2 Minute Read
This story takes me back to the summer of 1998.
I was 18 and had just left high school. I wanted to embark on my first ever surf trip to France without my parents. Tristan ‘Dooma’ Davies, a good mate of mine, accompanied me on the trip, which first of all took us from South Wales to London in the UK. A God-awful 24 hours was spent on the Eurolines bus before we reached the famed town of Capbreton (you could take boards on the bus in those days). Upon arrival we tried to find the beach, yet it soon became apparent we had arrived in the city of Capbreton and not the beach as we had wanted.
After a sweaty mile or two, carrying multiple boards and heavy backpacks, we arrived at the beach and tried to find a place to pitch our tent. The only place we could find was beside a group of lads from Jersey in the parking lot, just behind the sand dunes. All was going well and we even had some clean little waves to get rinsed off in. That night was spent drinking stubbies and getting to know our new found mates from the Channel Islands. Of course, because we were not at a proper campsite, the sand dunes (and public conveniences on the beach) became our bathroom. We watered the dunes well that night.
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