Like father like son? Photo: Courtesy Ward family
When I was young, my parents seemed to be unspeakably cruel. My brothers and I were forced to eat vegetables, fish, and shellfish relentlessly. We rarely had sweets, and never fizzy juice. The house was somewhere we slept but didn’t seem to be allowed in during the day. We played outside in the cold, mucky earth when other boys seemed always to be indoors, in the warmth, with game consoles and Star Wars toys.
Organized entertainment involved being sent forcibly from the house to go sailing or windsurfing. We were battered by harsh winds and a cold, open ocean that seemed to cut right through our young bones. We were offered incentives and bribes for solo sailing, swimming or rowing trials between our house and the island across the water, a distance of maybe 1.5 kilometers. Standing on the shore as a child, these seemed like epic and unreasonable challenges.
Our parents threw us in the sea as soon as possible. They dedicated countless hours and earnings to sailing and windsurfing on our ungrateful behalf. My dad had raced sailing boats all of his life. Both he and mum took up windsurfing with dayglo gusto in the ’80s when it was the hip, young yuppie sport du jour. And, for the most part, we fucking hated it.
We stood in gales of wind on craggy shorelines, shivering in our pre-pubescent frames before decent wetsuits existed. We lugged impossibly heavy gear over barnacle-covered rocks and were blown out into 10-degree Atlantic ocean in a blaze of neon hysterics.
Every second weekend during winter we were put on a ferry and taken to a tiny, windswept Scottish island to undergo training. We whimpered at the terminal as the wind lashed freezing rain in our faces and our parent’s tail lights raced off into the blackness of the winter night.
Some weekends we were bundled into a white Toyota Hiace van that was more like a shipping container for livestock than a passenger vehicle. We crammed in amongst boards and sails and masts and fins and booms and wetsuits and harnesses, and a multitude of other bits of plastic and nylon rope. Mum and dad would drive us hundreds of miles across the country to compete in regattas, all the while ignoring our pissing and moaning, our whining and excuses; all the while knowing it was for our own good.
The fact that dad had just stepped off a trawler didn’t matter to us as children. The fact that he battled the sleep deprivation, aching tiredness and stress from a week at sea to drag a bunch of whinging little boys windsurfing went completely over our heads.
My parents pushed us on against our will, against coldness and fatigue and misery, and they knew that their persistence would be our reward. Now, as an adult, these experiences feel fundamental, maybe even elemental. And now, as father of a young son, I can’t help but think about them.
Naturally I see surfing as part of my son’s future, just as my parents saw sailing and windsurfing as part of mine. But it isn’t always clear to me if this is a wise decision, or even if it’s a decision that’s mine to make.
Sailing and windsurfing were my parent’s passions, not mine. I haven’t windsurfed in years, and the only time I go sailing now is to spend time with dad. Surfing was my little rebellion against organized watersports. It was my rebellion against piles of kit, and sail numbers, and starting lines, and courses plotted with giant, orange inflatable buoys.
I suppose it’s not hard to trace the lineage from being around the ocean at a young age to developing a love for surfing, but this was formed in spite of my parents rather than because of them, at least in my head. So what does that mean for my son? If surfing is what I hope for him, then what’s his little rebellion?
I’m already harboring plans to take my kids out of school for a year to drive around Europe in a van. In my head I’ve entirely justified this as an invaluable character-building life experience that they’ll ultimately thank me for. But I’ve seen Surfwise. And in more lucid moments I do realize surfing really isn’t all that important.
I’m sure in an ideal world every parent wants their offspring to share in the things they love, and I’m sure it doesn’t always work out like that. Maybe it rarely does. I can’t imagine many would admit to being disappointed in the choices their children make. I hope I’ll support my son in his choices, but honestly, I’m not sure.
I don’t think I’m selfish enough to try too hard to live vicariously through my son, but I tend to think that any parent who doesn’t to some small degree is probably neglectful. Surely you want to help your kids benefit from what you’ve learned?
So if I’ve learned that surfing is pretty valuable then how do I steer him towards it? If I take too much of a hard-line I risk turning him away, out of belligerence or stubbornness (his or mine). And a bit of pushing could be exactly what’s needed. Then again, if I take the softly, softly approach he might not make it over the initial hurdles, of which there are many.
We don’t live in a climate that lends itself to balmy family days at the beach. There are no gently lapping shores to frolic and find your feet. Surfing here requires focused, concerted effort. It’s cold, it’s rocky, it’s windy. It requires a bit of gear, a bit of planning and a lot of driving. It’s not exactly child-friendly. Like Andy Dufresne, there’s a fair bit of shit to crawl through before you reach the other side.
My parents understood the value of challenge. They knew that forcing your children to be wet and cold and terrified would benefit them eventually. It was a long game where only they could see the finish. I can see that now, but they could never have explained it to me back then. I just hope that whatever happens with my own children I can have the same foresight, and the same fortitude.
