Cold Hands, Warm Heart | Pete Geall

The words 'epic' and 'perfect' although often the most fitting diction to describe the surf conditions, can often get cast around with loose referene. In the wake of recent swells (and accompanying wind) there would however be a more apt vocabulary to chronicle the sessions of late. With solitary paddle-outs at the Cribbar and waves traded at the lesser frequented spots we hear from Pete Geall, a stand out surfer from the south west on any occasion. 

We will leave the descriptive words for you to conclude. 

“Can you see him?” Asking in unison, we look at each other for a reaction, then back out to sea.

“Not yet. Not yet.”

Hovering in the shelter of an old wooden lifeguard hut, we scan our eyes across the stage. An island situated some 400m out to sea and barely exposed shelf of rock where 6-8ft waves are lifting quietly out of the Atlantic. The scene begins to unfold slowly in front of us. I feel my dormant lifeguarding senses kick in, something about the location I guess - this place seems so different in the summer. Busier, softer and accompanied by the nostalgic, twinkling tune of a Kelly’s Ice-Cream truck that is normally parked nearby. This is not the summer though. Far from it. A bitter easterly wind threads its way through the marram grass behind us before roaring across the empty expanse of low-tide beach. The padlocked shutters of the hut, sealed tight until spring, nervously bounce and rattle with each gust. The matt grey sea merging with western horizon before turning into sky.

“Um, I’m sure he will be fine. It’s fine.” I try and reassure Jayce’s partner Hannah by underplaying the situation with an ad-libbed explanation. “It’s just the spray and the distance - the gaps between the waves”.

We catch a glimpse of Jayce’s board bobbing its way unnaturally through the inside boil, like a channel marker buoy held fast by anchor. His wetsuit-clad body emerges a long second or two later.

“Told you he would be fine” Squinting through his long lens, James who is here to shoot photos of his friend nonchalantly confirms he is above water and making positive moves towards the channel.

“Such a lord” I state with conviction.

Straight up the heaviest wipeout I’d seen in Cornwall so far this winter - overtaking Kelvin Blatt’s fine effort a few weeks back in a stormy session on the south coast. That one was a real doozy as well - a head-first dive off a 6ft low-tide drainer at a well-known reef. Notable for the sustained post-wipeout flogging all the way down the reef and halfway up the harbour by the remainder of the set. Jayce’s attempt here, which had dangled him impossibly long in the lip and resulting feet-first pin drop had become the clear winner in my own darkly voyeuristic competition. I knew immediately I wanted to be out there.

In the weeks leading up to that session we’d had interesting run of surf in Cornwall. A stacked chart of tightly coiled depressions have queued up diligently to throw swell at our shores. Rarer still has been the consistent presence of easterly winds, allowing us to greet that energy face-on and democratically on either coast. Forcing myself and others to carve lines up and down the A30 road that bisects the county - unable to make a decisive call about which coast would have the best waves.

The irony of solid swell and offshore winds on the north coast of Cornwall is that apart from a couple of well-kept secrets there aren’t many spots that can handle over 6ft of swell. As a result surfers are often prematurely forced to seek shelter in one of the many small coves and bends that define this coast.

With the swell buoys peaking and in a mindset of wanting to get stuck in - I went to have a look at the Cribbar situated off Towan headland in Newquay; one of the few deep water anomalies that can handle this size. Arriving at the headland I am pleasantly surprised by mellowness of the scene and lack of fanfare that often characterises sessions out here. In fact, apart for a few dog walkers and a couple of surfers down at South Fistral - the session is a calm, solitary affair. Just me and a few large waves gently lit by muted winter light. I’m treated to an expansive 200 plus degree view of the Cornish coast that few get to see - All the way from Pentire that separates the bay of Crantock from Newquay right round to Trevose some nine miles to the north.

Paddling back via the beach, I fall comedically on a head-high reform on the inside, luckily there is no-one round to witness it. I fumble my keys awkwardly outside my van, before grabbing my phone to check the time. 4pm and already getting dark. Three messages appear on the screen: ‘Sick wave Pete’. ‘Charging’. ’Yeeewwwww mate’.

I numbly poke at the phone but my hands are so cold that the touchscreen stubbornly refuses to acknowledge my presence. Who had seen the handful of modest waves I had ridden? I glance round to see if I recognise any of the people or vehicles in the headland car-park. I’m alone apart from a few battered camper vans, curtains drawn, with smoke quietly billowing from their crudely cut chimneys. A crew living out on the fringe, re-claiming this normally prohibitively expensive carpark as their home for the dark season. A reminder that the winter in Cornwall poses numerous challenges for those who reside here - challenges more immediate and important than a few chunky waves ridden off the end of a pile of rocks.

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Hair wet from the session, my face illuminated by the brash LED light of my phone I scroll through my messages. Discovering that I’ve unwittingly become part of a bigger story within British surfing. Turns out Carve surf magazine have already re-posted a instagram photo of me knifing a decent drop by Newquay photographer Mat Hammond. The immediacy and involvement of social media is a truly bizarre thing.

That evening people I don’t know send me comments in support of my approach. Some express bewilderment at the size of the swell up and down the coast; lighting up all kinds of rarely ridden gems and far exceeding the forecasted conditions. Others bemoan the quality of the spot - so often described in a cloud of hyperbole by non-surfers and broader press that the myths and bullshit are as much part of the story as the occasional largish wave that breaks out there. Guess I’m part of that now - a curious blend of fact, fiction and enigmatic fog.

Fast forward a couple of days to the beginning of this tale and I’m fighting my way back into my sodden wetsuit in a National Trust car-park in the west of the county. Bare-arse exposed, tripping over my wetsuit boots to the disdain of the well-heeled NT crowd. I’m trying to make it out to the spot where Jayce has just been lit up in spectacular fashion - I’m late. I’m conscious of his beating and also the amount of time he has been surfing in the cold alone - he will surely head in soon. The friendly car park guys are trying to show me pictures of the waves from the past few days when I had been up in Newquay. I’m nodding whilst jagging fins into my 7’0. I’m desperate to get out before this becomes another solitary session in heavy water.

Breaking free of the shorebreak before journeying though the chaotic mid-break I catch a glimpse of Jayce scratching over a set. He is stoked to see me. I am stoked to see him. We spend the next two hours happily babbling to each other about the conditions whilst occasionally getting lit up by marauding peaks. Two thirty year old groms figuring out how to surf a new spot, voices shot from shouting at the unridden empties and cheering each others wipeouts.

We share a handshake on the beach before making our way back through the wind-blasted dunes.

“Cold hands” he says.

“Warm heart” I reply.

Words by Pete Geall | Photographs by James Warbey (B&W) and Mat Hammond (Cribbar)