Why leave your home for a risky strike mission, when your home gets waves like this.
That was the thinking of Gearoid Mcdaid and the Wasted Talent team after scrambling to plot a surfing sojourn to a far off land, but ended up scoring waves as you’d as you’ll find anywhere in Europe just up the coast from G-Man’s residence.
We’ll let Alex from WT pick up the story:
“A casual check of forecasts. France. Everything that could be wrong with a forecast is wrong. North Spain. Devil Wind. Portugal. Nup. Scotland. Nup. England. Please… Other distractions, not surf related but wholeheartedly enjoyable none the less; Barcelona is incredibly fun but we’ve rinsed it a fair bit. London is cold and the flight is full. Paris, we hit that pretty hard last week and it’s a just little premature to go back.
However what’s this? A blip somewhere cold, green, fickle but beautiful and overall romantically familiar is looking good. Actually really really good. Sneaky swell and favourable winds… We’ve got five hours until the only flight leaves, no tickets and a maxed out credit card.
Enter Gearoid McDaid For those of you who are unfamiliar, Gearoid (Pronounced Gea-akdjhaipudh), Gearoid is one of Ireland’s nay Northern Europe’s hottest prospects right about now. A supremely well round surfer and amazing value on the beers. Needless to say we get along outstandingly well. A phone call is made – “Guys I’d love to have you come stay, and shoot – it’s pumping, but I’m stuck in Portugal and it sucks”
More phone calls are made, to powers that be with credit cards shinier than ours. iMessages back and forth. “Shit this is actually doable” Emails sent and followed by drumming of fingers on desk. “Shiiit emails are slow”. Back to phone calls. Boards and Cameras lie packed, hinting at a trip but un-sure of their destiny. Much like their owners. Grasping of hairs and constant iPhone checking. More emails. Travel agents with superpowers have got us tickets. Gearoid has a ticket. Life is fine and life is great. Invitations to beers and a dinner in France (we’re still very sorry) are politely blown off. We are so stupid. We are so clever. One high tail up the motorway. A full long stay car park. We’ll leave it in short haul and deal with that on the flipside. One Flight. One tiny hire car. 3 Guinness’s. Sleep.
And 24 hours later we are there. The waves pumped outside of our hostess with the mostess Noah Lane’s house and him and Gearoid ruled the roost. The forecast of emerald barrels and Guiness showers rang true. A glorious three days.”
