garage explains the eye for detail – but what about the shaping skills?

“The guys at Revolver really set me up,” he explains. “I came to Newquay when I was 19 with an armful of skates to sell to shops in the town. I walked into Revolver because I liked the look of it and never left!”  Mikey  sat in and watched as Matt Bevis and the rest of the Revolver crew shaped, chatted and flaunted their wares, eventually setting up a workshop opposite Bevis where he continued to hone his craft.

But it wasn’t just the skills that took shape, working and playing with Revolver influenced his visual aesthetic too – a style we begin to delve into as we choose what coat my board should be wearing. I am already a sucker for the Sixties – Mad Men is practically etched into my eyelids right now – so I know I have come to the right man. References to the halcyon days of surfing dominate every corner – from the battered old suitcases and soda syphons which decorate his shop, to the muted colours sported in his board rack and the bold patterns hanging on his walls.

It’s these patterns that Mikey suggests as a starting point for my board, taking the materials used by quirky boardsock makers Odd Socks as inspiration. We talk fabric inlays, tiger stripes and burnt oranges. We dig around in a black bag of curtains, sheets and tablecloths; laying out scraps and offcuts on the floor to see if there is anything that grabs us. Mikey’s brain starts ticking as he suggests a way to tie the design together; create something that really stands out. He looks excited.

Colours chosen, Mikey sets to work, mixing pigments into purple goopy resin, colourmatching by eye, adding a spot; stirring, a spot more; stirring. “This is why people call me ridiculously anal,” Mikey laughs his arm tiring from all the mixing. “I just want to get it exact, it might be your board but it’s my brand out there, my handiwork; I want it to be something I’m proud of.” His passion and precision is comforting at a point when the fate of my board’s look and feel is about to be laid on the line.

With six different shades of yellow, brown and orange tint all prepared, he’s ready to start. This is creativity against the clock, because as soon as the catalyst hits the tinted resin there’s just twenty minutes to lap the board and get the design down. We put our masks on. He starts to pour.

Half an hour later and I am driving home, brain a little fuzzy from the fumes. The underside of the board is looking great and I can’t wait until next week when I’ll be back up to see how Mikey does the fabric inlay.

Tiny Danceris keeping me company on the Golden Oldies and I am grinning from ear to ear. It’s making me giddy, this process, I am genuinely revelling in it. Although that could be the chemicals. Whatever. Smiling until your face aches is a pretty good way to start and finish the day.

Until next time…

–

Check out The Vanity Project, Part I to find out how it all began

20 September 2010, Day I.

Second-hand is fine, I’ve always told myself. Second-hand is easier, cheaper, less to worry about. I’ve always been clumsy, both on the land and in the water so knowing that the boards I own have already been through the mill and won’t suffer too badly from the old ‘carpark finger-slip’ combination or a rock-bumping wipeout has been comforting to me.

With the surface scratches, pressure marks and discolouration of preloved boards came the reassurance that whether my board got mishandled by baggage claim flying back from Brazil or whether it flew itself, off the roof of my car going full speed on the dual carriage way (true story), I wouldn’t have to lose too much sleep over it. For someone like me, pride and joy seemed misplaced when it came to recreational water-based activities.

However, despite the years of enjoyment  I’ve had out of my bashed up yet much loved McTavish, my fun-loving factory-made egg and my anonymous bright red beast complete with ‘Jesus Loves You’ written on its stringer, simply known as Crazy Tracy, something has been nagging at me. It’s there in the pit of my stomach every time I walk to the water’s edge, eyeing up everyone elses as they prepare to paddle out. It’s there when I log on and see the treats that Sea , Revelation and Mandala have to offer. It’s there when my less clumsy friend brags about his beautiful, bespoke fish with custom glass job which sits shiny and new on his study wall. Envy.

I don’t need one, of course. My second-hand quiver is fit for all occasions. It has served me well. I know that. But this isn’t about need. I want a board that deserves to be on a wall rather than behind a sofa. A board that makes mouths water when I stand on the shoreline with it clutched under my arm. A board that has been made for my tastes, my gangly limbs, my ability. I want my stomach to settle, to get rid of the relentless envy eating away at me.

So it’s to be a vanity project then, pure and simple. It’s time for me to put aside my fear of dings and damages and invest in something eye-catching, something stunning, something that’s mine and mine alone.

“It’s not about retro boards, it’s about performance focused modern boards with a classic aesthetic. I want to take the best of the past and combine it with current knowledge.” Mikey from Seed Surf Co. is talking my language. His classically-inspired industrial unit on Dunveth Business Park in Wadebridge says it all. Surrounded by kitchen fitters and scrap metal dealers, he has carved out a little slice of old school soul, from the restored camper van out front to the bleached-out photos hung on the walls inside. This place is a breath of fresh air in the high paced, fashion orientated, trend following surf industry of today. Then there’s the boards. Each one a work of art, with muted colours, loose lines and flourishes a-plenty. They look beautiful.

But it’s not all about style. There’s substance to Seed Surf Co. too. Along with the masterful tint work which gives his boards such a stand-out look, he’s got the local surf knowledge and shaping skills to make sure there’s something pretty special under the glass, something designed for British waves that promises to pack a real punch.

“I’ve got a couple of super talented friends who are committed thruster fans, so I get them try out my shapes,” Mikey explains. “They’ve been flying on the quad, fish and other short boards I’ve been making. I’m trying to take my boards to more of a performance place and it seems to be going down well.”

He shows me around the workshop. There’s a multi-press screen printing machine thing in one corner, a broken board in the other and a lot of paint in between. Mikey’s sideline is in screenprinting, a business he bought in 2008, relocated and then gradually introduced his shaping trade into. It means he can think designs, colours, t-shirt prints, posters, shapes, tints and glass jobs all in the same space at the same time – great for getting the creative juices flowing. Upstairs in the board room I see a couple of his works-in-progress on the bench, both featuring tasty colour combinations; interesting designs. “The whole creative attitude to surfing is only just taking off over here,” he continues. ” There’s guys like Squire, Diplock Phoenix, and Empire pushing the scene forward and it’s great to be considered a part of that.”

I like Mikey.  He knows his stuff and he’s humble too. Easy to get along with. We chat about my vanity project, about what I am after, about what I want it to do.  We talk specs and he convinces me to go smaller, lighter; to consider challenging myself a little, pushing out of my comfort zone for an ultimately better ride.

He’s right. If I’ve learned one thing from what Mikey does it’s that looking good is only half the battle. And if I want a board that I’m proud of it should be one that I love to ride too.

I’m excited. I’ve never been excited about getting a board before. This is all new to me. It’s not envy sitting at the pit of my stomach as I sign the order form. It’s butterflies. Let the Vanity Project commence…

My mouth was full when it happened. Succulent, juicy tuna steak still purple in the middle, crisp black griddle lines searing across its surface, the tang of lime and coriander on my lips. Delicious. I didn’t choose to watch it, not really, but there was nothing else on and, well I like nature programmes; I like documentaries. Flicking to More 4 didn’t feel like it could do any harm and this film got screened at Sundance last year for goodness sake, it had to be worth a look. So my thought train went. I almost wish it hadn’t.

My dinner lay cold on the table as 15 minutes in, the full horror of what I was watching emerged.  Two years in the making, The End of the Line is a chilling scientific prophecy about what our world will look like in 40 years time, though not because of global warming, or oil leaks or any of the usual environmental culprits. No, this threat is even closer to home, even more tangible. In fact, last night it was sitting on my plate. Overfishing is destroying our oceans.

The documentary, made by investigatory filmmaker Rupert Murray and based on a book by Charles Clover, wasn’t going to sugar coat it. It laid its cards early; hard and fast on the table.

If we keep fishing the way we are now, there will be no fish left by 2048. None.

According to the WWF as many as 90% of all the ocean’s large fish have been fished out. Over the last 10 years fishermen’s hauls have declined by up to 80% as fish stocks have been unable to recover from the intense harvesting they are subjected too. If the ocean were a field, the documentary explains, trawling is like ploughing for crops seven times a year. What can grow in those conditions?

Watching how the demand for cod in Newfoundland in the 1990s led to the decimation of the most abundant cod population in the world was bad. Finding out that the longline fishing industry sets 1.4 billion hooks a year on enough line to encircle the globe more than 550 times was worse. Discovering that at present global fishing fleets are 250% larger than oceans can sustainably support was frightening.

But the most terrifying segment of the film came with the relevations around the plight of the bluefin tuna. Now as endangered as the white rhinoceros but still being hunted for rich diners’ tables, the commercial fishing boats are voracious in their hunt for the big bucks that bluefin commands.

Granted, the documentary had a point to make and cut no corners hammering it home. Evocative montages of whitewater boiling with blood as fins thrashed and fisherman waded in, knives held high, ready to slaughter are still burned into my retina, but these are empassioned campaigners and they’re not asking much, really.

The film finished with a set of simple solutions which, combined with political will, could halt the demise of our oceans’ ecosystem before it is too late:

Ask before you buy and only eat sustainable seafood

Tell politicians to respect the science and cut the fishing fleet

Join the campaign for marine protected areas and responsible fishing

Of course, it’s not a crystal clear case; nothing ever is. Cutting the fishing fleet is a big ask, economically and socially and the statistics continue to be debated because there is no definitive way to measure what’s going on under the waves. However, thanks to End of the Line, I for one am convinced that responsible fishing has to be the way forward if our oceans and our fishing industries are to survive. Regardless of how tempting those two for £5 tuna steaks on the Sainsbury’s fish counter are.

If you are interested in finding out more about The End of the Line documentary and campaign, log onto their website where you can watch trailers and campaign update films as well as read about the making of the documentary, and current activity. You can also watch webisodes of The End of the Line on Babelgum.

It’s 5.30pm and I’m strapping the boards on the car. 5.30pm and I’m only just about to leave – no early finishes, no afternoon off, but it doesn’t matter because 5.30pm today doesn’t mean what it did a couple of weeks ago. 5.30pm today doesn’t leave me with only an hour left of light in the sky, 5.30pm today doesn’t mean a cold chill setting on as the sun goes down and the frost starts to rise, 5.30pm doesn’t mean having to hunker down and wait until morning.

Because it’s spring time. Officially spring time. We’ve all made it through the coldest winter in years, frozen faces and hands, icy headaches diving under and freezing wind chill coming back up; we’ve survived and this is our reward. Light until well after 8pm when the wind drops down to a barely detectable offshore so that the waist high waves glass off and peel away as the sun sets below the horizon, warm on our skin until the last second.

It’s a dream that kept me going through the winter, a dream that now, after a fast-paced half hour drive is being realised. Suiting up quickly, no need for hats and gloves, I paddle out and sit back, waiting for my slice of the pie. But there’s one thing I hadn’t counted on, one thing I had wiped from my memory, one thing that seems to occur naturally through the winter, but which, as the air warms up and the sun comes out, soon becomes a thing of the past.

To start with, out in the water, it all works fine. A group of 10 and we all know the score. We’ve done our cold weather penance and earned our place on the peak. Take off, paddle back out, wait our turn. It might make your fingers itch, watching glassy little walls roll on by while those in front of us hoot as they slide across the surface, but we don’t mind because we know we’re next. That’s how it works. Then they come. Scores of them. Each one armed with their plastic board and new smelling wetsuit. They’re down for the weekend, first year studying here or finally taking it up after years of standing on the beach. It doesn’t matter what their motivations are – all that matters is that they are here with only a few hours of Xtreme Channel viewing and a gut full of enthusiasm to show them the way.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a problem with learners. We’ve all been there, standing in the shallows getting our first taste, building our confidence then paddling out past the white water to try the green waves beyond. And sure, it’s hard at beach breaks where the peaks shift around. If you’ve not been in the water much, knowing how the waves are going to behave and how people are going to behave on them, can be tricky, but you just have to get smart. Keep your wits about you, be aware that there are other surfers in the water too, look around and get the hang of how it’s supposed to be done; it’s all part of the learning curve. We all did it, right? The problem is, with the ever rising popularity of surfing, as the late light and warmer water arrives, so too do those learners who haven’t found out what they should do in the water, who don’t look around them and who paddle for every wave because they want to give it a go, regardless of whether someone else has already got right of way.

Dropping in, snaking, ignoring the line-up or just blindly floating around; all that’s bad enough. But the real problem with those especially ignorant learners is that they agitate everyone else in the water. No-one likes their waves being taken time and time again, so it’s not long before other surfers start to ignore good practice too, because if they don’t they’ll never get a wave. Suddenly it becomes every man for himself and there’s even more dropping in, even more snaking, even more aggression. What started out as the blissful dream of summer becomes a churning cauldron of frustrated surf reality with no-one getting the waves they want because everyone is trying to get the waves they want. For me, out in the water, summertime blues seriously set in as I remember that to have a good seasonal surf I’m going to have to play a bit dirty. Which sucks.

However, there is a solution and a pretty simple one. January 2010 saw new signs go up on the beaches around Sydney, Australia. With surfing an integral part of Aussie culture and busy beaches all year round, the councils took affirmative action by putting up surf etiquette signs to explain the rules for everyone riding the waves.

Now I know Cornwall’s no Australia, but there are more people getting in here than ever before and it is causing more trouble. If everyone in the water understood the rules then those who already knew the rules would be more likely to abide by them and we’d all end up happier, surely? The good habits built up over the winter when the water is emptier wouldn’t melt away as the sun came out and the ugly every man for himself mentality would stay on shore.

Idealistic? Yes, but then let’s face it – that’s what dreams of British Summer Time are all about…

I chewed it over so many times as my arms dug deep through the water that the word lost all meaning, suddenly reduced to empty hollow letters tripping off my lips, just a noise I was making to drown out the sound of my blood pounding. Which was telling me everything was not. Fine.

It had all started so well. A quiet afternoon, a big winter swell, light offshores. Those are the best days, the unexpected days, the ‘am I really going to be this lucky,’ days where you’re stood surveying a near empty lineup at 2.30pm on a work day with the sun shafting through the February murk, head high faces flying off the river mouth.

And I felt lucky out back too. For a while. A few sets in and I had had my pick of fast punchy rights, garnering nods of encouragement from the handful in the water, a confidence boost for someone like me; no longer a novice but far from accomplished. Then the chop started. I didn’t notice it at first, too busy looking along the beach to the left hand peak banking up and rolling in. Someone took off; tucked in tight as spray flew back, dancing forward heel over toe, with arms up high and smile stretched wide. I smiled too, closed my eyes for a second to feel the warm sunshine and breathed deep. This is why I live here, I thought, this is what it’s about.

That’s when it happened, or I should say, when I realised it was happening. I looked around; I was at least 30 metres further out than everyone else and moving fast. Out to sea. I started to paddle left, scooping full, rounded strokes to draw myself out of the current. No luck. I tried paddling in. Fifty strokes, one hundred strokes. I had to stop to breathe. I wasn’t moving anywhere. Now I was worried. I was tired. And cold. And no-one was with me. The other surfers were wide of the river mouth, contentedly waiting for the next set to roll in, their eyes fixed on the advancing swell ahead of them, not looking in my direction at all. Every time I lifted my head to check they seemed further away; the boarded up lifeguard hut perched on the cliff top impossibly small. I tried to calm myself; perhaps all it would take was a few big strokes before I was free and laughing and back in the game – but the more I paddled the more I realised that there was no more game, or that this was the game now, paddling hard, then harder, to avert disaster.

Overhead I could hear the dull thud of a Sea King on manoeuvres and I found myself wondering what I would need to do to catch its attention. If I stopped to wave I would lose all the ground I had made up and anyway that would be like giving in, like admitting I shouldn’t have come out in the first place, like saying yes, I’ve taken on too much here, I can’t cope. Although as the relentless paddling sapped my strength and the cold wash of reality flooded my wetsuit I knew that that was the truth; I couldn’t cope, I wasn’t moving – I was losing the battle and losing energy. Fast.

It started to hurt. I felt cheated; betrayed by my favourite break which I had surfed for years and which just shouldn’t be treating me like this. I’d have expected it of Brazil, where I learnt the powerful channel at Saquarema should be handled with care, or in Lanzarote where I was warned to stay vigilant of Playa de Famara’s rip which had dragged more than a few surfers out to sea. But here, where I was at home, where I grew up riding whitewater on my bellyboard, where my Gran fished from the rocks in the 1930s; this place was part of the family and family shouldn’t treat you so bad.

Which is when I worked it out. It’s teaching me a lesson, I thought as I stopped for a moment desperate to catch my breath before dropping my jaw to my board, digging deep and ploughing on. I’d got complacent, got cocky, forgot to stay aware; too wrapped up in feeling smug to pay attention, to pay my dues. I found myself apologising, as the last gasps of energy drained through my limbs, promising not to do it again, not to forget who was the boss out here.

It felt like forever before I could make out the concerned features of one of the other surfers; offering a tentative thumbs up as my spent arms slapped the water to draw me the final few feet forward. I nodded back, too tired to speak, silently catching whitewater into the shallows.

Sand has never felt so good.

Lying on the shore, lungs stinging, I could still hear the helicopter circling, slicing through my dazed relief, a reminder of what could have been – me wrapped up in a tinfoil sheet, fished out of the sea all blue lips and shivering. Or worse.

Lesson learnt. I’ll never take the sea for granted again, no matter where I am.

Oh and I’ll never close my eyes in smugness on a surfboard. It’s an accident waiting to happen.

With ice forming on the beaches, snow in the air and one of the coldest winters ever on the cards, 2010 has so far dictated that getting in the water must be a precise, calculated and efficient affair. If frostbite is going to claim my digits I want to bag a session that makes it worth it.

When it’s blowing a blizzard outside, turning to the  internet for valuable wave information is the obvious answer, but up until now, surf websites and I haven’t exactly been seeing eye to eye. I’ve tried my hardest to get on good terms with windguru, magicseaweed and the rest, but although they try hard, sometimes they just don’t get it right.

Although still a favourite on my tool bar, magicseaweed can be a bit unreliable if the buoys are being bombarded – it seems all too easy for them to get thrown of kilter so that the online report  is left flipping the swell direction and wave period around like a metronome on overdrive. I’ve often stayed in on a dreary winter’s day because I’ve logged on, seen 25 mile an hour cross shores and a five second wave period only to speak to my more fortunately located friends to find out the reports got it wrong and a clean headhigh offshore wave was breaking on the push.

The webcam based sites aren’t much better. A revelation when it was launched, tiger24 offered streamed footage and stills of major beaches across the Southwest. However, with out of date images and offline cameras a regular issue, it can be hard to tell whether you’re looking at a recent shot or being conned into throwing your wetsuit in the car on the promise of some crisp winter water time only to be greeted by the onshore blustery mush of reality.

Gwithianlines can be similarly deceptive.  It’s a great little website if you happen to want to surf within an hour window of when the snap of the break is taken and uploaded, not so ideal if you are basing your afternoon’s surf decisions on a shot taken at 07:51am.

Now I know all this points towards the fact that there really is nothing that beats getting out there and checking for yourself, getting to know your local breaks and when they will be working – but it isn’t that easy if you work, if your green conscience keeps biting you in the back every time your engine chugs into life, or if you don’t have the necessary supernatural knowledge of wind and tide to be able to make the right call time and time again. For people like me who sit in all three camps, sometimes a push in the right direction can be mighty helpful. So where to turn…

Enter Twitter, your new best friend.  Yes, I was a sceptic at first too – the luddite in me is always clawing to get out, but I was introduced to social ‘i-balling’ over Christmas and I’ve never looked back.  Armed with an i-phone and a twitter account you’re able to find out exactly how the coast is looking from other like-minded tweeting surfers who are scouring local spots and telling you the score, so you can make the most informed decision possible.

Surfers of a technological persuasion are tweeting when they arrive, before they get in and when they get out, letting you know what the conditions are like, how the wind is looking, even what board to use.  It’s like having a dozen sets of eyes in 12 places at once and of course when you arrive at your destination you can retweet to pass the love on to the next surfer who logs on hunting for a wave. If you start out following one tweeting surfer you’ll be amazed how quickly your local network grows, with everyone sharing what their seeing for others to benefit from.

Of course there are arguments for and against this kind of remote information sharing and I am sure a few of the more secretive among you are retching at the idea of sharing tip offs with total strangers electronically, but I love the simplicity and openess of it – it’s just an extension of checking in with your mates; one localised, continuous conversation that keeps everyone updated, a share and share alike attitude that doesn’t rely on data, or buoys or webcams, just eyeballs, a touch of the modern electrical and a honesty and friendliness that’s surely what surfing should be all about. And yes there’s the overcrowding issue to take into consideration, but most of the tweeting surfers do it with care, reporting on conditions at the main beaches where everyone is likely to head anyway – letting you know the score so that you can easily work out if it will be working at that secret spot nearby.

So there, I said it. Twitter and the i-phone are good things. I like them. I use them. They make surfing better for me and for lots of other people. They are a valuable addition to the technological smorgasboard that is surf reporting today.

What do you have to say about that?

“About that article on Brazilian feminine surfing, I must say I disagree with some parts of the content, specially that relation with the “latin macho thing”. My perception and experience is that guys really love when they see girls surfing along with them, and they are usually very supportive of helping them out in the water. In my view, besides the dominating “bikini culture”, girls are more and more fond of practicing sports on the beach than just getting a sun tan!

I believe it is an interesting theme, but in my opinion, despite the author not seeing any girls surfing, we have more and more girls surfing in the Brazilian line-ups everyday, and I do see a few girls surfing here in Florianopolis. Of course there’s still no comparison with the amount of guys and what you see in Australia (where basically everyone surfs!!!)

Anyway, some important facts that were not mentioned is that Brazil has got nowadays a strong feminine professional competitive surfing circuit. Not to mention that in the late 80′s and early 90′s the bodyboarding boom attracted thousands of girls to the ocean, and the Brazilian girls still dominate this sport to this day in the world tour. I’ve also seen pictures of some girls surfing in Ipanema back in the sixties…

In the end of the day, I think the article does recognize that, when it states that what happens in Brazil is not much different than surfing in Britain and the USA, for instance… where feminine surfing is improving but still has a long way to grow…” Luciano Burin, Brazil.

Luciano Burin has got me thinking about women surfing in Brazil again. It’s great to see that the feature I wrote for Drift has triggered a spot of debate and he’s got a point – there were a few things I missed out. There wasn’t room to squeeze in more detail about the female competitive surfing circuit even though it was something Luana Prado and the professional female surfers I spoke to were keen to talk about. And I didn’t get a chance to dig deeper into the Brazilian bodyboarding boom of the late 1980s and why it was such a hit with girls.

With the main thrust of the feature, I wanted to raise questions around the relationship between women surfing and the notion of the ‘Body Beautiful’ as well as look at how ‘Latin machao’, as Lorraine Leu put it, has played a role in the development of Brazilian society on different levels. However, as the article points out, neither of these concepts offer a watertight explanation for why Brazilian line-ups seem decidedly oestrogen free.

And that’s because of one key thing. It might have been possible to belligerently convince myself that the theories of university professors about macho attitudes have some bearing on the number of women paddling out, if it weren’t for the many Brazilian men and women I spoke to that vehemently argued otherwise.

From hostel owners and surf school instructors to professional surfers, everyone I spoke to, before and after my trip, was adamant that there are increasing numbers of women surfing in Brazil and that it is a welcoming place to surf. And now I can add Luciano to the list.

Thing is, I don’t disagree. It is a really welcoming place to surf and I am sure there are plenty of women paddling out every day – as Luciano, Luana and everyone else points out; the evidence is certainly stacked high. It’s just I didn’t see them. No matter how much I wanted to look around and see women in the waves, I didn’t. And no matter how often people tell me there are ‘more and more girls surfing in the Brazilian line-ups everyday,’ I only have my own experience to go on and sadly they weren’t there. I wish they were, but they weren’t. For me personally, that has to be the bottom line.

Here’s hoping I get to go back to Brazil really soon and see things differently.  Any offers?