Scotland’s North Shore surfers are cold-water pioneers

There are more obvious winter playgrounds here in Northern Scotland than this frozen coast. Take for example, the vast arenas high above sea level, where a multi-coloured mosaic of skiers zig-zag down leeward slopes to waiting lifts. During the dark season, temperatures can drop into the minus twenties on high land, while the lowlands too can feel the cutting edge of the northerly fronts that blow out of the Arctic. Even the Aurora makes a rare appearance, dancing green, blue and purple hues on a few clear cold nights.

The Vikings were warned to avoid Scotland. Though they settled on the outlying islands of the Orkneys and Hebrides, ancient chronicles describe this medieval mainland as an inhospitable and unwelcoming country offering rewards only to the brave, warning that those who venture there may pay with their lives.

But the Vikings did come and the peaty moorlands were stained red from ferocious battles that raged through the centuries. Names like Skirza, Wick and Thurso stand as testament to the settlements that were once established in Scotland’s northernmost county of Caithness. And a distinct Nordic lilt still lingers in the thick, rich accent borne by local tongues.

Kevin Rankin first started surfing the North Shore of Scotland in 1976, ploughing up the A9 into the eye of the storm. “We’d be travelling north with surfboards on the car through sleet and snow,” explains Kevin, “while others would be driving south with skis on their cars.” His first voyage into this new territory was with friends Ian McKay and Frank Paul, “another couple of soul searchers”. It didn’t take long for the new boys to attract attention.

“We got flagged down by a local, Ron Gallagher, who was already surfing up there. One trip and we were hooked. I’ve surfed all over the planet and enjoyed many different adventures, but I have to say nothing comes close to the spirit of Thurso. There’s a certain ‘Celtic magic’ that works its way inside you and never leaves. The people, the countryside, the atmosphere and, of course, the waves.”

By 1979 Kevin was living in a cottage that looked down over Brims Ness, an isolated point to the west of Thurso. Brims is a huge slab of flat rock that arrows out into the North Atlantic. Swell arrives and lunges onto the reef from a huge drop-off into deep water. Even on a day when all the beaches are sleeping, there can be rideable waves at Brims. The Vikings named it well, for it translates as ‘Surf Point’.

“I lived just a kilometre from the famous point, you could see it break from the cottage window,” says Kevin. “In summer, the farmer would often give me a lift down around nine at night on the back of his tractor and I would sit out in the break alone, sometimes ’til midnight.

Some of the most peaceful, content moments I’ve ever felt in life were sitting there, waiting for the next wave to arrive out of a mirror of glass and orange red sky, dissolving into the dusk as the sun set late into the night. Indescribable joy!

What made it more special was that I was the only one there in that moment. You don’t move to a place like Brims Ness to find company. Perhaps it’s about finding yourself. Whatever it was or is, it still haunts me to this day.”

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