There’s a light offshore breeze and hardly a soul in the water. Glassy waist-high waves roll towards to shore, with sets stacked to the horizon.
I want to tug on a wetsuit and jump straight in, but I can’t. Because I’m sat 200 miles away in an office, watching the waves break on a computer screen.
“Soon you find yourself riding the Tube more than you’re riding waves…”
For many of the 500,000 surfers in Britain, this feeling is all too familiar.
Career prospects in land-locked cities often take priority over a life near the sea. Soon, you find yourself riding the Tube more than you’re riding waves. Your body becomes soft and sluggish from sitting desk-bound for 40 hours a week. Checking Magic Seaweed turns into a source of vicarious pleasure and a form of torture.
With hundreds of miles between you and the nearest break, how do you keep the stoke alive?