In keeping with the windSUP theme, Harty relates his personal 13 year relationship with these overgrown surfboards.
“You need a permit for that young man.” Said the man in the motor launch with a badge and an officious tone. It was the Chichester harbour master, whose job it is to collect dues for craft using those elite sheltered waters. After I’d recovered from the shock of being called young, I replied:
“But it’s a surfboard sir,” I told him. “I think you’ll find I don’t need one.” And continued paddling while he dove into his book of rules, which, it appeared, made no mention of large surfboards. After all, why would anyone want to use a surfboard in a harbour? A week later I took this same unidentified craft on the river Thames. I would have received less abuse if I’d walked through Liverpool shouting “Come on United!” The aggressors were owners of exclusive riverside properties, who’d seen a head peering in above their manicured hedgerows. Their complaint was merely based on the fact that they’d rarely been looked in on before. Most other water users had the decency to sit down.
My next outing was down on the Cornish Riviera at St. Ives Bay. The waves were mushy and slopey, but big enough to tempt out a few surfers who were nevertheless doing a lot more sitting than riding. I kept at a respectable distance, but not far enough apparently to prevent comments like, “Hey you on the Gondola, why don’t you just **** off!”
This was 2006. I’d only had this new toy, an 11’6” all-round windSUP, a few weeks, but had already been the target of such ritual abuse that I was thinking of handing it back – except that I was really enjoying the new sensation. The issue, I presume, was that it was new. People often feel threatened by things that are new and which they don’t understand. The surfers in St Ives could have been genuinely worried that I was going to mow them down – but I think their prickliness was more a reaction to me catching 20 waves to their none and that this was patently a far better tool for the job on that particular day. When something threatens your status, the first instinct is to raise the hackles and squash it.
And then the sail …
The next decision to be made was whether or not to take it to Ireland for a wave trip. It took up an annoying amount of space in the van – and the only way to get it in was to slide it between the door and the driver’s seat, which meant I had to perform a move of extraordinary gymnastic agility just to get in and out – but what the hell, it would be a talking point on windless days.
Ireland has such a wide array of bays and beaches and is a victim of so much weather, that it’s always a good day for something – except on this day it wasn’t. The 10 knot onshore wind was barely enough to allow even the most twinkle-toed sailor to bog out – but the waves were of such a piddling size and shape that it wasn’t worth the bother anyway. So my group did that thing that windsurfers do when let down by the climate; they folded their arms, stared forlornly out to sea, secretly berating the idiot who lured them there. Inactivity was not an option.
It was only a few days before that I’d noticed a little hole in the big surfboard that accommodated a mastfoot. Might as well give it a go.
It’s no exaggeration to say I experienced a first right up there with first time planing, riding a wave and flying on a foil. I’d forgotten the joy of sailing a long board. But this was even better. A few decades of R & D had informed shapers about rocker lines. Back in the day I’d taken my Sea Panther into Cornish waves and although exhilarating in parts, it rarely turned out well – its crude, straight lines biting into the curves of the wave meaning the whole exercise was one of damage limitation. This was so different. The board made such a smooth contact with the water. I shouldn’t have been surprised. It was after all a surfboard. The waves were small and slow – but I was going fast. That is, of course what length gives you, that beautiful and long forgotten sensation of gliding and of maintaining momentum.
Suddenly I was back on Bray Lake in the 80s, wowing the crowds with a daredevil display of very old skool freestyle – inside the boom, back-winded, facing the sail in unconventional poses, ducking, spinning – and all the time while on a wave.
WindSUPs have completely changed the way I run courses to the point where I have no idea how I managed without them. A light wind day is now a blessing – finally we can go out and learn something, fill in those yawning technique chasms created by the corruptive desire to sit down in the harness and blast to the horizon. Before windSUPs, coaching wave sailing was a remote task. Get out there and give it a go – then we’ll talk about it later if we can remember. But now, given a 2 foot swell and a force 2-3 breeze, the teaching arena is as manageable as a thigh deep lagoon. WindSUP’s have eliminated the scary, destructive elements. There’s no longer a fear of getting stuck out at sea, not quite waterstarting and they pick up waves with the smallest tilt of the hips. Even the most chronically risk averse people have found themselves sailing along a green, unbroken face wondering how this could be possible – and yet so glad that it is. Thirteen years on I don’t get shouted at so much anymore.
Peter Hart – 25th July 2019.
Photo: With a windSUP, dull windsurfing days are a thing of a distant past. | Photo Hart Photography