Somehow, my vision of becoming a sexy surfer babe didn’t involve this: yanking damp neoprene up past my hips and cartwheeling my arms around in order to get the crotch of my wetsuit, well, somewhere near my crotch.
Where Californ-I-A has sun-kissed starlets frolicking into the surf wearing barely there bikinis, I was learning to surf the British way. Off the coast in Pembrokeshire, requiring wind-retardant wetsuits and a surrounding cast of men.
Probably not the image Fat Face expects when it sells its surfer-cool clothes.
“We’re not on a stag do,” one of the guys told me. “It just might seem as though we are.”
It’s a mixed group. A police officer and his children, my husband and me, and then the non-stag do guys.
John, our instructor with a northern twang, takes the banter in his stride (an achievement all the more impressive given that he, too, is striding around in neoprene.)
Like several in the group, this isn’t my first time.
Further along the coast and further back in years, I borrowed a friend’s surfboard and smashed myself on the head with it a few times, in between flushing my nasal cavities with saltwater and tumbling around in the surf.
On another occasion, I sat on a surf board for a while, gazing at the horizon in search of a ripple and wondering how to translate “flat as a mill pond” into French.
This time, however, things would be different.
This time, dear reader, I was going to have a lesson. A surf lesson.
To be continued…UPDATE: Surf Lessons – The Good, The Bad, And the Downright Ugly
Disclosure: The upcoming surf lesson was kindly provided by PreseliVenture. As was the wetsuit…Stay tuned!