LAIDBACK. Mellow. At one with the waves. I’ve seen Point Break. I’ve heard the Beach Boys. I get it, dude.
Surfers are chilled-out, often bleached, beach bums who spend the time between tides dozing, sipping kombucha and doing downward dog. So when the offer to fly out to Portugal to experience training with Scottish big-wave surfer Ben Larg dropped into The Herald inbox, I humbly stepped in and took one for the team. Two days of winter sun on the coast with a bit of a splash around courtesy of the good folks at Red Bull? Aye, I think I might manage it.
Fast-forward to limping through Edinburgh airport arrivals on Thursday night and my quads are yelping, I’m still hacking up salt water and most of the baggage allowance has been taken up with lotions and potions concerned with the board rash creeping up my right thigh.
It turns out there’s a physical element to flying down a 30-foot wall of water at speeds of up to 50mph that I may have underestimated. I do not get it, dude. When it comes to finding the necessary equilibrium between incredible strength and unshakeable balance, big-wave surfers are athletes like no other. In the short time I spent on Larg’s gruelling regime – whether it was a passion for being the best he can be or the thrill of putting a rotund journalist through an actual hard day’s work – the 18-year-old was loving every minute.
Day one morning: Breathwork
Piscinas Municipais da Nazare’s schedule for Tuesday morning reads something like this: 9am free lane swimming, 10am oxygen deprivation training to prepare adrenaline junkies for near-death experiences in the ocean, 11am over-60s aqua aerobics. Andrew Cotton – one of the scene’s most well-respected surfers and a star of HBO documentary 100-Foot Wave – was our torturer in chief, reeling off tricks and tips from the side of the pool along with safety measures.
“Have many people passed out doing this?” one of our group asked. “We had a couple here last week,” Larg admits gravely. “One took five minutes to come around but he was fine in the end.”
We shudder in our Speedos, trying to maintain a brave face while scanning for the exit. Larg bursts out laughing.
“Nah, I’m joking lads, you’ll be fine.” Cheers for that.
During the next two hours, it becomes evident breathwork is a mind-over-matter pursuit. With a few simple techniques – exhaling fully with a “dump breath”, gliding slowly rather than wasting energy – I go from gasping for air halfway across the pool to completing two lengths without taking a breath.
Due to the frequency of waves at Nazare, surfers need to be ready to have one crashing down on their head almost immediately after wiping out. Cotty says the key is relaxing the body as much as possible and not trying to fight the current. It’s an addictive pursuit, given the tangible and immediate improvement. If you see me floating face-down in the slow lane at Bellahouston, don’t call the lifeguard, I’m in training.
Day one afternoon: Gym session
Welcome to the jungle. At a specialist gym for surfers, Larg takes us through his workout, starting off with a zoological set. Crab walks, bear crawls and lizard lunges to warm up – not ideal for a sloth more used to pigging out.
Due to the impact of surfing on the lower body, the workout was focused on building leg mass and strengthening the core. After Larg perforated his eardrum at the start of last year though, much of his rehab programme in Austria was centred around getting his balance back.
Enter the Bosu ball (inset) – a hellish contraption which took difficult exercises to the next level by adding an uneven surface. Larg timed us as we squatted, lunged and swore our way to the end of the day. When asked about his diet, Larg admitted he has been trying to eat more, but it is difficult to put on the weight he needs – “I’m still 18”. Must be nice. This kid is built like the Tiree Tarzan and I’m feeling like a Dumfries Dumpling.
Day two: The ocean
We meet in the Red Bull warehouse at the harbour to go over jet-ski safety instructions, pull on wetsuits and ready our boards for the day. With Cotty fitting my foot straps, he asks what stance feels natural, regular or goofy, and much to Larg’s bemusement, I insist I’m goofy. I have been called as much before. Of course, I quickly come to regret it. As if the task ahead wasn’t daunting enough, I’d effectively asked for left-handed clubs to play my first round of golf at Augusta. With Tiger on the bag.
Tearing past the lighthouse cliff that juts out to separate the south beach from the north, the placid ocean from the roaring tempest, and the men from the boys, I start to have a minor wobble. This may have something to do with the major wobbles the jet ski itself is contending with. These are the biggest waves I’ve ever seen, and after hearing the tale of a Forbes writer who had to be rescued after his journalistic integrity demanded a closer look, I’m relieved when Larg whips around to head back to the safety of the dock. Not that I was ever in actual danger. The biggest waves surfed at Nazare measure 80 to 100 feet – I ask Larg how tall they are today: “Probably around 10-15. Me and Cotty wouldn’t usually bother coming out in this.”
Back in the kiddie pool end, I get my moment to shred. Feet glued on to the board, tow rope in hand I anticipate Larg motoring away at 60mph and pulling me along with ease. I contemplate a front flip but decide this would be arrogant for my first time. Larg flips the ignition, my board decides to sit this one out and I am dragged through the water for 50 yards. Eschewing both regular and goofy, my stance has become pure Guantanamo as I inhale litres of the Mediterranean’s finest and it doesn’t improve much in the ensuing attempts. In the end I reckon I spent around three seconds in a vertical position, and the remainder of the 15 minutes floating in a manner that suggested I was waiting to be flushed.
When we get back to dry land, it’s platitudes aplenty. Larg says it wasn’t bad for a first time although I suspect this is down to his upbringing. We walk past renowned jet ski driver Alemao de Maresias, who grimaces.
“Next time man!”
And you know what? Despite two days of being worked hard, wrung out and waterboarded, I’m enchanted. There will be a next time, albeit on calmer shores. Surfing – I get it, dude!
