UK surf company Finisterre recently featured a short story of mine on their excellent blog 'The Broadcast'. Entitled 'Summer Skin' the tale concerns the transition from Summer to Autumn at my home in West Cornwall. You can check it out in full here, alongside the excellent photography of my talented friend James Warbey.
Excerpt from 'Summer Skin':
'I know exactly when it happened. Do you?
The zenith of the summer is a moment. A unit of nostalgia that you will hold until your last. For me it was that warm beer we shared in beach car-park after work. At the time I would’ve given anything for a couple of cold ones, but looking back - I’m glad we shared. I’m glad it was warm.
My friend Buster paddled to the ‘Brisons’ that day. A set of imposing, exposed rocks situated some distance from Cape Cornwall off the west tip of Cornwall. Black igneous rocks with a dusting of bird shit as old as the island themselves. I once read on the wall of the local pub that they were named the ‘Brisons’ after the French word for reef ‘Brissant’. They dominate the view north from the beach and are framed by the window of the wooden lifeguard hut that I work from. A distinctly inhospitable zone - battered by waves most of the year and scoured by tide daily. A place impervious to our trivial needs, wants and desires.
I remember watching him leave on his paddle board - A rogue ex-lifeguard rescue board daubed with white paint and framed by shabby handles covered in thin webbing. No plan other than to go for a paddle on a fine summers day. I don’t remember him being gone. When he arrived back some hours later we saw beneath his sunburnt neck, noodle arms and wild eyes - reddened by the salt and spray. We knew he’d been somewhere beyond and had come back on the other side of summer.
To the Brisons we asked collectively? He nodded.
I felt like a child whose friend had just taken one step into the adult realm and we knew everything from that point would be different. The beer we shared that evening was the culmination of our summer. It wasn’t even the warmest day, but it was the purest expression of this summer I found. A moment as fine as a bee’s wing.'