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Why I Don’t Go In The Sea

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I was 18 so about 1993 or so, and I had gone to visit my dad and his wife in Cornwall.

One day her son, Liam decided he was going to take me surfing in Newquay. Liam was a good surfer, had a really nice slim board, pointy end thing. He took me to a shop and we hired a beginner board, this thing was huge, wide and blunt ended. He took me down to the beach, done the “point break” lesson on the beach, taught me how to lay on the board, paddle, then get up into a standing position.

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Once I had sorted all that out I was ready for the waves. He advised me to stick to the breakwater as its shallower and easier to learn on. After making sure I was ok he vanished into the swells for the longer waves and left me too it.

I was more than happy, I was doing really well, I managed to paddle the board out, turn it around, paddle like mad and ride the short journey from the breakwater to the beach itself, I managed to stay upright more than I fell over. Trying to move the board from left to right had me falling but in a straight line I was there rocking it.

After a while I decided to venture into deeper water, the swells, for a longer surf, allbeit in a straight line. I was doing really well until a big, black, shark shaped thing swam under my board. I shot out of that water like a torpedo. I might have even ran up the beach with the board flapping behind me still attached to my ankle! I sat there on the beach terrified and Liam eventually saw me.

The conversation went like this:

Liam: You ok?

Me: Shark!

Liam: Shark?

Me: Shark!

Liam: Shark?

Me: Shark!

Liam: Probably just a basking shark.

Me: Basking Shark!

I never went back into the water that day, never been surfing since. We spent 56 million years getting out of the sea. I do not want to go back in there.

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About Author

I'm Pinky, full time motorcycle instructor, lunatic and all round weirdo. I love live music and why is this starting to sound like a dating application form? Anyways, thats me!

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