The first time I tried to write this article, the words flowed from pen to paper with puzzling ease. In the following days I aired the pub-scrawled confusion to some of Connemara's original surfing fraternity. They smiled at the memories and queried some of the dates. It was not their questions, however, that stalled its conversion to clean-typed script, but rather those of the non-surfing 'bi-listeners'..."Surfing in Connemara? What, like on waves? With surfboards, like in Hawaii?"
Those questions told me that a new direction was needed. Surfing in Connemara was a really dark horse. Most people thought of surfing in terms of a palm tree setting, long blonde hair and board shorts, giggling surfing chicks, and old guys in deck chairs strumming ukuleles. Thus it is understandable if the idea of surfing in Connemara seems a little ridiculous if not unbelievable. Over the past year or so, you may have noticed a growing number of newspaper articles and general media attentions directed towards surfing in Ireland. It may have surprised you to learn that the sport of riding waves has been in Ireland since Kevin Cavey first took to the water off Bray, Co. Wicklow in the early 60s. It may also surprise you that certain spots in Co. Clare, Kerry, Sligo and Donegal are recognised on a world-wide level for the quality of their waves. But how many people know that waves of similar quality break on the beaches and reefs of Connemara or that local coastal dwelling folk have been attempting to ride them since the early 80s?
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Jason (bottom) in New Zealand |
Connemara folk and coastal dwelling peoples in general have always had a deep-rooted respect for the sea. Much of this has been born of fear and superstition surrounding its awesome destructive power and changeable nature, so that until recently strong swimmers were few and far between. So much has been taken from the sea that if once in a while she wants something of someone in return, so be it. Exploring the coastline for new surf spots in the early days, myself and other surfing companions would often meet an incredulous farmer or fisherman who would greet us with an expression reserved for the doomed or insane.
In one extreme case, myself and Fergal Wood - who surfs in a kayak - took to his currach to explore an offshore reef outside Clifden Bay. To the left of the reef broke what looked like a promising wave, which we had studied from the Sky Road. After half an hour of surfing off the reef, I came to the end of one wave and was greeted by the sight of a small trawler passing by complete with gob-smacked crew. We received similar reactions while surfing the point in front of Renvyle Castle and other spots we chose to explore. The sea was a place to be feared: it was no 'playing field'.
Like most of my early surfing companions I learned to swim at a young age. Born into a family of strong swimmers my brothers and I became what my mother called 'water babies' - we had no inherent fear of the sea. This led to regular idiotic and reckless capers on our liquid adventures as children and continues to be responsible for my addiction to surfing today. Then as now, I would do anything that guaranteed the taste of saltwater on my mouth and the freedom the ocean affords. Waves that could pick you up and throw you around we first discovered at Fountain Hill in Claddaghduff. These waves became the most sought-after translation of the ocean's power and beauty. They had a magical attraction. Before long, my brother Mark and I enlisted the company of Alan Hyland whose father Percy would transport us en masse with various forms of wave-riding equipment, kayaks, li-los, and lifejackets and bits of aeroboard. Blue hands, feet and lips taught us the necessity for a good wetsuit even in summer months.
In and around the summer of 1986, I saw my first surfboard. It belonged to a half-uncle of mine who rode it with great style at Doonlaughan Bay in Ballyconneely. The waves were far superior to those that made it between Omey and Inishturk but the beach was rocky and very dangerous, so he told me. I was even more impressed, and, undeterred, went towards the hill at the beach's northern end to get a better view of its potential. Over the hill I was met with a view that has never left my memory, and hopefully never will. The view of False Bay on a sunny day with a good swell running. A tropical mixture of aquamarine waters bordered by cliffs and a golden sand beach catching all the swell the mighty North Atlantic had to offer. I don't think I've been surfing in Fountain Hill since.
The following years were spent cadging lifts from various moms, dads and older summertime work mates with cars. My half-uncle had got his board made abroad somewhere so neither I nor my partners in 'brime' had an idea that anything resembling a surfboard could be bought in Ireland, so we continued to improvise.
The nineties saw the beach yield its secrets to countless D-reg four-wheel drives which surprisingly came as a blessing when from them emerged the 'body board', a foam rectangle which, with the aid of flippers, enabled the user to propel themselves across the face of the wave. A prototype was carved from aeroboard and when that proved successful, I made the pilgrimage to The Great Outdoors in Galway to purchase three of the best our summertime wages could buy.
In the summer of '94, my brothers and I bought a 'surf-ski' from a chef at the Clifden Bay Hotel. This contraption proved to be a dangerous combination of surfboard and kayak. Sitting on it, you strapped yourself in and propelled yourself down the face of the wave using a kayak paddle.The surf-ski was passed over when myself and Alan Hyland returned from our first year in college with a second-hand surfboard which we had bough between us.The summer of '95 was spent sharing 'The Killer', as we called it, christened when on a breaking wave it almost decapitated a passing body boarder, Morvan Ledorvan, who was the latest addition to our fraternity.
Later that summer, I travelled to Lahinch in Co. Clare to buy my own surfboard. Alan had been there with U.C.G. Kayak Club and had spoke in reverent terms of a surf shop containing new and second hand surfboards, wetsuits, the whole shebang, and with good waves on the beach out front. On hearing I was from Connemara, the local surfers looked surprised. "Sure there's no waves in Galway, everyone's looked at the maps. There's nothing there." Obviously they had not looked hard enough and so I returned to our own secret beach in the heart of Connemara.
The following summer saw myself and Alan settled in Lahinch where the waves were more consistent and where reef and point breaks offered new challenges. Before leaving we converted Colin Snow of Errislannan whose brother Roger was to follow in his considerable footsteps. In our absence Colin enlisted Dave O'Donoghue of Letterfrack, and a shadow had also emerged from Doonloughan Bay, none other than Frank Homburger. I had known Frank for sometime but had no idea he had been surfing over the hill with his mother Christine for the past few years. Since our paths had not crossed in the water we argued about who had been the first local surfer and the first to surf False Bay and we still do. This was the basic foundation of surfing in Connemara. For me, these memories bring home the reality of what it was like.
Though surfing has been in Hawaii for hundreds of years and is already thirty years old in Ireland, it is only one generation old in Connemara and my friends and I are privileged to have been the first. Every spot the world over has its 'Old School', the first generation of surfers. In Connemara it was Alan Hyland of Streamstown, Frank Homburger and his mother Christine of Roundstone, Colin Snow of Errislannan, Morvan Ledorvan of Claddaghduff, Dave O'Donohue of Letterfrack, and myself, Jason Foyle of Clifden. The 'Old school' ages, not due to advancing years, but through experience, either hunting the Celtic Tiger or in the search of the perfect wave in far off lands. Over the years these have expanded to included Lanzarote, France, Portugal, Spain, California, Mexico, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, New Zealand, Australia, Hawaii, Florida, England, Wales, and Mayo. Perhaps the surf in Connemara does not always compare to these exotic locations but it's uncrowded, unpretentious, and it's ours. You are more likely to hear a south-westerly gale than a ukulele, There are no palm trees, and the only eyes on you might be the blank stares of the sheep, a bull-headed grey seal or a gobsmacked farmer or fisherman. Every now and then, you might meet the curious dolphins who love to ride the waves and spray the awkward rubber-clad humans. But if the waves are up, you'll see us out there all year round, rain, hail, sleet, or shine.
The 'old school' hope to start up Connemara Surf Club sometime this summer with a view to grooming the next generation of local surfing talent. Guys and girls of all ages are welcome and who knows, maybe Galway might lift the intercounties surfing cup sometime this millenium.
This article first appeared in The Connemara Press, June '00 edition
