Well there you go, my time at the ‘Length has finally come to an end. I finished this week with a book review, endless proof reading and other random odds and silly sods. The good thing is I will be staying on through out the summer to continue to contribute to the mag and the web site, all sterling stuff I’ll have you know. What ever I did, it must have been in the ‘not so bad’ category. I managed to get my last questionnaire back and work moves steadily forwards towards the conclusion of my case study. If only all things in this life were as pleasant as this. Oh well, upwards and onwards.

Well the much needed swell finlay landed on our beaches, with sun shine and off shore winds. What more can I say? All is good in the world of surf journalism with a surf before and after work, with a couple of shoots for the mag thrown in, it’s all hunky dorry. Bargain. Like I’ve said in previous blogs, I’ve been producing a lot of copy for the ‘Length and tea making has been kept to a minimum. Maybe age can be a good thing! Anyway, with the much revised questionnaire sent out with the morning email, time organised with long standing members of staff to talk through their answers. So I’ll be making a start on my case study this weekend. Because I have been producing a lot of copy, including a three page spread for the next issue, I’m going to continue to write for the mag for the rest of the summer. Must be doing something right. Well I’m sat here at my desk and need to get on with what ever it was I was supposed to be getting on with. Nealy forgot, amongst other things such as free trainers and sunnies, all thanks to the surf industry, I’ve blaged myself a press pass for the Board masters in August, including a back stage pass with the likes of Left Field and Sea Sick Steve. Oh the horror.

Well, well, well. Things here at the ‘Length have been humming along at a nice yet sedate pace (surfy journalist types are not known for frantic activity) and I’vebeen creating quite a lot of copy for the mag, including a three page spread for the next issue about the O’Neil Highland Cold Water Classic, a world qualifying contest on the north coast of Scotland, fifteen different thing you didn’t know about west Oz and several other bits and bobs, advertorials and so on. So all is well and good, ginger biscuits and proof reading, bargain. I’m still in the process of reviewing my questionnaire for the salty hacks here in the office and I’ve been busy arranging beer time to get into the nitty gritty of office politics. The only real bummer and complaint if I had to make one would be, it’s flat! No smeggin’ waves to ride for the past ten days or so and none till early next week. Oh well, back to it.

So then, my first week is behind me and now the fun starts. The mag goes to print this Wed’s, so from then on the entire production experience will come into being, from beginning to end. The last seven days have been a settling period, a time to warm to my new office environment. So with this in mind, I will be here for another month.
Because this is a small publication, there is quite a lot for me to get my teeth into and have already produced copy for the next issue and the summer issue of the mag, as well as blogged and produced other bobs and bits for the Wave Length web site. Happy days.
It’s good and also very interesting to listen to the office politics concerning the new ownership of the mag. ‘The Length’ as it’s affectionately known here in the confines of these four walls, used to be owned by Devon and Cornwall Media, which in turn was taken over by The daily Mail Group who deemed ‘The Length’ not worthy of their ownership and put it up for sale.
Now owned by Endless Summer Media the mag has taken on a whole new appearance in a much more commercial manor. The new owners, having been consultants on publications like Men’s Health, have a much more corporate ‘London’ approach to things, which sometimes does not sit well with the staff here at the mag.
In their opinions, a surf mag should be sold on its editorial merit and the quality of the pictures on its pages. A noble idea by any stretch of the imagination, but one that has found a redundancy under the new management, who, in turn, want the cover covered with a myriad of cover lines, designed to call the reader to action. All very American, but neither the less, circulation has improved and there for profit margins have increased, but complaints from what has been referred to by the staff as ‘core readership’ has increased.
This has always been a mag written by surfers for surfers and now that equilibrium has lost its balance (in the eyes of the staff) but, has now found new feet in more outlets and super markets up and down this green and pleasant land. Magazines have to buy their space in the mag racks in the super markets, and funding dictates the poisoning, the better the position the greater the circulation, the greater the funding, the better the position and so it goes.
Also, from what I can tell, the new management wants the mag to be more inclusive of beginner and intermediate surfs and also the short boarder’s nemesis, long boarders. This means things such as board guides and even a British long board supplement, something this country has been lacking and now that gap has been filled. All very good for the profit margins, but has this strayed too far from the original ethos of the mag? We will have to wait and see.
So further blogs towards the end of the week. Tattar for now and enjoy the sunny weather.

I’ve been beavering around, researching and talking to (via email) people at the Eden Project about the pros and con’s of sustainable surf boards and plastic bags biodegrading. All very interesting. The results will be in the form of a feature about the afore mentioned boards and bags. This has ment quite a bit of time trolling through the Internet either and some interesting conversation with a guy called Dan Ryan from Eden Project about locking carbon in what ever form, underground and out of the atmosphere. It’s all very thought provoking.

My body clock or the sound of the surf will normally wake me before sunrise. If it’s humid or the swell has built overnight I’ll be awake before any early light begins to filter through the morning sounds of the main road from Colombo to Galle and the jungle beyond. I’ll sit up and crawl beneath the mosquito net, go through the door on to the balcony to watch the dawn break and listen to the birdsong. Then I’ll head downstairs and find Siri, the guest house cook and night watch man, to make me coffee and tell what, if anything, is new in Hikkaduwa.

We all stay on the beach side of the rows of home-stays, restaurant and bars that make up this eclectic, shabby and clichéd little strip of surfing heaven.  The place I currently call home is Jupiter’s Guest House and Jups, as he’s known to all that stay here, is the Sri Lankan double for the late James Brown. Small and slender, with large side parted hair and heavily accented Sinhala English, the man is as mad as he is used to all the western surf travellers that pass through his place of lodging.

The place is a melting pot simmering with Australians, Kiwis, the odd American and all manner of Europeans. Surfing casts its net through many cultures, countries and it crosses all classes. Many of them find their way up and down the steep tiled stairs and under the palm fronds of Jupiter’s. It looks like it should have been built in Elizabethan London, upwards and outwards. Now it’s home to me, one Japanese and four Italians.

Like everyone else here, I’m a tourist, a new commodity and therefore not marginalised. People are starting to make a good living from us. The noisy wooden bars are busy, the small restaurants are full but the pace of change is slow and not nearly as frightening as the new government regime under President Mahinda Rajapaksa, who put an abrupt and bloody end to the civil war with the Tamil Tigers. No UN, no Red Cross and definitely no press. Yet the fishermen still fish in the traditional ways of their fathers and the land beyond the jungle is maize and paddy fields.

 After the ravaging effects of the Boxing Day tsunami in 2005, the relief effort was quick, thorough and is still ongoing. Schools, hospitals, transport and peoples’ homes were rebuilt with a lot of western aid, especially from Commonwealth countries, it is not uncommon to see fishing boats with British high school names painted on their bows. It is one of the few places in the world where local people ask if you are English, then shake your hand enthusiastically when you tell them ‘yes’. I am told that before the tsunami, the houses of sticks were not that strong, but stone houses now, are very good indeed.

The idea of being a travelling surfer may sound an exciting one, but a lot of my time is spent in aircraft rafts, airports and in hot sticky vans bumping along on dusty unmade roads. A great deal more time is spent sitting in the shade reading.  Surf is a fickle mistress, tide dependent, wind dependent and in equatorial places like Sri Lanka, dependent on deep tropical storm systems to produce the swell. There’s malaria, dengue fever, rabies and a whole host of other of feral diseases that need precaution and prevention. Inevitably when you surf these types of breaks there’s reef cuts.

Those of us who are lucky enough to surf the clear and warm tropical waters of our planet know the indescribable beauty of coral reefs. Many species of coral have razor sharp edges, which can easily cut you. Now and again you do not realize the cut has taken place until surfacing after your wipe out and encounter a trickle of blood, flap of skin, grazed elbow, shoulder blade and so on.
Another hazard of the coral reef is fire coral. It is aptly named and found worldwide. An encrusting brownish coral with the upper edges or tips a lighter colour. The tiny, hair-like polyps are armed with batteries of stinging cells. These can produce a moderate to severe stinging or burning sensation. Full contact can result in a painful burn for days. If coral cuts are left untended they can become ulcerous with a septic, puss filled base within a few days, surfing is no longer possible until the wound heals.

While I drink my coffee and talk with Siri, I’ll sit and watch the waves. This time of year it’s pretty consistent, so I normally manage to get in the surf every day before breakfast. I tend to wear a tee shirt and cotton hat with a floppy brim and chin strap in the ocean. It’s estimated that eight thousand tonnes of sun block enter the oceans every year, killing the very reefs I love to surf. The smell of kerosene, wood smoke and salt drift down the beach and mix with the smell of wax I’m rubbing on my board. It’s a little after six in the morning and the light and the emptiness at this hour makes your time spent in the water a magical one.

Then it’s back to Jupiter’s in time for breakfast, Sri Lankan tea, banana pancakes and rich local honey containing the occasional dead, sticky ant. Freshly baked bread from the jungle side bakers, marmalade and a thick mixed juice made from mangoes, pineapple, lemon and coconut milk. Nothing we eat here is packaged or processed in any way; everything is grown, picked, caught and killed locally. At lunch time, Dimitou, a short yet well built business owner who runs the bar next door, tells us the fishermen have caught their largest haul so far this season. Four hundred rupees and two large, Tuna looking fish later, Siri is starting to prepare fish curry for tonight’s evening meal.

I love nothing more than travelling to new places to find waves; Costa Rica, Indonesia, North West Africa, the list can go on and on. It doesn’t matter whether if it’s somewhere that mainstream surfer consumerism has already taken hold, or it’s a virgin internet or magazine exposé. There is nothing quite as exciting as paddling out at a new spot, finding clean lined up walls and the occasional barrel.

A lot of these places, such as Sri Lanka and Nicaragua, have been torn apart by war and political upheaval. Such places are often well preserved and haven’t yet felt the full impact of western tourism, like the surf rich island of Bali. Foreign office web sites tell you to stay away, the news channels tell people that it’s unsafe to travel to these places and if there are waves there, there’s no better time to go. Often you can find yourself in almost empty line ups with nothing more than a couple of locals showing your pale face nothing more than a little casual interest. It’s not that I’m advocating ignoring the advice of our government websites, it’s often sound and valuable information. I’ve heard stories of machete attacks and people been air lifted out of what has almost turned into a war zone, but for anybody who surfs this will mean only one thing, abandoned  waves.

Any spice junky will know that Sri Lanka is renowned for its food. Chefs like Siri use spices liberally in their dishes and typically do not follow an exact recipe; thus, every cook’s curry will taste slightly different. Although Sri Lankan food is similar to south Indian cuisine in its use of chilli, cardamom, cumin, coriander and other spices, it has its own distinctive taste. A lot of Sri Lankan preparations are believed to be among the world’s hottest in terms of chilli content. As a result, many local restaurants in developed and tourist areas, like the South West, offer special versions of local foods to cater to foreign palates. ‘Big devil or little devil?’ is a common question.

It’s late in the afternoon and the trade winds start to cool along with the hot, humid air that hangs over the land. The strong on shore breeze fades and the warm sapphire ocean turns once more to glass, with only the swell still pushing in over the reef. It’s time again to surf in the last hour or so of day light. The aggressive heat has left the sun and there’s no need for the tee shirt and hat. The sea is twenty eight degrees Celsius, so its boardies only, total freedom to move.

There’s a deep water channel to the left of the reef and it’s an easy paddle to the peak, the point where you take off on your wave. I say hello to a couple of the local lads and a few of the visiting surfers I’ve come to know over the last few weeks. There are three fundamental rules when surfing somewhere overseas; be respectful; let the locals go first; never drop in on a wave someone else is riding.  So following the correct etiquette, I get myself into position and go, let the wave lift me, push me forwards and I’m up, dropping down the steep face looking right and pushing hard against the board with my feet, bottom turning across the shallow coral and aiming towards the darkening wall of water that’s building for the next fifty metres along the reef. Electric blue parrot fish swim between the coral heads, a turtle strokes for the surface for another gulp of air and I drive hard back to the top of the wave to let gravity pull me back down and across the wall of ocean again and there is so much speed, this surely must be the purest form of joy. As I race down the line, there’s a super shallow section, pull in, crouch down and get caught momentarily in a moving, living, silver blue cylinder of water, then turn hard and kick off the back of the wave before the reef runs dry. Man, this is good fun.

Sunset in Hikkaduwa is a huge thing; you can almost feel the beach starting to settle for the night. It’s a time for people to discuss the day’s events; the waves trips people have been on or have just returned from, people you know who have left and the new arrivals, books that have been read, bars to go to, the weather back home. The hazy atmospheric pollution drifts down from large industrial sub continent cities like Mumbai and Deli; it acts like a polarizing filter turning the sky yellow and crimson. It is a time for amateur philosophy, diluted with cold beer as the big, red disk of the sun slowly dissolves into the Indian Ocean.

Siri brings the food to the table, there’s so much I ask the Italians to join me. There’s the curried fish, fresh from the beach, medium devil. Four different types of curried vegetables, sambol, made of ground coconut mixed with chillies, spicy lentil dhal and a big bowl of steaming rice. The language barrier is a tad shaky, but we seem to get along just fine, punctuating mouthfuls of fabulous food with talk of politics, travel and surfing.  The hot evening slips by, lubricated with a few more cold beers, but with tired muscles and a pleasant sense of well being, it’s time to hit the sack.

Back under the mosquito net the sound of the ocean washes over me. As I drift into sleep, I know that when the time comes to leave this little piece of paradise, my strongest memories will be the warmth of the ocean, the quiet chatter of the night watch men, the open friendliness of the people, visitors and Sri Lankan alike and the burbling, happy sounds of the beach parties caught in the breeze along this beautiful stretch of the quiet Indian Ocean night.

Right then, as the title says, it’s been a long, long time baby. Having spent my Christmas break in tropical Sri lanka, surfing, drinking beer, eating far to much fanflippintastic curry and hoofing it about looking at new things and going to new places, I now feel more relaxed and a little rounder. Happy days. This can only mean one thing, yes you have it, a travel feature for the new mag. I’ll post some pics’ some time this evening when I’ve done a little more sorting.

In the mean time I have a couple of thoughts for news stories; A story about the return, rebirth and resurrection of real ale in these ‘ere parts. The other thought I’m going to chase is, why property is now a better plan than pensions.

Updates will follow.

Well, if I’m honest I’ve spent all of this week working on stories, phoning the police, interviewing very old surfers about dead ones and trolling through endless pages of Internet shite in the name of student journalism. All has come good, I hope. Never mind though. My head’s turned to jelly and I need a pint or six.

I went to the doctor’s about my Hiatus and he recommended the cream of mediocraty. Rub in thoroughly and bang your head off a wall. Avoid all forms of irony. Job done. No doubt it will return, it’s just weariness prevails.

Just what is it that you want to do? We want be free, to do what we want to do. And we want to get loaded and we want to have a good time. And that’s just exactly what we did, we had a party, we had a good time. Well almost.

It’s a strange and tangible thing this life we lead. For one thing, you must always expect the unexpected. This much is true, but one should always expect the expected too. The unexpected are there to make things exciting, spontaneous. To give life that certain twisted appeal, something to touch. These things are almost an acceptable hurdle in this great race we run. It’s the expected things that always surprise and shock, especially when they turn up bent a little out of shape. Maybe I need to expand.

Someone said to me recently, “you’re into campervans and things?”  This is not something I’ve ever really given much thought to. “Yes,” I replied. This was the offer;  a Cornish campervan rental  company was going to give me a late seventies VW campervan for the weekend, I needed to drive it around some part of rainy West Cornwall and come up with a happy, clappy piece of crap for their website, get expenses and some cash. Job done. What was even better was the fact I could then turn this into a story for the Navigator web mag to boot. Bargain.

So this uncertain set of circumstance had come together out of the West Country ether to lend itself to a weekend of professional journalism. Drive to Goonhavern, pick up the van and head west. The true road trip spirit would prevail, leading us into untold adventure and endless sunsets. What was unforeseen was untold disaster and endless rain.

This only became apparent when my girlfriend and I picked up the van. Rain started to hit the windscreen. We left Goonhavern and there was more rain, the deeper into the west, the greater the volume of rain. We needed to get to St Ives, but I was beginning to ponder the fact that St Ives may no longer be there. Gone beneath a biblical deluge, only a small ark to mark the spot where the quaint village once stood.  A raft of bewildered seagulls waiting to be saved, a new West Cornwall. I was wrong of course. We rounded a corner as we drove over the brow of the hill that gives you a panoramic view of a soggy St Ives. “Jesus,” moaned a happy looking Lesley. You instinctively know when things are not going to go well. One word in the right tone can convey a thousand drowning emotions. We drove on.

“Fucking hell man, look at that shit.” St Ives was intermittently hidden behind horizontal sheets of rain. Well if you’re going to camp, better a van than a tent. And in any case I need to get the feel of this camping game, get under the skin so to speak. Subjectivity, know your enemy. No real camping trip in Cornwall would be good without a drop of rain. People need to know just what they’re buying into.

The campsite was elevated, overlooking Porthmear beach. We had plugs to plug the van into, giving us light but no heat. A roof that lifts up so the wind can get in. A cooker from the trenches and a stereo that didn’t work. We had the dreamy illusions about reading classic novels, bacon and eggs and mugs of steaming tea. “I think we should go to the pub.” I said.  “No, I think we need to go to all the pubs,” replied Lesley. Why not? Several pubs are better than one and besides copious amounts of rain and lashings of beer would wash away even the strongest desire to visit the pokiest of art galleries.

It goes without saying that pasties and chocolate make a good pre-pub meal. Stodgy carbs and sugar, something solid to bring up later. The first port from our storm was a pub called The Sloop; it sits surrounded by cobbles, overlooking the harbour. Inside, sheltering from the rain, looking at the quirky looking locals in their quirky looking bar were steaming Americans. They look American long before they open their mouths. Husbands and wives wear matching raincoats and teeth, wondering why everything is so God damn small and why oh why do the Brits drink warm, flat beer.

It was cold outside and the rain was throwing itself down. Warm beer and the cosy walls of the Sloop were a safe haven for now, but ‘Kumbaya’ was on the cards and enthusiasm was lingering in the air. Our peace was shattered and the need to flee sprang up like a cat in a helium tank.

The Golden Lion had the air of a forgotten time no one wanted to remember. The bar was made from high grade Formica. The carpet tried to suck the shoes from your feet and the walls were covered with sage green tiles. This in itself was is not that odd, our presence was.

The rain outside was beating down harder than ever and this pacified the patrons along with Lesley’s eagerness for whisky with cider chasers. Cambourne Kev introduced himself between Lesley’s shots. He was short and lopsided, with ruddy cheeks and a strong West Country accent matched only by his combover. Kev now spent time in St Ives rather than his home town after an unfortunate arrest and a spell spent in Exeter nick. He had a fascination for masturbating under tractors which had gone unchecked until a police sting operation involving plaster of paris and covert filming had put pay to his solo activities.

The evening was starting to fall apart. I couldn’t see straight, one eye kept a weather check while the other monitored the bar situation. Kev wanted to take us to the next pub; Lesley had found a dog on a woman’s lap and wanted to stay. I was past caring and the rain was menacing. The clock on the wall said it was past eleven and the whisky had started to taste nice. Lesley looked like she was suffering from an alcohol induced stroke and I felt like having one.

The walk home felt like a polar expedition, bears and penguins. The rain had found a second wind and a bite to match. Lesley was wet through and folded over, head to knees with my arm around her waist. I was ankle deep in rainwater but the van was calling. We had the good sense to make up the bed before walking into town and the eventual tumble home. I had the warm glow of a man who had achieved something, first hand research and no real story.

With the van in site I let go of Lesley, the wind had blown away the spare wheel cover and the key wouldn’t fit the door. There were three on the ring, it was dark and I had at best only peripheral vision. Lesley started on a serpentine stumble towards the shower block; I fumbled my way into the camper and found refuge in sleep.

In the morning I couldn’t see a thing. With no ventilation, every window in the van was covered in condensation. My clothes were in a wet pile on the floor and I had a right bastard behind the eyes. Lesley looked lost, almost as if she inhabited the wrong body. The rain was still present and a journey to Lands End seemed futile. Other weather weary campers eyed us with open contempt; the only real option was home in Newquay and an afternoon spent contemplating events in The Red Lion.