Kite surfers, it seems are one of the many breeds upon the planet that have little if no compositional sense whatsoever. From our lofty position on the sand dune, he might have heard our cries, ushering him further to the right and more fully into our frames, but he was either out of earshot, or simply didn’t care whether we got the picture or not. Our fervent pleas fluttered away on the gentle evening breeze, lost to the ears of the Gulls and the Sand Martins alone.
Somehow, I’d been talked into going to Perranporth. If you’ve read a previous story you’ll know that I have little time for the place, with the honorable exception of an excellent ice cream parlour on the main drag through the centre of town. With its overpriced beachfront bar and not a free square yard of sand to plant your tripod on in the middle of summer I tend to shy away from the area in all seasons. In two of my four visits here on photography maneouvres, the camera has stayed firmly in the bag as I’ve hovered forlornly at the edge of the beach with not the faintest clue how to photograph anything here at all. But on this Sunday evening in late June, a couple of years ago when the pandemic had more or less consigned us all to our local haunts, it seemed that a visit to this tourist mecca could be enjoyed after all.
Despite the gentle conditions, the beach was surprisingly empty. We were a few short weeks away from the summer holiday season gathering itself into full swing, and at low tide the huge beach felt unusually spacious. Using my wellies to gain the advantage of getting to sandy rivulets that other beach visitors shunned, I’d attempted and failed to use them for anything whatsoever. The twin sea stacks known as the cow and the calf in reference to their relative sizes were grazing too far out from the shore to be anything more than a background feature. A pair of kite surfers brought interest though, and offered themselves up as compelling subjects where all else was continuing to elude my compositional skills. So, for more or less the entire visit, I reeled off shots each time they sped by, our subjects making full use of the wide stretch of water that draws so many visitors throughout the year. In moments of magnificence one or both of them would leave the water entirely, their kites lifting them towards the very heavens as it fleetingly seemed they might not return to earth. This was fun. No epic seascape shots to be had at all as far as I could tell, but at least I had something to train the camera upon on this long summer evening when the light would be with us until well after 10pm.
Eventually, Lee and I made our way up a small scramble to the dunes, while not for the first time on our adventures, Dave made himself into a subject, setting his tripod up far below us on the gradually disappearing beach as the evening tide advanced towards him. By now, the first of our aquatic acrobats had obviously decided it was time for supper and left the water. All around us was the excited buzz of the Sand Martins as they made their final forays for unsuspecting flying insects before nightfall. Beyond the horizon the hazy golden ball shimmered and burned a soft glow through the clouds, spreading sunbeams towards the sea that looked like enormous searchlights. As the ocean continued its advance, Dave finally relented and climbed the sketchy path to join us on our magical viewing gallery. And when the evenings stretch out to their full midsummer length, we bring our own beer to the party, the sound of opening bottles now hissing gently into the quiet dunes. So much more enjoyable than sitting in a pub on a balmy night in June. All we needed now was for the remaining kite surfer to head towards the light, and now it seemed our wishes might be granted as he raced from left to right across the waves, within yards of the shoreline. Urgently we willed him further towards the sunbeams, waiting for the moment he’d arrive elegantly on the third, still facing into the middle rather than away from it, just like it’s supposed to happen in the textbook. But of course, it never happens like that. The moment he appeared within the viewfinders after a long transit from the left, he turned around once more and began to make his way back towards Chapel Rock and the bar whose name I dare not speak. Frustrating, yet funny, we laughed at the irony of it all. Isn’t it always this way? But to my lasting surprise, Perranporth, the bête noire of my photography world had delivered a memorably enjoyable experience, and for a while I decided to overlook its excesses and remember instead the evening of the kite surfers.
But that was as far as it got. When the world gives you a very late sunset on a Sunday evening, with work the next morning, the chances of getting anywhere near the results take a bit of a battering. Especially when over two hundred images had been stored on the SD card. I knew there were some good ones in there, but if truth be told, I still haven’t looked at them more than two years later. I did at least drag the sunbeams out, and although the kite surfer might have had a word with himself about his precise position within the frame and the direction in which he was travelling, an edit still seemed worthwhile. For a mendacious moment I considered a bit of jiggery pokery to turn him around and move him to within an ace of the magic third, and I’ve got to the point in Photoshop when I think I could do this reasonably convincingly now, but I really can’t be bothered. There are many more compelling shots waiting in the archive to be tinkered with, and many more stories to dredge from the memory banks before the fade away into dust.
But if I ever feel like trying, I’ll quietly swap the image for the lie that will be its replacement and remove the offending paragraphs. Apart from myself, only you and the most dedicated of pixel peepers will know the dirty truth.
