Over a week and probably 1,000 miles have passed since my last rambling, time which has seen Spain, my first published piece in the Guardian and my birthday come and go. After Zarautz we swung by San Sebastian to find it was (pretty much) closed for winter; then we hoofed it across the top of Spain, speeding by Mundaka, Rodiles and other world-class waves as the drizzle descended, taking the swell with it.
She’s back, our famed Etobicoke has arrived and pre-orders have been flying out over the last month.
Del 11 al 15 de noviembre, una vez mas, tendrá lugar la celebración del 04 Surf Film Festival Ciudad de Santander, organizado por el Ayuntamiento de Santander, con la colaboración de La Caixa, la imprenta Ter, El Diario Montañés, Onda Cero y este año con la colaboración de la revista norteamericana Surfer.
When the wheels came off the ecomony (and Drift) back in 2008, the surf industry shuddered. Share prices fell, magazines prepared for the inevitable and retailers folded. But to add a positive shine to 2009, the Surf Expo is back for 2010. And where is it? Right on my doorstep. I’d better get an invite.
Some say they are pointless.
Others that they are childish.
Mum always told you not to “ruin those tyres”. Ha. But can you remember the satisfaction you felt when you finally wore them through to the innertube?
That was the mark of a true champion…Yeah skids are for kids.
But that’s why we do ‘em.
October’s T-shirt of the Month is ‘Skids are for kids’?
This Tuesday 20 October at 7.30pm the film ‘Message in the Waves’ will be screened at Holy Trinity Church in Hotwells, and local resident Andy Murray, who produced the film, will be in discussion afterwards.
Del da Foster is showing us his 18 speed bicycle. It lies back on a sand dune in the town of Dossen, and the sun shines glorifying its beautiful yellow tone. All his belongings – skateboards, porcelain cats and three flying wall ducks – are arranged to defy physics over the back wheel. “It does instant wheelies if you pull up on the handle bars” he pulled upwards every so lightly. And the bicycle reared back like a stallion. “Cool” we all say.
The ferry wasn’t going all that fast – flocks of seagulls would fly on ahead, sit and watch me and Bodean float past in the dark, two heads in an endless row of port holes. Sitting up in there in ‘Le Bar’, a name which seemed to smoke of irony considering the surrounding English passengers, or maybe it was the French just being Frenchies. Then the boat pulls up in Roscoff, North Brittany. And so it goes…