“Do you fancy trying waveskiing?” asked my friend Ickle.

“Waveskiing?” I queried, thinking he had made up a new sport.

“Yes, waveskiing.”

There followed a brief description of something that sounded a bit like a cross between surfing and canoeing.  It led me to imagine myself riding the crest of a wave onto the beach to be welcomed by hordes of bikini clad blonds.

“Yes, I think I would very much like to try that!”

It is times like this that you miss access to Google.  Without the Internet being able to correct my perception, I arrived at Watergate Bay expecting to be like the cool surfer dude I obviously aspire to be.

Fifteen minutes later, I stood on the beach in an ill-fitting wetsuit, wrapped in a fluorescent buoyancy aid and wearing a helmet usually reserved for use by construction workers.  The one thing I absolutely did not resemble was a ’surf dude’.  I looked more like an amateur pot-holer looking for a cave to explore.

After dragging our waveskis approximately eight miles across wet sand to the waters edge, we were given some brief instructions and sent into the waves.

This is when I realised that paddling into a wave is difficult.  Really fucking difficult. And so very, very tiring.

I had been paddling for about an hour when I decided to turn around and try and catch a wave back to the beach which was probably about mile behind me by now.  Of course, the beach was only about fifteen metres away, and the first wave knocked me clean off my waveski before I had time to swear properly.  I tumbled beachward and realised the helmet was there for a reason as I was whacked to the back of the skull by my waveski, which then surfed in gracefully to the shore.  Without me.

“Don’t worry, that happens to everyone!” screamed the instructor ensuring everyone woman on the beach could hear him, and with the sort of patronising tone you save for the ’special’ people.

“Oh fuck off!” I screamed back as another wave came crashing over my head.

Ninety minutes later I called it a day having ‘caught’ just two waves without falling off.

As we dragged our waveskis the eight miles back to the storage shed, the instructor asked us how it went.

“I bet you’ll all be back for more.”  he asked, or so Ickle told me, as I didn’t hear him due to my ears being full of sea water.

And no, I fucking will not be back for more.