 |
An Irish Summer (Part I) I've surfed in Ireland on three separate occasions, 1968, 1970, and again in 1972, long before the surf film Litmus (About Litmus) presented Ireland to the surfing masses. Each visit was unique and resulted in distinct and separate memories. This Irish Summer story is about the trip I took in 1970. Before I go on - a little family history. Both my parents were born and raised in Ireland. Like millions of Irishmen before them they emigrated to the U.S.after World War II in the late 1940's. My parents followed the same path that countless numbers of immigrants from foreign lands followed; they worked hard, raised a family, and were eventually able to return to their place of birth for vacations. The first question one might ask is "Why go surfing in Ireland?" The answer, especially when you're young and still under the roof of your parents, is easy - money and rules. I had no summer job and my parents weren't about to let me stay alone in the house for the better part of the summer - knowing me I certainly wouldn't have let me stay alone either! Although I put up a gallant fight about going, I knew I would lose. Regardless, the sting of spending summer away from Florida, my close surfing friends, and my girlfriend was lessened because I knew from my previous surfing experience in Ireland (1968) - there would be waves. Thus, I resigned myself to surfing the cold waters of the North Atlantic for the summer of 1970. Ireland back then was not a "surf destination” you didn't go there to surf. Besides, throughout the entire country there were probably less than 20 surfers, most of whom ranged in age from the mid 20's to the late 30's. This hard core group of men lacked experience but made up for it with unbridled enthusiasm. Unlike today where you'll find Ireland as a "surf destination" advertised by travel agencies who cater to surfers - 30 years ago Ireland was well off the beaten path for traveling surfers. Why don't you go surfing in Ireland? Why is this island nation not an obvious destination for surfers - especially given its location in the Atlantic? One simple answer to multiple questions - the weather! Ireland sits about 12 degrees southeast of Reykjavik, Iceland, or roughly on the same line of latitude as Goose Bay, Newfoundland, Canada! However, Ireland is blessed (or cursed) by the close proximity of the Gulf Stream to its shores. If it were not for the effects of the warm Gulf Stream, Ireland would have weather similar to northern Newfoundland. The effects of the Gulf Stream on Ireland can not be understated. The Gulf Steam provides this beautiful country with a relatively moderate - albeit moist and unpredictable - year round temperatures. Additionally, the ocean temperature along Irelands West Coast in the summertime is kept within the bearable range as long as you're wearing a full wetsuit. Depending on where you surf along the coast, the water temperature in the late summer will range from the mid 50's to the mid 60's. Unlike two years earlier, this time I was prepared for the conditions. Additionally, I knew where to surf and who to contact. And so in June of 1970, my board, wetsuit, camping gear and I were dropped off in a farmer’s field-campground in Lahinch, County Clare, Ireland. The rest of my family was off visiting relatives. I was left to my own devices for the next three weeks; left alone to surf - and for the most part….surf alone. SNAP, SNAP. I woke up the first morning to the sounds of the tent sidewalls snapping with every gust. I stuck my head out the tent flap to the brilliant clear morning sky. It was a cold morning made more crisp and clear by the stiff offshore breeze. What engulfed me more than the physical beauty of my surroundings - were the smells. I can not recall ever before, or since, the absolute cleanliness of the air. No pollution, only the smells of breakfast emanating from the local farmhouse, the smell of moist hay, farm animals, and the burning of peat. Peat is an organic substance found in Ireland's topsoil and is a fuel source for hearths and fireplaces. At that point in time I may not have been in heaven - but I wasn't far from it. My breakfast that first morning consisted of a healthy portion of creamy Irish butter on a very large slice of fresh soda bread and a hot cup of tea. I gathered up my gear and headed down the road to the beach. As I turned out the gate with surfboard underarm and wetsuit draped over the rail of the board, the farmer from across the road turned left and also headed down towards Lahinch. The farmer was walking beside an old horse that was pulling a milk cart. The cart was loaded with the morning milk contained in large stainless steel containers and taken to the local creamery. The farmer and I saw each other as we turned towards the village. I said good morning and he touched his wool cap and said with a thick Irish brogue "...and to you sir, ‘tis a fine grand day this mornin." I said it was, but that it was a bit cold. From that point on we held a steady conversation down the hill into the village of Lahinch. The old farmer was curious about my board thinking it was a canoe or kayak and asked where the oars were. I told him it was a surfboard and that I used my arms to paddle so I could catch the waves and ride them. "Ahh sure you’re not goin' into the sea with that thing, and what will prevent ya from freezin'?" I told him I had a wetsuit. "Sure an if the suit is wet what good does it do?" I explained to him how a wetsuit worked and he seemed to understand. About halfway down the hill into the village I caught my first glimpse of the surf. I stopped and gazed in awe at the surf, the coastline, and surrounding countryside. The old farmer saw me stop and look westward out over the Atlantic. He said, "Now sure ya don't have a view like that in Flooraday." I replied there was probably not a view like that anywhere in the world. The old farmer smiled. The village of Lahinch sits at the base of a small coastal indentation, almost a bay. Thus, the swells have to come straight in resulting in a wave that is parallel to the beach. The surf that first morning in Ireland was not something you read in magazines. There were no stand-up barrels, no thick shoulders to carve on, and certainly no tropical fish to watch as you sat waiting for waves. The waves that morning were at most 3'-4’ and feathering back considerably in the stiff offshore breeze. The morning sun was rising over the eastern hills spreading its light out over the beach and onto the feathering surf. Each wave peeled and seemed to hold up forever allowing the morning sun to reflect through the spray. As the waves broke on that empty beach, the golden color of the spray came off the wave's back and merged with the lush green surroundings. I was convinced God himself had once again dusted off his easel and painted this picture just for me. To Be Continued… Part Two Next week ~Dermot |
 |
 |