Neoprene Indiscretions

I have been away from my desk.  Quite a long way away in fact.  Right down to Cornwall where I spent a few days at the Retallack Resort and Spa, near Newquay on a press trip to preview the UK’s first Flowrider. 

Not being one to peruse cruise brochures or hang out with the surfers down in Poole, my only reference for ‘flowrider’ had me conjuring a misogynist rapper, apple bottom jeans (I just know if I ever achieved an apple bottom it’d be of the Granny Smith variety), boots with fur and a certain amount of booty slapping.  So, I was intrigued when the invitation to pit myself against the Flowrider popped into my inbox and, because it came as part of a package with three days of fitness classes, life coaching, spa treatments, beach foraging and a personal chef thrown in, I thought I could probably cope with a few regrettable lyrics.  Heck, I might even turn this Flowrider into a progressive feminist over a tumbler of whisky, a few lines of Sylvia Plath and a close inspection of our underarm hair.

Which just goes to prove that one should always do one’s research before accepting invitations, however tempting they appear.  Because, as any grommet knows (three days in Cornwall and I speak fluent Surf, Dude), the Flowrider is a surf machine which generates waves at a constant 40mph upon which you launch yourself and a piece of laminated polystyrene.  What’s worse, you have to do this life-shortening stuff in a wet suit.

This is where I have to confess that, although I am born under the sign of Pisces, I have no natural affinity with water.  I enjoy a relaxing bath, am invigorated by a hot shower, can appreciate a warm Jacuzzi; on an uber-hot day in the Mediterranean, I might walk into the ocean til my shoulders disappear (strictly as a means of ensuring I do not thermogenically combust on my sun lounger), but my basic principle is not to get wet in general, and not to get my head wet at any cost.  So when phrases about ‘hanging ten’ and sorting out a 'wax job' (not bleedin' likely after the in-growing hairs last time round) started being bandied about, I could feel rebellion growing in my belly…

Which is precisely where you don’t want anything to grow, because you have to pour all of you into a neoprene bodystocking and, let me tell you, every bump, ripple and roll is visible, even to the shortest of the short sighted.  Our lovely coach, Carl (six foot something, sandy of hair, white of tooth and clearly born in a wet suit) spent the first ten minutes instructing our party on how to get into the bloody things, because there is quite definitely an art to it. 

As I pulled one rubbery leg on, I was reminded of modern dance classes at school when I was fourteen.  I had invested in an electric blue ‘unitard’ – an all-in-one leotard of the sort the Kids from Fame were running around in.  It looked fantastic on Seana Murphy, my super slim, five foot-nine friend with great hair and straight teeth.  Wearing the unitard, I thought, would make me look much the same.  I was wrong.  It just made me look like a dumpy, wide-hipped smurf. With buck teeth. At least the wet suit was black.  And, the upside of being a wet suit novice was that I was obliged to ask Carl to zip me up.  If the neoprene hadn’t been cold and damp from previous use, it might have been a thrill, rather than a shiver, that ran up my body.

Sucking in my tummy and clenching my buttocks I stood and faced the wave machine.  The sky darkened above us in just the same way the lights go down when the show gets under way.  “Just launch yourself into the middle and keep your arms out!” shouted Carl above the roar of the waves.  “You can’t hurt yourself!”

I did as I was told, but I couldn’t adopt the crucifix position required.  Big respect to Jesus in that department, although frankly, He did have something to support His arms in the right position.  In a matter of moments, I was balled up and hurled to the top of the machine like a spider flushed down the U bend. 

Hair wet, mascara cascading down my battered cheeks, I stood up like Bambi after a binge session.  I thought about crying, but Carl didn’t look the type with whom tears would cut any ice.  “We’ll go straight to the board!” he yelled, relentlessly enthusiastic.

I’ve seen body boards before, outside shops in Weymouth, but I’ve never actually seen one with a body on it.  Carl thrust one at me and told me to get down and throw myself onto the waves.  I looked at him.  There aren’t many men who issue orders like that expecting them to be obeyed instantly; those who do are generally in the military. Carl however, has Svengali-like powers of persuasion.  And the surprising thing is that, in spite of one’s natural inclination to resist instruction, one finds oneself doing exactly what one is told.

I wasn’t a whole lot better at the body board thing either, truth be told.  Couldn’t achieve the right position, which is not like me.  By way of consolation, the charismatic, rubber-covered chunk of prime manliness spoke in my ear: “Now, will you mind if I come behind you on the board, just to sort you out?”  Holy neoprene, Batman!  What girl could refuse?

With a lot more personal coaching – and let me tell you, I now fully appreciate the benefits of one-on-one tuition – I managed, in the course of a few days, to become a Hot Dogger.  You could too.  The trick is to keep your mouth closed at all times...