As a Janner born and bred, I was surfing all year around, when I could, both South and North coasts of Devon and Cornwall but then the world of work took hold of me and grabbed me and turned my life upside down. Faced with being made redundant or move with the job. I moved inland. So far inland it was ridiculous. Landlocked in the Midlands I’m afraid to say I lost touch with ‘The Surf’. Gone were the days of camping trips with my wife and us both surfing and loving the beach life.

I’m sure I’m a classic case but other things took over and I found some great other interests too but one day I knew I always wanted to surf again. So finally, here I was heading down the M5 to Llangennith, where I surfed many years ago on one of our trips from Plymouth.

My heart was pounding as I kitted up and I was so excited it was silly. The surf was 4-5 foot but a bit messy. Still panting from running to the beach I didn’t prepare, warm up or focus at all. I just launched myself at it thinking I was young again. How wrong I was.

Back in the day.

I loved it, I duck dived as well as ever, I made it to the line up shattered but feeling excited, I selected the right waves, paddled and caught them but I was so spent doing all this that every time I went to stand, I fell. Over the falls and off the back I just didn’t make it once. Gutted.

Paddling out to avoid a close out set I felt a sharp sting in my chest muscle. I was battered by now so had to give up. Realising at 55, I just wasn’t as fit as I needed to be.

The drive back home didn’t dampen my enthusiasm, nor did the googling to see that I had tore chest muscles which still hurt a few months on. In fact, I’m now determined to never let the surf go again. I will be back…not next week but definitely way before another 25 years!