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It’s 2.15 on a Thursday afternoon. I’m in south-west France, the weather’s pretty good, and I’m about to meet Laird Hamilton. I should be feeling stoked, not least because for me as with many from the watersports fraternity, Laird has been a hero for years. But instead I’m walking gingerly from my hotel to my meeting, head pounding, eyes squinting from the glare of the sun, body aching as if I’ve been pounded with a sledgehammer all night.
My condition, as I am about to meet the epitome of health, vitality and masculinity, could be better. The problem is that I was whisked off to a party thrown by Laird’s sponsor, Oxbow, the previous night. This shouldn’t have been a problem at all, but I am to free champagne what Laird is to big waves. Totally fearless. I’ll take on as many glasses as you like. Trouble is that unlike the Hawaiian waterman, I suffer for my art. Laird is apparently indestructible but come Thursday lunchtime I’m barely capable of stringing a sentence together. Worse, the interview – originally scheduled for Friday – has been brought forward by a day.
Spencer, the photographer, calls to tell me this. I groan, tell him I’ll see him soon, and haul myself down to Les Cavaliers beach, the scene of the Oxbow World Pro Longboard Championships. As I’m walking along the well-heeled roads of Anglet I find myself thinking of Al Alvarez’s Feeding the Rat. Alvarez, an acclaimed writer and poet, wrote the book as a testament to his long-time climbing partner, Welsh legend Mo Anthoine. Anthoine explained his compulsion to keep pushing himself, to take ever greater risks, by the notion of feeding a rat that lurked perpetually inside him:
The rat is you, really. It’s the other you, and it’s being fed by the you that you think you are. And they are often very different people. But when they come close to each other, that’s smashing, that is. Then the rat’s had a good meal and you come away feeling terrific.
Just as I’m wondering if Laird’s life is explicable via the same metaphor, the man himself appears.
Continue reading "Laird Hamilton Huck Interview" »
I'm back in Cornwall after a foray to London. My three days in the city consisted of working at The Times and enjoying a convivial time with old friends. Meanwhile, Harry was doing well in yesterday's Animal ASA inter-schools contest (hosted in association with Carve), coming second in his heats and progressing to the finals, which take place today at Fistral Beach. The Animal British Cup is the umbrella, indeed, under which a variety of professional and amateur events are taking place this weekend, including the Men's and Women's Open and Juniors, Longboard and Bodyboard contests. There is also a quarter pipe and a bikini babes contest.
I was stoked see Harry competing in last weekend's British Grommet Inter Club Championships, won by a very fine Polzeath Team with Harry Timson showing what a prospect he is by winning the U12s and coming second in the U14s. My own Harry was surfing for The Sennen Surfing Centre and I'd like to thank Dave Muir and his father Rob for putting in such a great effort to the Sennen cadets.
Likewise, all of those who are putting time into the UK's young surfers. Surfing is a fantastic, healthy and inspiring activity and it's great to see kids involved in it. As for me, I feel mildly disorientated having dipped back into city life and now finding myself back home, a couple of miles from Land's End, a place which is rather quieter than London. No doubt nothing that a surf won't cure, so on that note, adios for now.
One of my favourite little moves on a skateboard is the humble check slide (though I'm much better going frontside than back). This educative nugget on the fine art of sliding skateboards comes my way thanks to photographer Darren Burdell, a long-time skater and, it is rumoured, occasional pyromaniac (only when safe and legal).
 A Short Walk or, as it should properly be called, www.ashortwalk.com, is an innovative product design company set up in 2003 by Dan Dicker. Dan left his previous job as a senior designer with Dyson to realise a long-held dream: to set up a business, and live, ashortwalk from the beach. One of the company's first products, a range of wall-mounted tide clocks, was a runaway success - not least among surfers. Now Cornwall-based ashortwalk has launched a new Coastal Weather Station aimed at providing unique weather information for the enjoyment - whether as a visitor or inhabitant - of our rich and varied coastline.
The Coastal Weather Station encompasses a barometer, a tide clock and a conventional clock, combining aesthetic appeal and functionality. It'll set you back £44.95 but I reckon that'd be money well spent.
One of the most striking images at Lucia Griggi's show at The Secret Spot in St Ives is this one, entitled Surfer-Sofa-Woman. The show is well worth checking out so get along if you can.
I posted a while ago about Susan Chaplin, a surfer, excellent writer and resident of Tortola in the British Virgin Islands (to which, if I understand correctly, ADR of one of the world's best surf mags is shortly moving). Appropriately enough, given that today marked the beginning of a new (this time it's serious) fitness campaign under the tutelage of Stef Harkon, Susan drops me a line about her latest inspirational challenge. She hopes this October to be first to cross the 30-mile channel between Guadeloupe and Monserrat on a paddleboard.
Continue reading "Paddling to Monserrat" »
News reaches me of a scandal that raises a smile. It is salacious, so please don't read on if you are easily offended.
A married Lothario d'un certain age had been enjoying intimate moments with a delectable woman some years his younger. Lothario's wife had her suspicions and, far from going to London one morning (as was supposedly her intention), she doubled back to the marital home, there to find the keys to the couple's boat missing. She speedily drove to the said boat's mooring, and, with the utmost stealth, boarded it. She crept alongside the cabin - stepping over Lothario's cherished 6'6" thruster - and peered inside. There she found Lothario and his lady friend at one with each other rather than the ocean.
Like any sensible person, she immediately took pictures of the cavorting lovers with her mobile phone. These will apparently now be used in divorce proceedings.
A friend of Lothario's heard this tale of oceanic intrigue and, herself being a woman of the world, suggested that the pictures be deleted, Lothario end his illicit relationship and the formerly happy couple try to repair their marriage. After all, she said, surely it wasn't as if the duo were engaged in some kind of deviant activity. Wasn't it just a bit of fun, couldn't it be forgiven?
A trusted source said that no, it was nothing particularly untoward. "What, then, is the problem?" said Lothario's friend, evincing notable, and perhaps commendable, liberalism.
"Put it this way," said the source. "She couldn't speak, and he couldn't hear anything."
A sight for sore eyes and, doubtless, a handy mobile phone. To illustrate yet further their uses here are some shots taken by Welsh writer Tom Anderson of swell generated by Hurricane Dean as it hit the east coast of America. Tom was recently in the States researching his second surfing book. Curiously, he used to supplement surf trips by working as a private investigator, but this fact is as relevant to the above tale as Lothario's thruster. It remains only to say that if you ever find yourself on a boat with consensual carnal intent for someone Who Is Not Your Partner, get your mobile phone out and book a hotel room. Quick.
I'm just back from Lucia Griggi's exhibition at The Secret Spot in St Ives. This is a tremendous show full of energy, colour and vitality in a great space, and is well worth a visit. Good work by Geoff and Rowena, whose daughter Tassy is, I learn, now not only a decent surfer but also into kick-boxing. While there I chatted among others to Tony Plant, who tells me that Surf Twisted apparel is now available and, just as importantly, that he was disappointed not to see more from Harry on this blog by way of his attempt to earn a Surftech JC.
Harry totally failed to earn this board through sheer negligence (he did next-to-nothing), and enters the comp at Fistral tomorrow on my old Kamikaze. Tony asked him why he hadn't got his act together, to which Harry shrugged and said: "Whatever." This prompted gentle fatherly mocking (as in, "Harry, all you had to do was write a little on the blog, it would have been excellent for your education and I might have bought you a board!"), to which Harry uttered lines that would inevitably plunge any writer-surfer Dad into despair.
"Dad, I hate writing. And I'm a better surfer than you."
We set off for the wild west and there was a silence in the car... Elliot interrupted it to point out that at his school trip today he had been designated the best surfer. "So that's two of you who are better than me," said I, with very little irony. Harry then offered another bon mot:
"Dad, blogging seems pretty pointless to me. If you didn't spend so much time blogging you'd be a better surfer."
A man I have a lot of respect for - surf snapper Al Mackinnon - has got his long-awaited website up and running. Check it out here. Al has led a colourful and at times enigmatic life, and this year became the first European to win the coveted Billabong XXL award for his photograph of the biggest wave ever ridden in Africa.
I've travelled and worked with Al, and two of his sayings regularly occur to me. One, that "too many people have forgotten what surfing is all about - it's about being stoked," and two (uttered in circumstances when I'd lapsed from the straight and narrow), "Do the next right thing and you'll be OK."
I like the idea of doing the next right thing, and tried to get this across to the prisoners at Parc on Monday. It was really rewarding visit and I'm hoping to return soon for a writer's workshop. After the talk, I sped away to Walcot Amateur Boxing Club and trained there for the first time in a while, to mixed results: on the one hand, my upper body strength was undiminished, but on the other (thanks to a series of timed tests and runs), I now know that I am officially the slowest runner in the club.
My lungs felt pretty tricky today in a bigger-than-it-looked swell at Sennen Cove. In fact, for the first time ever, I had a bit of asthma in the water. Anyone else out there bedevilled by this irksome complaint? I had asthma as a small child, then it went and I was an athlete (hard to believe after training the other night), then it came back whenever I had a cigarette (bizarre but true: there is a connection between smoking and asthma). Despite not having smoked for some time and being in reasonable shape, today's paddle out led to wheezing. Quite why this should be so I have no idea, but it was no fun at all in the water. Needless to say my surfing was duly affected, but I did the right thing and came in to catch my breath. Then I paddled back out and caught a lovely long right-hander on a sizeable wave that made the whole experience excellent.
Which all goes to show that if you do the next right thing in life, it does help.
Photo (c) www.almackinnon.com
Nice to hear from Zed Layson in Barbados. It was thanks to his comments about UK and Irish surfers that I got the idea for Surf Nation. Here are some shots from his place at Surfer's Point. As he says, the sun was hot, the water warm, and only two guys were out... Sounds very, very nice. See Zed's Surf Travel for more info.
Off I go to Parc Prison in a minute. Then it's a couple of days in London. I always feel depressed whenever I'm about to go anywhere, but I think the prison visit will be very interesting and as for London, in my line of work it's unavoidable. When I'm back I have Lucia Griggi's exhibition at The Secret Spot St Ives to look forward to. Lucia splits her time between Newquay and Venice, is as cool as she sounds and takes some great shots. More on this later in the week but the show runs from 21 September to 11 November.
Some enjoyable ocean-going activities today thanks to an open day hosted by the Cape Cornwall Pilot Gig Club. Gig rowing is something I enjoy but never seem to have enough time to do. Then it was yet more carving around on the Path 37 (honestly, this board is addictive) before a trip to the local beach to see if George the dolphin was around (yesterday he swam in to the bathers at Porthcurno and must have played with them for at least an hour). No sign of him and then, it being the last day of the lifeguard season at Porthcurno, the heavens opened. Stef packed up the gear, put away the flags and locked up the hut. Summer is over.
But as I write this Harry is surfing at Sennen - and he's had a great summer of surfing. This is in a large part down to his being a member (as is younger son Elliot) of the Sennen Surf Cadets. Dave Muir, his father and numerous Dads (not to mention the instructors, who run the Saturday Cadets' sessions on a voluntary basis) have done a great job throughout the summer. The stoke they bring to surfing is ever-present and I'm sure I speak for many local parents in thanking them for their fantastic efforts.
So, Sam Smart and his surf school. Sam has taken both my boys surfing on many Sundays and has helped bring them along tremendously. Training on the beach with him last Friday morning also reminded me that, at 41, boxing really is a young man's game, but that's another story.
A word of advice. If you're lucky enough to live down this way book your kids in early for next summer's Surf Cadets. Meanwhile, albeit that today has a slightly wearisome, it's-all-over feel, the truth is that it isn't. Yesterday gave a hint of the September and October swells around the corner - and the good news is that there's space in the car park again. So see you in the water this autumn.
PS Message to the bloke I dropped in on yesterday: sorry.
As regular readers will know, I have various interests and am lucky enough to write about them. In the past couple of weeks I've been interviewing lots of lawyers about various things. So, too, boxers, poker players and surfers. I am able to offer the following assessment of which category is the most discourteous, in reverse order.
4. Boxers. I have yet to meet a seriously arrogant boxer. I know they exist but I haven't run into one yet. In my experience, they're humble, respectful people, precisely because they've taken a lot of punishment in their lives and know just how to dish it out. Result: a high level of self-possession.
3. Surfers. Tom Curren and Laird Hamilton are the most famous I've interviewed, and both were gents. In the course of researching Surf Nation, I only met two less than appealing individuals. In the interests of diplomacy, I won't mention them. Instead, I'll observe that the vast majority of real surfers (by which I mean people who love the ocean, have no airs and graces, and who keep the stoke alive whether they're good, bad or indifferent) are 100% sound.
2. Poker players. Some of the rudest people I've ever met congregate at international poker tournaments. They are poker players. One of them was very famous and wealthy and a more ridiculously self-inflated, egotistical idiot would be hard to find. Not good as a species, which is a shame because Texas Hold 'em is a fantastic game.
1. Lawyers. This might come as a surprise, for the law is predicated (isn't it?) on courtesy, good manners and decorum. Why, then, do so few lawyers ever say "goodbye" at the end of a phone call? You ring them up, have your chat (as a result of which their firm will get a plug in a magazine or newspaper somewhere), and in the middle of you saying "thanks very much for your time" they hang up. They realise that the interview is over and can't be bothered to stay on the phone any longer.
From now on, when a lawyer does this to me, I plan to ring him back and say "Excuse me, that was very rude. Goodbye."
In this way, I will forge a better society. Please help me. Force a lawyer to say "goodbye" today and the world will be a better place.
Neil alerts me to this version of the George Harrison classic. As he says, he is Hawaiian, and the ukelele has a surfing connection...
Yes, it's true. Next Monday I will be at Park Prison, near Bridgend. OK, only for an afternoon but I'm still nervous. I'm going there to talk to various prisoners about going off the rails and climbing back on again. Apparently my first book, Wrecking Machine, has gone down well with a few of the inmates. I've been invited to talk about my life, writing, boxing, surfing and poker. Sounds good to me and makes me think that this Slide cover that didn't make it might have had a story, after all...
Meanwhile check out Stu Norton and Paddy Martin's forthcoming Rising Tides exhibition at Newquay's Driftwood Gallery from this Friday to 28 September. Stu was recently spotted in the crystal clear waters off a nudist beach near me (wearing a wetsuit, and with a female. These facts are not significant). He's also a great snapper and his show with artist Paddy Martin promises to be a treat.
It remains resolutely flat and so, today, I did a whole load of things that never get done once you've taken into account four hours or so of surfing. These may not work for everyone, but here goes.
1. Buy a hedge trimmer.
2. Trim the hedge.
3. Bask in glow of gratitude from wife, knowing that having failed to trim the hedge will not be thrown at you when the swell finally arrives.
4. Do boring admin things like file paperwork and notify Shell Plus Points of your change of address.
5. Read the Sunday papers and have an opinion on things.
6. Ride the awesome Path 37 skateboard.
7. But don't get carried away, for in skating, you always pay in pain.
8. Ignore your own advice and get so absorbed in carving that you fail to spot the obligatory large pebble.
9. Hit the deck. Hard. At 41, you have long since lost the ability to bounce.
10. Observe blood cascade from reopened scar tissue on knee and note that Bloggish Sons - who never seem to fall off - find this an amusing sight.
11. Inwardly pray for swell, for surfing does not hurt. Out of pique, ban sons from using new skateboard.
12. Jump swiftly back on skateboard because it is just fantastic, whatever the cost, but also lest (a) you lose your nerve, causing more mirth from renegade, disrespectful offspring and, rather more importantly, so that (b) adorable wife can't catch you and point out that it's all very well trimming the hedge, but what about mowing the lawn?
The apt image here can be bought for your bumper thanks to Bumper Art. So Bloggish Son 1 tells me, this his contribution to the blog this weekend. I'm not at all sure he's on course for that board.
It's been a while since I posted about my renewed commitment to the fine, if dangerous, art of skateboarding. Also notably absent is anything by Bloggish Son on this blog, but the two things collide thanks to Original Skateboards.
I got hold of one of the New Jersey based skate co's new pintail boards today, and Harry and I spent about two hours riding it this afternoon. The board, known as 'The Path 37', is new this summer and it is quite simply awesome. Stef Harkon, a local lifeguard and one of the finest bowl riders around, popped by after work and hopped on the board, and he too was blown away. It turns on a sixpence, can be pumped even at slow speeds, and carves like a snowboard. Not once did the wheels snag and The Path 37 is the smoothest skateboard I've ever ridden. Its size is just right, too - any longer and I think I'd find it unwieldy, any shorter and it wouldn't be so slick through the turns.
For any surfer, this board is a dream. The sensation of carving makes you desperate to get in the water and if there's no surf, this board offers a legit high as fine as anything I can think of. The hunt is now on for a gently sloping hill with immaculate tarmac - the car park next door is just too small.
As for Bloggish Son 1 (Bloggish Son 2 also test-rode the board and loved it, but he is not supposed to be earning a new surfboard), this is what he had to say:
"Dad, why do you call me Bloggish Son?"
"That doesn't matter. Write what you think of the board."
"It's awesome."
"Is that it?"
"Yeah. Can I go now?"
More on this beautiful creation in due course. See www.originalskateboards.com for more info and, indeed, to make a purchase. You won't regret it. The picture is of Original Team Rider Mike Szymanski.
I checked Amazon earlier and am delighted to see that there is a counter-review to Mr Yarrow's "it is dull and boring" sketch of Surf Nation. Hurray! Many thanks to Chrubble.
I have persuaded Bloggish Son to enhance his education/earn Brownie points for a new board by writing this blog, so look out for his thoughts when he's home from school later.
Bloggish Son and I can tell you, together, that we enjoyed chatting to Mole and John Boyle of Shark Bay Films last Saturday at the Doombar Big Wave film night in Porthcurno. Well I did, it was good to see the pair of them though Bloggish Son got bored and started muttering about new boards, going for a skate, the injustice of not being able to drink Coke whenever he wants etc etc. The following day we bumped into Russ Pierre at Sennen Cove car park and bemoaned the flat spell. We found that Russ - a top snapper - has set up a blog. You can check it out at Russ Pierre Photography and if you don't catch Russ in the water, you might well see him at the local skate parks.
Seeing Russ and Sprout - the film shown at the Big Wave night - got me thinking: which is the best ever snap of a surfer/surfing? And the best ever film? An image I remember from a surf mag of old is of Tony Ray backside off the top at Pipe - just fantastic, must Google around and see if I can find it. As for films, I'm still enamoured of Zen and Zero though it's probably a phase I'm going through.
More from Bloggish Son later, though he won't be reviewing Antoine Wilson's The Interloper, a novel by the surfer, writer and sometime contributor to this blog which popped through the door thanks to good old Amazon today. I'll do that sometime. Meanwhile, the image is courtesy of Russ.
I have spoken with young Harry (aka Bloggish Son). Negotiations are ongoing about exactly what he will do to earn a new Surftech JC. However, of one suggestion - that he writes this blog for three weeks - this is the dialogue we had earlier this evening:
"Bloggish Dad, you should have been out at Gwenver today. It was like Hossegor."
"Really?"
"Yeah, fast, clean peeling waves, just awesome."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Was it crowded?"
"No, not too bad."
"Get some good rides?"
"Yeah, a few. Where were you anyway?"
"I had to go to Thurlestone and Bantham in South Devon to research something for a book coming out next year."
"You're always working. That sucks."
"I know. But Bantham gets classy surf sometimes."
"Whatever."
"Bloggish Son, I have an idea for you - a way of getting that new board in time for the contest."
"Yeah? What?"
"You write this blog for the next three weeks. Readers will be intrigued to see what a 12-year-old surfer thinks of the world. You know, what makes you tick, your motivations in life, that kind of thing."
"Dad, all I care about is surfing and skating."
"Yes, I know - but that's precisely it, don't you see! You could talk about those things. After all, that's what I do."
"Yeah but Dad, you work too much. You should have been in the water at Gwenver today instead of working."
"That may well be true. But how about it - you write a few words about surfing every day for three weeks and I'll see what I can do about that board."
"Whatever."
Photo by Paul Haslam courtesy of www.sennen-cove.com
The flatness continues. Everywhere is flat. Especially my brain after hours of writing about the law. Specifically, media law. Would anybody like to know about contempt of court, privacy and defamation instead of surfing? No? OK, fair enough. Instead help me solve a problem. Harry, my 12-year-old, wants to be a pro surfer and is in the water all the time (even when it's flat). He currently rides an old Kamikaze 6'10" (yes, one of my old boards) but has set his sights on a Surftech 6'2" JC, one which he has even ridden for a week thanks to Pat at Chapel Idne, our local surf shop.
A contest looms in three weeks, and Harry wants to enter. And he wants to ride the slick new JC, not Dad's old board. His birthday was a while ago and Christmas is ages away.
What can I get him to do in three weeks to earn enough to buy this board? Paint the house? Repair the chassis of my car? Write this blog for the next three weeks?
Suggestions welcome.
The lack of swell continues but I gainfully occupied myself on the beach this morning by training with Stef Harkon, long-time Penwith lifeguard, surfer and skater. Stef is fitter than a Royal Marine and I always feel like collapsing from the effort of trying to keep up with him. Here's Hannah May, another ultra-fit lifeguard from this neck of the woods, with some typically robust thoughts on a worrying trend: the colonisation of the lifeguard image.
If I walked into a hospital wearing a pair of scrubs or white coat, there could be trouble. Simple truth is: I’m not a doctor. So why this current craze (dare I say, trend?) of people wearing Lifeguard T-shirts and hoodies? Donning the red and yellow attire that is our distinctive appareil may well smack of fashionable flattery, but to us, it’s fast becoming a potentially fatal move. It’s a similar trend to the way in which surf-wear now has mass-market appeal - such is modern day’s commodification of lifestyle and culture. Having instantly recognisable surf-associated brands emblazoned across the body has rapidly become a mechanism to identify not only with a sport, but an entire, ocean living ethos.
But whether as a socio-cultural statement or for pure comfort, people opting for the 'Lifeguard Look' may want to reconsider. For us it’s not a niche clothing label, but a vital means of identification in the crowds, especially in an emergency. Yes, clothing is a necessity (and some people at my local nudist haunt Pednevounder may wish to consider this point in more depth…), but there is choice involved. And irrevocable repercussions.
This isn't a minor, superficial point. There is a real potential for tragedy, as impersonation should not have to become improvisation when in the blind panic of urgency, a random member of public sporting lifeguard red and yellow is approached by someone in desperate need of help. The danger of mistaken identity segueways into an oft-debated beach issue - the limits of responsibility.
Many beach goers assume that that they have little or no individual responsibility. To keep the beach clean, respect the warning flags, look after their offspring - these are things for Other People, not them. At the same time, they believe they have the power to do, or not do, whatever they like. This rather paradoxical stance both riles and baffles me. People are adamant that they can do whatever they please while in the public vicinity of the beach, but totally fail to recognise the effect of their behaviour on others. I could narrate a bevy of anecdotes to support this, but I won’t. Suffice to say that often enough the culpable are tourists - but theirs are innocent mistakes, and they usually respond in kind to our explanations. Other times it’s people who don’t care and don’t respond. The worst, and all-too-frequently observed type, is the local know-it-all. Only hitch is that what they know is usually as much use as a surfboard in a sauna.
The river where I work is a good example of this syndrome. It's red flagged for a reason, but try telling that to Johnny Local. It's essentially a massive rip tide that has repeatedly dragged people to their death, but Johnny Local and his pals will argue the point until, well, one of them has to be rescued. By me and my colleagues. Not that we mind - it's what we're there to do - but what gets me is the sheer arrogance, ignorance, and selfishness demonstrated by Johnny and his mates. Don't they realise that they're setting an example? That when they step into the rip, another, weaker, more vulnerable beach-goer might follow? If I have to hear one more speech about how 'I've lived here for years - who are you to tell me what to do?' I might just... well, I'd better not say. But here's the thing. I’m not legally obliged to come and rescue you from a red flagged area. My obligations diminish yet further if you’ve just told me to sling it. Yes, I know - I would come and rescue you. But remember: in the wake of you breaking a bye-law, you could end up with a fine to take back home.
Bottom line is: I don’t waltz into your place of work and argue with you and try to tell you how to do your job, so don’t tell me how to do mine. Why take the risk when I’ve informed you of the likely consequences? It’s disrespectful to you, as well as to me. Imagine walking into a police station (whether uniformed or not), and proceeding to usurp their position. You just wouldn’t.
So with all of this current mimicry malarkey on our coasts. It requires redress in the form of legislation or, at least, an enforceable warning system to stop people wearing such items on or near the beach. Let us do our job. And let people recognise that. Take your head out of the sand, out of your faux lifeguard T-shirt and out of your imitation lifeguard shorts, and step into the reality of collective power and responsibility. The clothing there is a lot better.
Editor's note: I remember a line from my days as a media lawyer that is on the point. The late Oscar Beuselinck was a larger than life character who, as a libel lawyer, acted for many of the rich and famous throughout the 70s and 80s. One of his clients was Michael Winner, the film director. Legend has it that Oscar once grew so exasperated with Winner that he was heard to say: "I don't tell you how to direct fucking films so don't tell me how to run fucking libel actions."
 Alex Wade is a freelance writer who lives and surfs in the far west of Cornwall. Alex's blog will bring
you up-to-date news of our surf scene, what's on and where to surf, as well
as the best of contemporary surfing writing from around Britain. The aim is
to get you stoked and into the water as often as possible, because, as the
old saying goes: "Surfing is life. The rest is details."
About Surf Nation
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It’s 2.15 on a Thursday afternoon. I’m in south-west France, the weather’s pretty good, and I’m about to meet Laird Hamilton. I should be feeling stoked, not least because for me as with many from the watersports fraternity, Laird has been a hero for years. But instead I’m walking gingerly from my hotel to my meeting, head pounding, eyes squinting from the glare of the sun, body aching as if I’ve been pounded with a sledgehammer all night. 
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