Locals Only! Croyde Bay Surf Report

"I wanna get high and strong"

Part One: The road to the Boneyard

"Croyde Bay has to be one of the finest surfing beaches in the U.K. producing high quality barrels throughout the tide, low tide being the best and the most powerful and dangerous. Low tide is definitely not for beginners or intermediates! Even medium size low tide will break boards and bones." - Some bullshit surfer website www.pussywimpsurfer.co.uk or something.

Bleary eyed and stinkin of shit, I rushed from the house across town towards the train station. I was a man possessed, I needed a HOT SCOOP and I needed it quick. I wanted a juicy story full of the most derelict and dirty characters. I was a master journalist on a quest for truth, justice, and perhaps...romance? I already knew where my fucking red hot scoop was to be uncovered - Croyde Bay, North Devon. Surfers paradise or locals-only boneyard? Beautiful Devonshire holiday destination or drug-fuelled coastal town full of the worst whores? To get to the bottom of this mystery I boarded a train up to Barnstaple, where my contact for this investigation would pick me up and take me to Croyde. I sat on the train and stared out of the window, a million thoughts rushed through my mind, how was I going to get to the bottom of this without dying? Had I gone too far this time in the name of journalism? Was I going to kill myself for THE TRUTH?! If that's what it takes...YES. I thought about Croyde's reputation as being the heaviest surf in the UK. Those heavy motherfucker waves will pummel you into a mush formerly known as human. I thought about the end of Point Break where Bodhi kills himself in the surf. It was his life, his passion.

"come on man, it's the storm of the century!"

Patrick Swayze's noble face flashed through my mind and I knew I had to do this or forever be a second rate master journalist.

"You want the ultimate thrill? You gotta be willing to pay the ultimate price."

Patrick's face faded from my thoughts and I suddenly felt alone. I hadn't gotten a piece of tail in over five months. I have forgotten what it's like to touch another human being. Grow up man,  love is dead to you, all that matters now is ice cold investigative journalism. Fuck love, it's for sentimental slopsters. Save it for the life stories in the tabloids; I walk this path alone.

My contact picked me up from the train station, by way of greeting he stuck his middle finger up at me out of his window. His van was a trashed old Renault with "KOOK" crudely spray painted down the side panel. Goddamn surf punks, I knew this was only going to get tougher and weirder.

We drove for twenty minutes along the Devon coast towards Croyde. Real fuckin' pretty area with loads of great looking people milling about like there ain't any corrupt mysterious shit going on whatsoever. Infact, these motherfuckers look like they're on their summer holidays! We get back to my contact's house where I am to stay overnight. From here on I whipped out my trusty note pad and scribbled down notes trying to catch any tasty journalistic morsel that might drip out of these wild guy's mouths.

Arrived five twenty five. This place seems nice. Too nice.

The accommodation is very interesting indeed - and old barn with a side that bulges out into the road. It's soon to be demolished. My contact sleeps in here underneath a swallows nest - they shit on him and he loves it. It's dusty and there's woodlouse assholes on my mattress in the corner. Fuckers.

The main house - owned by the local pot dealer's parents and inhabited by nine of his friends who pay £20 a week to live there. One guy sleeps in the bath tub.

My buddy senses I am nervous and he pulls out a peace pipe and packs it with homegrown weed. We smoke it in his barn. Amongst his meagre possessions are a massive set of barbells. He tells me that he wants to "get high and strong". I laugh. The weed is second to none. Delicious.

We sit around smoking more pipes and talking about drugs. The other housemate who lives in the bathtub comes outside to join us - it's immediately obvious that this guy doesn't trust me. He makes snide comments and treats me with an icy contempt. One to watch out for. 

Part 2: Cowabunga Dude.

 We walk down to the beach for a surf. I am high as fuck. Everybody is leaving the beach. The mist shrouds the bay making it impossible to see out there. What's happening? We ask a couple of little Fido-Dido surf fucks what the hell is up - they tell us someone drowned, the beach had been evacuated because the rip currents were too strong and the fog was making it hard to rescue people. I get a case of WEED PARANOIA    my friend reassures me, "If you drown I'll personally come and save you."
I am given a 9ft foam long board  - the tool with which to prove myself amongst these fat dudes, once they see me carve the waves they'll spill the beans. I paddle out into the water at Croyde at low tide, its fuck-heavy reputation doesn't scare me and I shred effortlessly. However, none of the locals warm to me. I am spat on three times and told to go home back to Cornwall. Even my host becomes embarrassed of this journalist he has bought out with him and tries to hold my head under to drown me!

The session ends, it's dark, night has fallen I am still alive and I have uncovered the truth: Surfing Croyde is for sissies.

We go back to the house and get really really high, I travel time and space. Somewhere through the weed haze I know that tomorrow I will wake up a master journalist again.

Part 3: Romance? 

I wake up in the barn with a woodlouse on my pillow, my brain feels fluffy and I need to fuckin skeedaddle out of here before I loose my mind. I say good by to my friend and thank him for a nice time, a delicious dinner, a fun surf, and a fantastic all night pot party. I say good bye to the housemate who hated me and he displays the up most indifference to my departure.

One the bus back to Barnstaple I meet an amazing redhead head on the back of the bus. She is dressed like a hippy and she looks like she can read a crystal ball, I imagine her to have a most fantastic ginger bush. I sit in my seat and fantasise about running away and joining a carnival with her, our travels would take us all over the world but our hearts would always remain in Croyde with the pussy surfers. When I came to from my reverie she was gone and I was at the train station, alone again. If it's one thing I know for sure, it's this - I smoked way too much yesterday.