Down at the beach

After the epic rainfall on Saturday and Sunday, Monday dawned somewhat cloudy, though more importantly, dry. After two days of a three day weekend spent inside counting raindrops, we didn't need any weather better than that to jump in our car and head to Toyaura, a coastal village with a nice beach about an hour's drive from Muroran.

And we were all happy - Cian got to play in the sand and the sea, Mammy got to sit around doing nothing in particular, and Daddy got to catch some waves.

'Some waves', listen to me.

(Incidentally, if you are not all that interested in surfing then you might as well stop reading now. The rest of this blog is going to include words like 'break', 'awesome' and 'gnarly'. And probably a few 'dudes' scattered throughout. Which pretty much means only my cousin Moss is still going to be reading, so a big shout-out to all in the People's Republic of West Cork).

There was a two to three metre swell rolling through from somewhere just west of Hawaii, and it was pounding down. The beach we were at is renowned as a mellow break, but today it was biting. We got there just on low tide but all that meant was an endless series of booming closeouts.

So, I waited. Me and the ocean: mano a mare. For two hours. Until the tide rose enough to offer the possibility of something more than watery ignominy.

I paddle out. The waves wait and just as I enter the white-water a feckin huge set rolls in and I take an unmerciful pounding.

Yes, it was 'gnarly'. Dudes.

Finally get out beyond the whitewater and find myself contemplating the sort of wave I thought you only found on unpronounceable reef breaks off the coast of Tahiti. Out this side of the excitement things seemed innocuous enough. A large, but not particularly intimidating swell, would come through, gently rise and lower you, and continue on.

And then, at the same point every time, it would just pitch violently down and explode in this big, sweet-mother-of-jesus-what-the-good-feck-was-I-ever-thinking, roil of furious white water. You could literally paddle up to the edge of the break and look down the three metres or so where the face of the wave just dropped off and crashed.

The trick, as I learned, whilst bobbing out there in a mixture of elation and fear, was to figure out the heft and strength of the swell coming through. Too big and I'd be a sand pancake. Too small and, well, actually there wasn't 'too small', only 'too big'.

My first wave: the swell catches the board and as the wave begins to pitch over I shoot out diagonally down the face, pop up and there I am, swooshing down the line, this mass of blue water continuously poised to break over me. The water is so clear that I can see bubbles rise up with the crest of the wave, peaking over my head. Faster I go, whoahing my way along. And then its over, and I am clear through the break water and dude, well, really, you had to be there.

My second wave. I misjudge my takeoff, pitch over the front of my board and get flung straight down the face of the wave just as it breaks. Whoomp! and this wall of water crashes down on me. My leash snaps, my board shoots up in the air and I get pounded, rolled, pounded and rolled a bit more before being spat out by the sea for my previous impudence. And yes, it was a tad gnarly.

So that was my day done - no leash, no surfing. It was back onto the beach and sandcastles with Cian.