The Terra Nova.

So, Edgar Evans was in fact the first person from Scott's crew to pass away on the expedition. He had cut his hand tending to a sleight and suffered from frostbite and exhaustion. Just before his death, he was described as turning mad - perhaps from the stress, illness or a fall. Here's an exerpt from Scott's diary:

"Saturday, February 17 - A very terrible day. Evans looked a little better after a good sleep, and declared, as he always did, that he was quite well. He started in his place on the traces, but half an hour later worked his ski shoes adrift, and had to leave the sledge. The surface was awful, the soft recently fallen snow clogging the ski and runners at every step, the sledge groaning, the sky overcast, and the land hazy. We stopped after about one hour, and Evans came up again, but very slowly.

Half an hour later he dropped out again on the same plea. He asked Bowers to lend him a piece of string. I cautioned him to come on as quickly as he could, and he answered cheerfully as I thought. We had to push on, and the remainder of us were forced to pull very hard, sweating heavily. Abreast the Monument Rock we stopped, and seeing Evans a long way astern, I camped for lunch. There was no alarm at first, and we prepared tea and our own meal, consuming the latter.

After lunch, and Evans still not appearing, we looked out, to see him still afar off. By this time we were alarmed, and all four started back on ski. I was first to reach the poor man and shocked at his appearance; he was on his knees with clothing disarranged, hands uncovered and frostbitten, and a wild look in his eyes. Asked what was the matter, he replied with a slow speech that he didn't know, but thought he must have fainted. We got him on his feet, but after two or three steps he sank down again. He showed every sign of complete collapse. Wilson, Bowers, and I went back for the sledge, whilst Oates remained with him.

When we returned he was practically unconscious, and when we got him into the tent quite comatose. He died quietly at 12.30 A.M. On discussing the symptoms we think he began to get weaker just before we reached the Pole, and that his downward path was accelerated first by the shock of his frostbitten fingers, and later by falls during rough travelling on the glacier, further by his loss of all confidence in himself. Wilson thinks it certain he must have injured his brain by a fall.

It is a terrible thing to lose a companion in this way, but calm reflection shows that there could not have been a better ending to the terrible anxieties of the past week. Discussion of the situation at lunch yesterday shows us what a desperate pass we were in with a sick man on our hands at such a distance from home."

Taken from: http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/scott.htm

The Terra Nova expedition had been gifted many things by wellwishers, including coal, cigars, plum puddings (?) and even a piano. In this piece I am describing a woman being shown around the ship before deperature (as they often were), and standing at the piano. I have used the piano as a metaphor for the declining mental state of Evans, who is with her at that time:


The Piano Man

“The wood will warp, sat out in the elements like this,” she thought, “the moist conditions will wreck it.” It’ll look the same, of course, on the outside but the workings will deform. The ice will work into its belly and fatten the dampeners, and the frost will make the strings creep.

The effect will be gradual of course, changing ever so slightly over time. Getting almost imperceptibly flatter and flatter until one day it’ll sound so horribly out of tune that you’ll wonder how you hadn’t picked up on it before. You don’t notice these things though, not until the string is stretched so tight that it’s likely to snap at any moment.

She felt sorry for this piano.

She took off a glove, ran her hand over the varnished mahogany, before lifting up the fall and pressing a key.

The note sounded out, as clear as a bell. A nearby pony looked up lazily from its hay, regarding her with its listless eyes before returning to his meal.

She looked up at him; a big oaf in a sailor outfit, smiling down at her.

“You like the piano, miss?” he said.

“Yes, very much so,” she answered, before gently shutting its lid.

                                                                    x

The Prof watching Whisky.

So, this is my mate's dog Whisky.

 

 And this is him talking (sorry, I can't work out how to embed the video here):

<iframe src="https://www.facebook.com/video/embed?video_id=10151398625423046" width="226" height="400" frameborder="0"></iframe>

And this is Barney watching that video:

 

 

What a wuss.

 

 

x

Rise of the Beach Bunnies

Here's an article which I wrote for Uni about women in surfing. Enjoy:

Rise of the Beach Bunnies

“Surfing and sex are inseparable,” says inertia.com surf editor Tetsuhiko Endo, but with uneven contest prize money and sponsorship, do surfing and sexism come just as intertwined.

Surfing has always been, and probably always will be, a male dominated sport. Studies by the International Surfing Association (ISA) estimate that worldwide there are between 17 to 23 million surfers, and out of those surfers, 15-20% are female. But according to recent Global Industry Analyst reports, the worldwide surf market continues to become more female and older, and considering that it is expected to reach $13.24 billion (£8.34 billion) by the year 2017, this is no small movement. So, with these statistics in mind, why do the women’s tours stand first to lose events due to lack of funds, why do women surf the worst contest conditions and why do four of the world’s top seventeen women surfers lack a major sponsor?

 “The female side of the surf industry is about selling clothes, that’s where the companies’ main income comes from,” says Lucia Griggi, world-renowned surf photographer. And to sell the clothes, the surfer needs to look good, hence the reason why many major sponsors are more willing to give money to girls who fit the mould.  “What that keeps reinforcing in women,” says Queen of Teahupoo, Keala Kennelly to Endo on interia.com, “is that it is more important to be beautiful, than it is to have talent or skill, or to be accomplished.”

                                                             Keala surfing Jaws.

Women’s surfing does not attract the sponsors or audience of men’s surfing, and even though the Association of Surfing Professionals (ASP) set a rule that stating that any company who runs a World Championship Tour (WCT) event must stage a women’s event as well, this appears to be largely ignored. Louise Searle, editor of Surfgirl magazine says that “the surf industry is in a bit of a mess at the moment [...] which is why women who rip, like Paige [Hareb] are funding themselves. [The surf companies] need to stay strong and remember their roots, the women’s tour reflects this confusion and is leaving the girls frustrated, but the way they’re marketed means [that] frock sales are more important than a thrilling final in Hawaii.”

This would certainly explain why surfers like Hareb have no World Tour sponsor, as the brands would prefer to support younger, more commercial surfers such as Laura Enever or Sage Erikson. Griggi, who travels on the tours with the professional surfers, explains, “The companies don’t have [a large enough] budget to cover all girls, [so] they choose the most marketable.” This means that there are two types of riders on the tour, the few who are considered less attractive but have earned a reputation as a good surfer, and the girls who are not as good at surfing, but who look good in the clothes. Very few manage to straddle the line.

The girls are, of course, aware of this and tailor themselves accordingly. Even Nike’s 2011 Leave a Message film, which by many was viewed as a more credible girls surf movie showing “groundbreaking aerials and long barrels”, still has a suspiciously large amount of footage of Monyca Byrne-Wickey doing bottom turns in tiny  bikinis, not to mention Laura Enever surfing in a pair of fishnet stockings. And this is by no means a recent occurrence, Wendy Botha, a four times ASP world champion in the 1980s, posed naked for playboy. “It might be an indictment of surfing,” says the surfline website, that Botha “is better known for her spread in Playboy than for her incredible sporting achievements. That fact says a lot about the pro surfing reportage of the past 20 years -- that due to a male-dominated, and generally uninterested, surf media, some of surfing's greatest champions have been ignored.”

Pro surfer Alana Blanchard

Professional female surfers are aware that they are expected to walk the fine line between elite athlete and poster girl. But they do so at the risk of sabotaging their credibility and reputation, not to mention potentially compromising their surfing, as generally a smaller physique means less power in turns. And the question needs to be asked, are these surfers contributing to the objection by their compliance to these ideals, forming a perpetual cycle of body image obsession.  Unfortunately, according to the advertising, it is not considered sexy to be athletic and strong.

The general, grass roots image of surfing can be defined by mediums which are accessible to all. Of the top 36 most viewed photos, tagged as ‘surf girl’ on magicseaweed.com, only eight of those depict girls actually surfing. And one of those seems popular solely for the fact that she is about to run over a pelican. And if you type the name of Maya Gabeira, who is arguably the best all round, female, big wave rider in the world, into a Google image search, there are  no photos of her actually surfing until the third page. Gabeira actually took a step further in the sex appeal stakes by surfing naked for the ESPN Body Issue feature, which by its own admission enables the readers to “gawk” at professional athletes, appearing alongside Steph Gilmore, Claire Bevilacqua, and Men’s 11 times World Champion, Kelly Slater.

 

And the pros feel the pressure, 2011 Red Bull Women’s World Champion Carissa Moore stated on her blog that she often feels judged on her looks, stating that she has “trouble with her weight” and can feel self-conscious performing “in front of thousands of people in a bikini”. But as Searle remarked, “If I was Carissa, I would feel self conscious too, but I can guarantee no one is watching her for looks, but for her surfing skills.” However the question needs to be asked, why would one of the sport’s top female competitors feel the need to conform to a physical ideal. And could women conquer the balancing act of being feminine and powerful, or in the eyes of the surfing community, are these mutually exclusive.

But this is set to change as more and more girls join the line up. “I see way more girls out there,” says Jon, 37, a local Glamorgan coast surfer who has been surfing since childhood, “it used to be a surprise to see a girl paddling out, but there’s definitely more now. And they’re getting better and better.” A sentiment which seems to divide local surfers, as Jamie, 39, says, “Having a girl in the line up changes the mood, all the guys start to get all competitive and macho trying to impress her. At the end of the day, I surf to get away from my missus.”

“I prefer to surf with women,” says Porthcawl resident Jessica, 31, “the vibe is friendly and less competitive. I feel that men judge the women first on their looks, and then watch to see if we can actually stand up on a board.” Griggi illustrates, “Some men have a little lack of respect [for women surfers], and will drop in on you as they expect you not to make the wave [...], if you were a guy they would not do this as much.” Many female surfers will be used to being judged when they surf, especially in spots which are considered more challenging. The impromptu audience feeling will probably be all too familiar, guys want to know if you can handle yourself, and the best way to counteract this according to Griggi is to “get a wave [and show] them you can surf, then they will leave you alone!”

However, regardless of the stereotypes, the surf industry cannot help but take notice of the changing face of women’s surfing. Surfing hardware is catching up to the standard of the men’s as the demand for quality women’s wetsuit and wetsuit accessories increases. Pro longboarder Kassia Meador has designed a fashion conscious wetsuit range for Roxy, and the breadth of choice in women’s suits has increased noticeably over the last few years. And the women themselves are proving to the men that girls can surf just as hard as them, from Justine Dupont’s October  tow-in session at a massive Aileen, during which she scored some of the biggest tubes ever ridden by a woman in Europe, to Lakey Peterson’s technical air reverses.

 

And the effect is global, through the Gaza Surf Retreat Project, girls are breaking down the gender barrier in Palestine where the first female surf lifeguard has just been appointed, and in Cuba, women bond through their love of surfing in a poverty stricken, isolated country where trade embargoes mean that even the most basic surf equipment is inaccessible.

Between us we are getting bigger barrels, taking steeper drops, boosting higher airs and we are all contributing to the changing the face of women’s surfing. “Most women and girls bring something more than beauty and a sociological/psychological shift to the lineup,” says Surfermag’s Rob Gilley, “they bring understanding. They bring grace. They bring joy. To a pack of posturing men they bring the rarest commodity of all: they bring smiles [...]. And if a girl happens to paddle out, I want you to think long and hard before you snake the living daylights out of her.”

So, with girls charging harder than ever before and pushing the boundaries further and further, women all over the world are standing up to be counted, and it seems only a matter of time before the phrase ‘You surf like a girl’ will be a compliment.

The Terra Nova Expedition.

The Antarctic Expedition of 1910

New year, new module and this term we are doing historical fiction, centered specifically around Captain Scott's ill-fated journey to the South Pole. We are focusing on Edgar Evans (Taff), who was born in Rhosilli and was a member of the crew. He is on the right:

This is a fictionalised account of Evans walking down St Mary Street in 1910.

Off the train, across the street and there it is. The castle. I can see it down the end of the road, and I know that if I went to the corner I could see the clock tower, and the flags. And those animals with the glass eyes that make it look like they’re staring at you. They look like I could poke them out with a stick. I like the seal one the best, reminds me of my last trip down South, with the Captain.

If you stand still too long people walk right into you. Not like at home. When it’s really busy, I press myself into a doorway out of the way of the men and women and carriages and children, and just watch. The people don’t seem to notice me at all, they’re all selling and buying, and hustling and bustling. It’s hot today, even though the ladies try to make out they don’t feel it, with their umbrellas and fans. I can feel it though, I lift up my hat and wipe the sweat off with a hankie.

There’s horses, loads of them, clattering up and down, carrying people and goods. They don’t half stink. This summer afternoon doesn’t help, makes the smell ten times worse. Someone wants to get into the door behind me so I have to move, I wander further down the road over the uneven cobbles. There’s a newsboy on the corner, selling newspapers, he’s shouting, “Read about it here ! Scott voyages from Cardiff to the Antarctic”. Seeing it written like that makes me nervous, I keep my head down and just keep walking.

I can see a few pubs, up and down the street and down alleyways. I jingle the change in my pocket. A man could get lost in a crowd like this. A sudden smell of hops makes up my mind for me. I flip a coin to a beggar on my way through the stained glass doors, and take a seat at the bar.


D'Arcs Waxworks

So, it turns out that on St Mary Street there used to be a waxworks, which opened in April 1884 and was known as “Mons. D’Arc’s Grand Waxwork Exhibition, Cosmoramic Views and Waxen Marionettes”. Here is the 1911 census slip for the address:

As you can (kind of) see, the widow D'Arc lived there with her married male servant, but his wife is not at the same address. Also listed are the amount of children she had, three of which died, and their places of birth. In the interests of historical fiction we were asked to write a creative piece which expands on their relationship and, and this is mine. It is again written from the point of view of Edgar Evans.

Wax on.

“This way, Mr Evans,” he said as he led me through to the back, “I can’t believe it’s really you, our first real celebrity. I’ll show you our special collection, yes I will. You can see with your own eyes.”

I followed him through the penny slot arcade. Past the sleeping sailor with his painted grin, ready to bounce into life, and the lines of ladies waiting to dance behind the glass. They looked like broken dolls. The lamplight bounced off the organ grinder’s monkey’s bead eyes as we passed. It made it look like he was watching us.

“Mr Evans. I can’t believe it, our very own explorer. Wait till I tell the Lady about this! She’s not here now, she’s out on...business. She’ll be back soon though, yes she will.”

I asked him where we were going, the passage was so dark and cramped. I couldn’t even stand up straight.

“Just a little bit further, Mr Evans. It’s worth the wait, it really is.”

He stopped in front of a wooden door and fumbled through a ring of keys. There were three locks.

“You have to be very quiet in here, Mr Evans. They’re sleeping,” he whispered, “the Lady says that no one is allowed in here, but I’ll show you. Just you though. It’s my best work. It can be our secret.”

He opened the door.

Inside, sat round the table were four figures; a man in his Sunday best who looked to be about 60, and three young children. The table was laid for supper, and there was a bowl of fresh fruit and a gas lamp on the table.

“Ain’t they beautiful?” he hissed.

They really were well made, they almost looked alive.

I said that they were lovely, but I didn’t recognise them. I thought they were supposed to be famous.

“No, no, no,” he said, “These ain’t famous. These are hers. I made them myself.”

I said he did a good job.

“You want to know the secret? How I made them look so good?” He smiled, “well, you see the teeth, those are their teeth. And you see their hair, well that’s their hair. And the fingernails? Those are theirs too. It took me a while to find a way to do the eyes, but I did. And don’t they look grand. Look almost as good as they did when they was alive.”

I started to back towards the door.

“No wait!” he gasped, “you’ll miss the best bit.” He then took a penny from the tray and put in into a slot on the table. He stood back, triumphantly.

I heard cogs clicking and whirring, and the sound of metal on metal. Then some music started playing, something that little’uns would listen to. It seemed to come from everywhere. The lamp on the table began to turn, throwing shapes onto the wall and across the figures. And then with a clank, they too began to move, lifting up their cups and nodding their heads like they were talking.

“Ain’t they magnificent,” he breathed.

I felt the door behind me, backed through it, thanked him, and then turned and ran.