We’d get these runs of massive swells often coming into Xmas, rendering the local stretches of endless sandbacks impotent. The massive, long lines would overwhelm the region, and unless you were packing petrol and a jet, you had to join the masses at a couple of the protected shelter spots. If you had the time, you could hit the highway for the Basque Country, but for anyone with a job or children, it meant a stint of frustration. There was always a silver lining, and if you had been at the game a while, you could prepare for the swell to ease off and see if this time the sand would be left in prime formation. I’d been on holiday straight after Christmas when the flat hit, and I took a run up the coast. I found a few formations that only artists could depict. I come from a coastline back down under, where not in your wildest dreams would the sand set up like this. Well, it did sometimes, but then there was never the long period swell to turn it into paradise. There was a plethora of options, but I found one and stuck with it over the next 8 days as the temperature dropped a few degrees each day. But the time the last sliver of energy pulsed, I caught the last waste high runner into the channel on the bank by myself, covered with thick rubber and gloves. I paddled back out for one more, but the bank had shut down with the tide, and I sat there slowly shivering for the next 15 minutes before paddling in. I’d had the best of it. I’d subconsciously taken ownership of it like a lost puppy. I went back the day after to say goodbye. The swell and period were about to make it useless, and the next big storm was brewing. We’d get shit on with rain, and the sand would drift off to newer horizons. I’d get back to work and walk the neighbourhood, trying to hold on to some sort of fitness in the hope of the next holdup.

The Holdup

A week on holiday’s with a surfcamp owner.