How I became a Rock Fairy

It's the noise of bone snapping that stays with you. That's the noise that wakes you up in the night as the delusional dream mist clears to find a sweat laden pillow,and reality slowly dawning. That's the sound, the femur snapping, that reminds me I was there and it did happen. Weirdly, the noise is exactly as you might imagine.

Fast forward 5 years and I am surfing clean head and half, decent period groundswell on a right hand point with a puff of off-shore just to give it some texture. There is one other guy out, I love my board, I am as fit as a fiddle. The only thing is, I can't wait to get out. Indeed, that has been the single prominent thought plaguing my grey cells since this session began. I can't shake it. It's not a new thought, and it's about five years old.

My so called friends rib me in good humor, with undercurrents of scorn, that I can't be scared of rocks if I want to be a surfer. What they don't realise is that it's not a choice, and it wasn't always this way.

What happened  was something that only I experienced, and perhaps have failed to fully explain or even own up to. Perhaps this will be therapeutic in some way, to tell the story to you in the hope that some of you have had similar experiences and can relate.

How I became a 'Rock Fairy'

It was a weird tide, I knew it was a super moon and there was a lot of water moving about, the wind was nothing and there was that grey calmness that only happens when a big storm is brewing. The static in the air was palpable. The swell was small to medium sized but with nearly a twenty second period, the sets were few and far between, but full of juice when they arrived. I had heard of, and seen spots do weird things under not so common tidal events such as these, but had never actually been involved in one.

The place was Capbreton, France (next to Hossegor) and the spot was Santocha Rocks. For those of you not familiar with the spot; it is a beach break sandbar that forms off a rock jetty creating a right hander with the sand sweep. The rock jetty, and some old Second World War bunkers that are in the line up, create a kind of natural border as to where Santocha ends and begins. Being a sand peak it was prone to 'wandering' with the tides and swells that shape it. On this day, on the incoming 'super tide' that goes with the 'super moon', we were surfing the peak in the middle of Santocha. There was an A-Frame with a right hander which finished near the bunkers, and the left (which was better) that spat you out at the cleft of the inverted L shape that was the rocks. From there, a rip takes you straight out the back up the side of the rocks into deep water.

The scene is set. There was about 8-10 of us out on the peak that afternoon. A French guy called Xavier, a friend called Rich, myself and 5-6 Spanish tourists. There were loads of waves, and everyone was taking turns, the sets were every 20 mins or so and getting more punchy as time went on. We were due for a period of 23-24 seconds to hit that night, but it was already starting to show. A little flurry of decent waves came through as the sandbank must have been hitting 'optimum tide' and everyone took a wave. It left me and Xavier out the back alone, this might be a good time to tell you that Xavier was a sponger, I knew him to speak to in the lineup, but that was it.

That is when the horizon went dark. With the afternoon being late, the sun was beginning to get low, when a wave came, as it got closer, it blocked out the light and gave you an eerie feeling like a sudden eclipse. You kind of get used to it, except when it happens when the wave is so far out. Xavier had seen the biggest set yet coming before me, and was already flipping out to get in position. Just as I was about to duck dive I saw him spin around and take it right under the lip. The image is frozen in my mind as I recall it to you now, perhaps branded there as by the incident that happened next.

As I punched through the back of the wave and carried on paddling, my eyes dried and I could see another perfect wall of water coming my way. It was a big set wave and I felt indecision creeping in and rational thought evaporating from my mind that was wildly calculating my chances of success or suffering, knowing very well that a couple of centimeters separated either. Again, I feel it necessary to point out that these swells in this place can be ridiculous. You may think that its only a beachie, but trust me when I say the consequences can be the worst I have ever experienced and in this moment, very real indeed. The instinct is not always there for me to take the wave, I have to force myself to paddle and mean it, as paddling without intent will only lead to a worse outcome.

I held my breath, slipped around, sunk my board and popped it out with a paddle and took off on one of the best, most perfect waves of my life.

As I kicked out at the end of the wave, I saw Xavier in front of me paddling in the wrong direction. Towards me. I didn't realize this at once, but just knew something was not quite correct about the situation. Suddenly it all made sense, as I was paddling out against the rip that should have been taking me out. Instead, it had switched and was pushing us back into the corner of the rocks, to a place that we really did not want to be. To make things worse, there were more waves in the set and the last two were considerably bigger. It dawned on me then that Xavier and I were, potentially, in a very dangerous situation.

This might be a good time to mention that the left was very long and it was hard to see us firstly from the lineup and secondly from the beach unless you were stood on the rocks, which nobody was. All this information was flying through my brain at high and panicked speed and reality seemed to slow down.

The next set wave was here and we were being pushed back into the corner of the rocks by the reversed rip. I went to duck dive with the acidic taste of fear in the tip of my tongue, praying to an unknown deity to let me survive injury free. I had time for a quick glance to my right at Xavier and saw a mirrored expression in his face. Xavier was a bit inside of me and in a bit more trouble.

I have never paid so much attention to getting a duck dive correct. With gritted teeth I sank the nose of my board into the incoming wave and prepared to be taken backwards into the waiting rocks. I felt the motion tug at me and let go, allowing me to escape, but as my head broke water I heard a noise that should not have been. A noise that reminded me of dry twigs being snapped, followed immediately by a haunting and full bellied, blood curdling howl of pain. Both noises are burned into my psyche and were quick to extinguish any relief I may have felt about my own salvation. I knew what had happened, but I had no time to glance back for the last set wave was bearing down on me. Paddling like crazy, I managed to break free of the current, spurned on by some weird backwash from the previous wave, and into deeper water and safety.

All the time, the howling noise was constant, but as the last wave broke on the rocks, it became silent again. I finally allowed myself time to turn around and see what had become of my sponging friend. He had not fared well, at that moment he was flailing in the water by the rocks, clearly in a lot of pain, head bobbing under and over the surface of the water. He was barely conscious and he was drowning. The rip had resumed business as usual and we where both being swept back into the lineup.

What happened next is all a bit of a blur until I got to the beach. A mixture of adrenaline fueled panic gave me the energy to swim Xavier and myself to the beach against the rip, something I would have said would normally be impossible. At some point I must have taken my leash off as my board was back in the lineup and I had made it to the beach with Xavier, who was barely conscious and bleeding badly from mid thigh where his snapped femur had poked a hole in his wetsuit.

Due to the strangeness of the beach, none from the 'viewing beach' (where the spectators where) could see us. I was exhausted and my natural drugs were wearing off. I tried to climb the sand dune to get help, but my legs where shaking now and hard to move. It was the longest short climb I have ever attempted, my lungs were burning, trying to catch my breath from the swim. I shouted as I reached the top and collapsed to my knees. Two French guys saw me and came running over, I had Xavier's blood all over me and they thought I was the one that was hurt.

As has only ever happened to me once before (when my son was born) my brain had shut down all other functions and I found myself unable to find any French words. Unable to communicate in a language in which I am fairly proficient. With waiving hands and English I managed to direct my would-be rescuers in the direction of Xavier.

There was commotion and a lot of people running around. The lifeguard was having a day off as it was a public holiday (not even kidding) so lots of people were doing what they could to stop the bleeding. The ambulance arrived very quickly, and as one of the paramedics went to cut into the wetsuit to see how big the rip in his skin was, he was slapped away by Xavier who was telling him it was a new wetusit and to get his scissors away. Shock is a strange thing, I have never forgotten that.

The ambulance left with Xavier inside, and a friend had brought me my surfboard from the lineup. I felt cold, I felt sick, I was shaking. I drove home and tried to explain what had happened to my family and some friends who were staying at my house. I could not explain, they did not understand, I was so tired I went to bed and had the most horrific dreams that would continue for some nights afterward.

Sometime after the incident, I was frequenting a pub that I would normally not attend when in through the door came Xavier in a wheel chair with some friends, he kind of nodded to me, came over and said a muttered thanks under his breath and was gone. I did not expect to be praised for being a hero or cheered, but I had pretty much saved his life and did not understand his reluctance to at least acknowledge me and that. A French friend later explained to me that, I made him feel 'non macho' by helping him and that was why he had been embarrassed to talk or acknowledged me.

What can I say, apart from the fact that some cultural differences are just too massive to understand. This was one of them.

After the 'incident', I did not surf again for 10 days, even though the conditions were good, I did not surf that spot again for about 3 months and then only on small days. The dreams are still there and every now and again and I now have a lasting  illogical fear of rocks, as well as a reputation as a 'Rock Fairy'.

Well now, that does feel better in a therapeutic way. If anyone has any similar or more shocking stories I would love to hear them.