Surfers have been coming to these fair isles for many moons. There is something that attracts them, whether it is some trail on the ancestral route, a longing desire to connect to their heritage, an excuse to get away from their own dwelling, or maybe it has something to do with the hundreds of miles of coastline that the UK and Ireland has. With the influence of these traveling surfers, the level has been pushed, boundaries discovered and broken; they have brought board designs, wetsuits, and surfing culture.
We are grateful and we welcome them — as a friend once said, we kill them with kindness. We like the ones who come alone and sit out the storms. We like them to tread softly and respect that the surfing culture is different. They leave home and at the price of their mother’s farewell kiss, they buy some wellie boots, a wetsuit, and indulge: they find their wild Irish rose, there scarlet woman, and are exiled to the North.
From the far shores of Australia, California and mainland Europe they come, and as the northern hemispheres light turns copper, the hard sacrifices are met, like the moon behind the hill with untold wonders. If there is a good run of waves during their first couple of winters, they cast their anchors and the subtle magnetism of northern Europe beats in.
They come and like the killer in the alley, take our women, waves, and our trophies — and we love them for it. They have forced up the bar of competitive surfing within the UK and Ireland and helped show us how to take a different approach to surfing certain waves. Noah Lane, a wanderer from the Goldie has done this like many before him: last year, Billy Stairmand made a run of the contests; the year before it was Brendan Roberts, Micah Lester, Matty Capel. Names keep going back to the firsts contests in the early days.
Others take a different route and are happy to hide in the caves and corners, grateful to be away from the scene of surfing that they have become used to in their homelands. Some hide from the flashes and the media, go home after a stint and tell no one. When I asked Noah what he thought of northern Europe, he sorta laughed, smiled at his Irish Rose, and showed me his visa. Rick, who is back in southwest Australia, told me he had to stop looking at them otherwise he might accidentally end up on a plane back to the North. He remembered: “I wanted to see the cheese rolling and some low ceilinged pubs and get the hell out before it got cold in autumn.” He ended up staying four years and probably had more barrel time than most of the guys on the WCT.
Surfing is, after all, about so many more things than the waves. It’s a wonderful pursuit and it’s great that it helps cross cultural, geographical, and social boundaries. It brings different communities together and those broken boundaries help us understand more about ourselves and the world we live in. Over the years, since the beginning of surfing in these islands, there has been a positive influence from the Travelers: if they come and weather the storms, the cold, and the shitty food, and find magic; or come and lifeguard for the summer, drink the warm beer, and leave when they have to put a 5 mm on; it’s all the same and were grateful for the tales from yonder.
