Homeland

Out of all the things this act of wave riding has given me, one of the things I am most thankful for, is an appreciation for this country I call home. 

A complicated nation defined often by our differences, but brought together by our love of the land beneath us. So assured in our pride yet so miserable in our mindset. A love of drinking so common - often used to hide the problems within us, and amongst us. 

It was surfing that turned my appreciation for Scotland from dingy pubs and neon bathed streets to the calm of East Coast coves and the roar of Outer Hebridean storms. The chaos of Sauchiehall street replaced by drives through the night up the A9 for big westerly swells. Places that now feel so dear to me. The beaches of Barra, the points of Lewis, the reefs of Caithness and the quiet corners of the East Coast. All explored and appreciated on the hunt for rideable walls of cold ocean energy.

As I clamber over the reef in the last of the light, I find fascination in the seaweed beneath my feet. I feel like the last wave in was a secret gift. An unspeakable pact between me and the ocean. The energy of the wave coming not just from storms out to sea, but directly up from the land beneath it. A wave in Scotland will always feel better than a wave anywhere else.

Surfing can feel like a mad dash to be at the spot at the right time, chasing swells and weather windows. Though it’s given me an appreciation for idleness. To sit in the long grass and wait for the tide to turn is a worthwhile use of time. A beautiful necessity. More important than any to do list. 

This surfing life has introduced me to more of the fantastically strange people of Scotland. The Hebridean farmer who sees anything south of Aberdeen as England. The “van lifers” that curse online influencers as they take a piss in the car park in the pouring rain at 2am so they can surf their favourite spot at first light. The CEO’s, chefs, salty sea dogs and students - equalized by the lineup of their local break. The fans of a certain coastal league one football team, who ask in sheer bewilderment what we are doing as we start suiting up in the snow during the biggest storm of the year, to surf a left point as perfect as I’ve seen anywhere in the world. They walk past that beach weekly, not knowing the magic that their local coastline can hold for wave crazy converts.

So I thank surfing for connecting me back to my dear Alba. A landscape, sea and people so unique and unusual. So beautiful and flawed. Keep your indo boat trips filled with cunts and give me icy cold duckdives, friends in the lineup and a dram as the 3pm darkness creeps in. In 50 years time I hope I’m still running across golf courses in the rain and dinging my board as I clamber over fences to get the beach. A life well lived.