It was a very windy Sunday in Portsmouth, England. October 19th, the morning immediately following an evening of heavy drinking with old and new friends alike, was kicking off at an altogether unholy hour as my friend Harry, his girlfriend Alex, and I filled ourselves with coffee and piled into Alex’s little red Volkswagen Up. In the boot of the car we had loaded our gear for the day’s impending adventure off the southern coast. We had our bathing suits, running shorts, two pairs of thick wool socks, old sneakers, cheap gloves, thermal shirts, and a change of warm clothes all ready to go.
It was a two hour drive from Portsmouth to Poole, where we would be joining up with some of Alex’s old flatmates to do something called Coasteering. Advertised as a recreational activity, which is quite a misnomer since it would prove to be a physically draining feat of athleticism, coasteering combines hiking, swimming, bodysurfing, cliff diving, and general mucking about into a unique sport all its own.
After a cheap breakfast from Asda (England’s version of Walmart) and a cheerful geography lesson from my friend Harry, we arrived in Poole and met Alex’s old friends who would be joining us coasteering. There was Jamie, a guy about my age with a grin permanently glued to his face, Zinta, a girl of few words, Grahm, a man with a great beard who was bringing his lovely leggy girlfriend along, and Neil. Neil was a very friendly and very tall guy who seemed to be the reluctant ringleader of the bunch. It was thanks to him that I had managed a last minute reservation to join in the day’s adventure. After introductions and some hot tea with milk and honey, everyone loaded into two cars and set off for the coast.
The drive was meant to be about 45 minutes, but took a bit longer since Neil (who we were following in Alex’s little red VW Up) botched a shortcut attempt through a British Military tank training field. “Last time we came through this way,” Neil told us apologetically through the window as we turned around, “all the gates were open…but it seems they’re blowing stuff up today.” The detour through the rolling hills of the English countryside suited me just fine, as it offered plenty of views of old stone farmhouses and castle-like ruins surrounded by breathtaking landscapes and plenty of sheep. And while we did not actually get to see anything get blown up, there were more than a few tanks to see, which I went absolutely nuts over!
When we finally arrived at our Coasteering site at Lulworth Cove, I was awestruck. A few dozen cars were parked in a wide green meadow overlooking an inspiring series of cliffs along the English coast. The view was incredible, and the only thing that stopped me from staring at it for the rest of the day was the gale-force sea wind that nearly knocked me off my feet as soon as I got out of the car. Our group quickly located and huddled around our coasteering guide, a man named Jim Oakley, who had the build of a U.S. marine and a Cheshire smile. He gave us a quick rundown of how to get geared up. This involved putting a bathing suit on with a thermal shirt, then arduously peeling on a 7mm wetsuit–a comically difficult process that involved a lot of arm flapping and rump wriggling–putting shorts over said wetsuit, triple knotting our old sneakers over thick wool socks, and topping it all off with a lifejacket and an “It’s business time” yellow helmet.
Our confederacy of oddly clad adventurers weaved through the cars and collection of sightseeing tourists and began the hike down the steep rocky hills and cliff sides to the beach. Halfway down we got our first views of the rocks we would be jumping from and the stunningly massive natural stone arch the locals call Durdle Door. Taking in those sights and breathing in that fresh sea air reminded me what this whole trip was all about–feeling alive!
We got a little history lesson from our guide that these beaches were the location of intense D-Day beach-storming training for British and American infantrymen. A gruesome fact, some 800 U.S. soldiers died during these intense training exercises–a casualty number that was never officially reported and was just tacked on with the thousands more lost during the actual D-Day invasion.
By the time we reached the water, despite the cold wind in our faces and looming fact that it was indeed the middle of October, I was so hot from hiking in the thick wetsuit that I jumped the gun and dove headfirst into the surf. The water was cold, but amazingly refreshing. The wetsuit did a great job of keeping my core warm, and it was really only my face, hands, and feet that felt the full chill of the sea. “Just keep moving,” our guide said, “and you’ll stay warm. Your hands and feet will take care of themselves so long as your core stays heated.” Somewhere in the back of my mind I rememberd Liam Neilson saying something similar to Christian Bale during Bruce Wayne’s early Batman training.
As a group, we swam out some 100 yards toward the series of rocks jutting out from the sea. They rose between 8 and 30 feet from the water’s surface. I thought swimming in sneaker and socks would be terribly difficult, but moving through the water was surprisingly easy due to the high salinity and the lifejacket hugging my chest. Still in open water, the guide had us all work together to create a human chain and then a floating ring of people to reassure us that no matter how far away the current may take anyone from terrafirma, simply relaxing and staying calm to conserve energy are the keys to not panicing in the choppy water.
When we all finally made it to the rocks, a football field away from the coast, I understood why we were meant to wear gloves. The years of abuse from crashing waves had left the rocks jagged and sharp. Finding handholds was a bit tricky because of this. But with some effort, the whole team clambered atop the little sea cliffs and our guide gave us a quick rundown of how to safely jump from them. We would be jumping from the shore-facing side of the rocks so that any waves and strong currents would push us away from the cliff faces rather than into them. He also pointed out which areas to aim for, because in his years of experience doing this job, he knew where the submerged rocks that could shatter shins and fragment femurs were hidden.
Jumping from those rocks was some of the simplest and most sincere fun I have ever had in my life! The tall waves, encouraged by that day’s record breaking wind speeds, often managed to come toppling over the tall rocks. The series of dives, flips, bellyflops, and cannonballs we all performed were nothing short of admirable.
Our guide, Jim, led the group to the far side of the rocks to a low, five foot, jump off point, from which he pointed out a solitary rock about 20 feet away. “Due to the wave swells that come between us and that rock, it is nearly impossible to swim out to it, even though it seems so close,” Jim said. To demonstrate, he volunteered Jamie (who looked strongly built) to jump off and swim toward it, betting him 5 Pounds Stirling that he would not make it. He got within 5 feet before a swell pulled him almost 20 feet back toward the shore, forcing him to take the long way back around to us. My friend Harry tried next, and poor Harry never got close since he timed his jump right into a massive wave that carried him nearly the entire distance back to shore. Well obviously, I had to give it a shot too, right? “Good luck out there American fella,” Jim said with a laugh as I dove head first inbetween the swells and furiously beat the water with my hands and sneakers. I inhaled more than a bit of seawater, but pressed on. After a minute that felt like hours, against all odds, I felt my hand brush the face of the lonely rock. I gripped it, held myself firmly on it and filled my lungs with victory. I heard cheers from the others still on the rock, and in the same second that I turned around to ackowledge my fans, a massive wave punched me in the face and sent me cartwheeling and sputtering some 50 feet toward the shore. They say the best moments in life are the most fleeting…
We all spent the next 3 hours swimming, bodysurfing, cliff diving, and generally mucking about in the surf before exhaustion surpressed our will to continue.
Spending a day coasteering kicks your ass, and after hiking back to the cars and changing into our warm dry clothes, we all made our way to the nearest pub. We had most certainly earned ourselves a round (or five). The place we went to, The Castle Inn, was actually hosting a cider festival. We gorged ourselves on locally brewed ciders, eventually finding a gem amidst the dozens available that was made with sour apples, ginger, and chilis. The Maverick cider was a crowd favorite, and the others and I all bought a liter to take home.
Despite only knowing those people I went coasteering with for about eight hours, sharing that experience and those drinks with them fast-tracked our friendships. In the end, traveling is about the people you meet, and I will never forget my friends in Poole!