When my Uncle Slim first told me about surfing, I was too young and too stupid to understand what he meant by it all—why he talked about the waves like they were gospel, why his eyes flashed with that wild, maniacal spark every time he came back dripping wet from the North Sea. Now I get it. It’s that same itch, that unholy urge that pulls you out at dawn, teeth chattering, hands already numb, just to try and catch something real.
Hartlepool is not Malibu. Hell, it’s not even Brighton. The northeast coast of England is rough and battered, a grim stretch of salt-worn concrete, factories, and the permanent dampness that seeps into your bones and stays there. The wind slaps you around like it hates you, and the sea. The sea is merciless, unreliable…Full of sewage. But to Slim, this was the stomping ground. bleak and jagged, raw to the core, the kind of place that would chew you up and spit you out if you weren’t careful. And somehow, that was the whole point. To tame that chaos.
The town remembers ’94 as the year Hartlepool nearly got swallowed by the ocean. One of the worst storms to ever hit the northeast; the kind of storm that wakes you up in the middle of the night with that gut feeling that something bad is coming. By morning, the North Sea was a raging monster, spitting out swells big enough to obliterate half the coastline. And that’s when Slim took his board and headed for the pier.
The banjo pier break—a rare, ‘once in a lifetime’ freakshow of a wave that only shows up in conditions fierce enough to scare off every sane man within fifty miles. Slim wasn’t a sane man. The breaks only appeared maybe three times in the last few decades, and on that day, during that nightmare storm, Slim was the first person clever enough to see when the conditions are just right that myth of a wave is real enough to ride. With his close mate Kev Wrigglesworth made that leap of faith. People came down to the shore and watched, faces pale, half certain he wouldn’t make it back (or at least how the story goes when he tells it). Twenty-foot walls of water crashed down up and down the coastline, one after another, while he tore through them with that reckless grin, like he’d found the secret to life in the teeth of the storm. The headland Hugh battery and the banjo pier perfectly manages and calms thst storm to produce the cleanest and longest wave Hartlepool has seen and Slim was riding it. From then on, that little surf community would always know the banjo pier break as slimbolato’s.
Local legend. To him, every wave was personal. There was no room for posing or beachside philosophy; you either respected the water, or it would finish you off. He rode waves like they owed him something, and every time he came out, he’d add a few more lines to his story, a few more tall tales we’d all half believe. But, why ever let the truth get in the way of a good story.
I didn’t feel it back then, not the way he did. But now, years later, I’m starting to get it. That burning edge, that quiet madness, it’s in the blood. I found myself sneaking down to the water whenever I could, at dawn, cold and soaked, it didn’t matter. Every instinct screaming to go back, but how could I when the next wave could be the best wave ive ever managed to catch. And out there, just me and the water, I’d catch glimpses of that same pull Slim had, like the ocean was daring me to go further, to ride harder, to leave the shore behind and give myself up to the unknown.
It’s a strange feeling when you’re out, time moves fast but when you’re riding that wave your suspended in eternity. Or at least you would like to be. That’s what drives us back to the beach. One more chance to find that next hit and next big enough wave to sink the teeth of your board into. Anyone who surfs knows what I’m talking about. It’s not about fun or sport; it’s about stepping up to something bigger than yourself, something that doesn’t care about your pride or your story. The water doesn’t care about legacy, but Slim did, and maybe that’s why we keep going back, risking it all for those moments when he was part of something pure and terrifying.
So yeah, when people ask why I surf, I tell them the truth: because it’s in the blood, and it doesn’t let you go. That addiction I never want to quit.
I suppose long story short. This is where my passion for surfing really came from. Hearing this and that small family legacy within an even smaller community made me feel proud like I was somehow apart of it, the water in our little town and the surfers who ride there. The surfers who brave it all up the northeast shore. Theres no credit here, waters nothing but murky and ice cold. But its apart of us.
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