On Tuesday morning, we get up at 5 a.m. and drive back to the barbed wire fence, back to the deserted barrels. Orion is taking clear aim at us through the inky pre-dawn and the air outside feels
exceptionally cold. Boydie and Micah are the first in the water, but the barrels aren’t so deserted today. Daylight has barely broken and other cars are quickly populating the roadside at the unlikely surf spot: golden grasses, not sand dunes, billow for ages.
Later, the first round of the UK Pro Surf Tour Scottish Open runs at Sandside in biting wind. The conditions aren’t easy and only 50% of the “Scottish” entrants (Boydie and Yudi) advance to the
next round, which will be held tomorrow. Yudi gets through; Micah advances as well. I’m supposed to be touring the Isle of Skye tomorrow.
Wednesday morning, I’m not on Skye. The comp resumes at pumping, six-foot Thurso East. The sky is grey. Again. And the air is cold. Again. Chris is back from Fraserburgh. He says, “I thought you’d
be gone by now! We’ll talk later,” as he rushes to beat the first heat to the surf. As he goes, he apologizes to Micah, in advance, for any interference he may cause. Weird. It begins to make more sense when the heat actually starts and the “contest zone” is still overrun with non-participants. The comp organizers apparently hold no sway over these waters; the locals will do as they please. As they (well, some of them) please is to wreak havoc because one of the guys in the water with Micah recently made the Scottish shit list. I had heard about his slip-up: he’d pissed off the locals by exposing a secret spot and, in their eyes, exploiting Scottish waves for English gain.
So, there are two issues here. The first is that Scotland is part of the UK. But it’s not. Like how France is separate from Germany, but they’re both part of the EU. I can’t explain it much better than that because I don’t really understand it myself. I know that Boydie says Scotland wants independence (again) and will probably achieve it by 2014. I know that salty, old pub goers grumble about Scottish oil bolstering the English economy while doing little for the land that bore it. I know that Scotland struggles to define itself (and also to take part) in the UK surf community. It almost seems to be treated as the bastard child of the Far North. And I have a hunch that this is connected with the contest officials’ lack of influence over Thurso’s locals.
“These English wouldn’t just turn up in France, in Hossegor or something, and try to run a contest unannounced,” says one of Boydie’s friends, a guy named “Hamper.” “Shouldn’t be any different here. They’ve got to realise Scotland is a different country.”
Boydie tends to act as liaison between the UK surf world and the Scottish surf world: simultaneously enmeshed and distinct.
The other issue is that of exposure. Thurso is not a secret spot. Not anymore. But Thurso East is not the be-all-end-all break in northern Scotland. In fact, the coast is literally awash in waves. They’re not easy, merciful, accessible, or friendly, but they’re here in abundance, and they’re just beginning to trickle into surfing’s wider consciousness. The race for discovery and the battle for privacy are, clearly, at odds, and should a secret spot be made public, it damn well better be by
someone who’s surfed it a hundred times before; not someone who “raped” it once in the name of self-promotion. Or, at least, that’s how the locals feel. Therein lies the problem with today’s unwelcome competitor, who came up from Cornwall and scored (kinda) at a spot that he “discovered.” Kinda. None of the Thurso regulars are lining up to congratulate him on heats well surfed. He tells me later that the whole thing has been blown out of proportion. “The vid is a great little, fun surfing adventure and a lot of people have enjoyed watching it,” he says.
That issue aside, many of the top local surfers simply work too much to pass up a swell this good at Thurso East. Hence Chris’s presence. He’s not here to hassle anyone, but after weeks offshore, he’s amping. And he’s magically in position for every single bomb that rolls through; the contestants can deal with the rabble.
The chaos simmers when ______ exits the water and after many hours of alternating rain and sun, chop and glass, Micah wins the comp. With a full quiver and a giant novelty check in the back of his car, he turns the key, but nothing happens. And so, a couple of stragglers push the freshly minted winner into a start–through the mud. For some reason, this seems like the perfect anecdote for illustrating Scotland’s non-local localism, divided brotherhood, and humble attitude in the face of remarkable surfing achievement.
My 96 hours with Boydie, Micah, and Yudi were a blur of driving, surfing, and eating. Not so much sleeping. Now it’s a rush to catch a bus to Inverness, a train to Glasgow, a plane to New York. It’s gone far too quickly.
