I’m standing up. It’s really happening. OK, so I’m more horizontal than I am vertical, but I have two feet on the deck and my bum is off the board. At this moment, this fraction of a second, I’m surfing. But then – splash! – I’m down and out. Water shoots up my nose and my knees bounce off the seabed. The board flips over my head and its leash tugs at my ankle. A jellyfish hovers right in front of my eyes. I feel I should apologise to it for causing such a disturbance.
I stand up, fully vertically this time. I recover the board, step back from the jellyfish, blink the sea out of my eyes, and turn to see my instructor grinning. “You were standing,” yells Ricky Martin, who runs the Alive Surf School and is totally cool with jokes about la vida loca. “I’m really stoked for you!”
The scene of these first-time surfing heroics is Portrush, a charming seaside town in Northern Ireland, an easy drive or train ride from Belfast. Its amusement arcades, chip shops and souvenir stores aren’t going to blow any minds, but the location is fantastic – a mile-long peninsula jutting into the sea. You can’t walk down a street in Portrush without hitting a long, sandy beach. The Giant’s Causeway, one of the great natural wonders of Europe, is fifteen minutes’ drive away, and the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge is just down the road, too. It’s such a friendly town. The ladies at the reception of the Ramada seem more excited about my minor achievements on a surfboard than I am.
Ricky was born and raised in Portrush. He picked up the surfing bug as a teenager and represented Ireland in competitions in Portugal and Spain. He spent his twenties in Sydney and Glasgow, toiling away at office jobs, but when a childhood friend needed to sell his surf school last year, Ricky spotted an opportunity to change his life. He’s now living down the road from his parents with his partner and his four-month old baby, and he’s head-over-heels in love again with his teenage passion.
An hour and a half before the historic moment when I almost stood up, I squeeze inelegantly into a wetsuit and make my acquaintance with the board. On the safety of the sand, Ricky shows me how to avoid what surfers call ‘wipeout’, when you’re unceremoniously flung into the water. The trick, he explains, is to position your body on the centre of the board so you’re properly balanced. Catching a wave is all about timing, and when you’ve got that wave right where you want it, you need to paddle like crazy, arch your back and flex your arms, and then stand up on two feet. Practice makes perfect.
I’m nervous and at first I struggle. I fling myself onto the board and the waves crash into me, hurling me off. But with Ricky’s help and encouragement, my timing improves. The waves are getting friendlier, gracefully carrying me on their backs rather than just knocking me sideways. I’m enjoying myself.
The next day I return to the water to take things to the next level. But it’s tougher out there. The waves are coming thick and fast and I feel like a boxer taking a pummelling. Walking against the tide after each attempted surf is exhausting and my upper body strength, which I need to propel myself onto the board, is rapidly declining. I need longer to recover between each effort. I stare at the famous Barry’s amusement park on the coastal road and wonder why there’s a giant red apple next to the Big Dipper. My thoughts turn to my cosy hotel bed and the possibilities of a takeaway pizza.
After two hours in the water, we return to dry land and Ricky treats everybody in our group to an ice cream, exactly what our sea salt-splashed mouths are crying out for. I’m shattered but determined to get back in the water as soon as I’ve got my strength back. One day, I tell Ricky, I’m going to be able to stand up on that board. And I’ll stay up. I’m going to tame those waves. And I’ll do it right here in Portrush.
Published in JetAway, Aug/Sep 2010
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