130 AUGUST 2019
“
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 prop-
erties, who’d seen a head peering
in above their manicured hedge-
rows. Their complaint was mere-
ly 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 nev-
ertheless doing a lot more sitting
than riding. I kept at a respecta-
ble 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 Pan-
ther 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 forgot-
ten 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 – in-
side 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 teach-
ing 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 - 25 TH JUNE 2019.THE LIFE AND TIMES
OF THE WINDSUP
With a windSUP, dull
windsurfing days are a
thing of a distant past.
PHOTO Hart PhotographyAFFAIRS OF THE HART
In keeping with the windSUP theme this month, Harty relates his personal 13 year relationship with these overgrown surfboards.