You probably don’t need me to tell you this, but jumps of 250ft into water are
almost always fatal. It says so in Suicide and Attempted Suicide by
Geo Stone, a handy tome that would grace any manic depressive’s bookshelf.
According to Stone, of the 1,200 souls who have leapt in hope or despair from
San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge, only 29 have survived. The rest have
died from multiple blunt-force trauma.
Such was the fate of the American stuntman Kid Courage, who died attempting to
break the world freefall record in 1980. He landed flat on his back,
decelerating from 75mph to zero in less than 6in. As for the 15% of jumpers
who do survive the impact — well, they often drown, plunging so deep that
they can’t get back to the surface in time to draw breath.
All of which begs the question: why would anybody of sound mind and body want
to jump from a great height into water? I’m pondering this as I follow Mick
Jennings across a Torquay playing field towards a clifftop safety fence.
That this wiry extreme-sports enthusiast spent 22 years in the Parachute
Regiment, four of them on attachment to the SAS, only deepens my concern.
Already I’m seriously out of my depth.
That said, coasteering is one of the fastest-growing activities across
Britain, and it’s thought more than 15,000 people tried it for the first
time last year. Invented by a group of Welsh surf instructors in 1986, the
aim is to navigate the intertidal coastline by swimming, climbing and
jumping, and on a calm day, over easy terrain, it can be as easy as
beachcombing. Add cliff jumps, rip currents and surging Atlantic swell into
the equation, however, and you’ve got yourself a bona fide adrenaline sport.
What’s more, it’s one almost anyone can try, provided they’re wearing a
wetsuit, buoyancy aid, helmet and a pair of trainers, and there’s someone on
hand to show them the way. So it’s no surprise that among Mick’s clients
when I’m there are doctors, dentists and every other kind of “time-short
professional” seeking to compensate for something lacking in their daily
routine.
I’m jogging slightly to keep up with Jennings, sweating profusely as a
combination of wetsuit, lifejacket and apprehension takes effect.
“There are a few nice little jumps at Meadfoot Beach for beginners and the
currents aren’t too bad,” he says. “But I thought you’d like to go in at the
deep end so I’m taking you to Anstys Cove. That’s for the real psycho cliff
jumpers.”
In years to come the sheer drop into the Channel between Torquay and
Babbacombe will have a name — Loonies Leap, or Halfwits Hurdle — but for now
the sport of coasteering is too young for all that.
“I’ve checked the water depth and it’s all right,”says Jennings, “but you need
to watch out for seals, pallets or other jetsam as you jump.” Thanks, Mick.
I’ll ponder the thought on the way down.
We check our gear and run through the correct posture for cliff-jumping one
final time — knees bent, fists closed, one hand on your helmet. Finally he
gives me a quick but penetrating look.
“Okay?” he asks me, and I manage a feeble nod. Then he runs to the edge and
disappears. Several seconds later I hear a faint splash. I shuffle towards
the precipice, noting that the distance between me and the deep blue sea is
greater than the height of my house.
()
“On three!” yells Mick. I go on four, the fear of being thought a coward
greater than my dread of a seawater enema. As I jump I hear screaming. It’s
me. Time is frozen, lending a cartoon-like absurdity to my descent. If I was
Wile E Coyote I would have time to write a sign asking “What in God’s name
am I doing?” but since I’m holding my nose with one hand and my helmet with
the other all I can do is wait for the impact.
And it’s a long time coming. Even from just 40ft jumpers have plenty of time
for regret, but then I hit the waves, plunging down in a white whirl of
bubbles. I look up, seeing shafts of sunlight piercing the surface, and then
my lifejacket drags me back up. I splutter like a tap with a faulty washer,
take a big gulp of air, and to my immense surprise realise that I want to go
again, only from a greater height. Suddenly I can’t stop laughing.
It seems unlikely, but this ludicrous pursuit has claimed remarkably few
lives. Leaving aside the terminally depressed, those who perish after
jumping off cliffs are usually playing “tombstoning”, a teenage
cliff-jumping pursuit that is to coasteering what happy slapping is to
professional boxing. Both guarantee adrenaline rushes, but while coasteering
involves controlled jumps from carefully chosen cliffs into deep water,
tombstoning is mostly about drinking too much cider.
I meet up with Jennings again the following day at Baggy Point, just north of
Croyde. He’s leading a stag party on a classic route along north Devon’s
sandstone and shale coastline. Unlike yesterday, which was more an
Acapulco-style test of nerve than an Atlantic adventure, today is the real
deal.
We start cautiously, jumping from 6ft into a sheltered cove, but as soon as
Jennings has sussed the strength of the group we strike out, diving into a
rising northerly swell and setting off on an SBS-style swim against a
foaming riptide. By the time we’ve hauled ourselves onto the
barnacle-encrusted rocks, our hands are bleeding, our lungs burning and
we’re full of brine. Fortunately, none of the stags has been sick.
We follow Jennings on a short underwater swim and find ourselves in a hidden
cave. How many people have seen a place like this, I wonder as I brace
myself against the water’s surge. This is a world normally reserved for the
mermaids.
Richard Best, who works with Jennings and set up the adventure sports company
Breathing Space in 2002, says coasteering is still a frontier sport. For the
time being at least, overcrowding is not an issue. “It’s where surfing was
in the mid-1980s,” he says. “And there’s still a lot of exploration to be
done.”
Just a mile south of us, the wetsuit-clad masses of wannabe surfers are
shoulder-to-shoulder in a messy onshore mush, their yellow foam surfboards
forming a seemingly unbroken raft across Croyde Bay. Here at Baggy Point
there’s no one but us, bobbing about in the sunshine as we leave the cave
and swim towards an offshore pinnacle. Jennings drags himself onto the rock
and scrambles to the top.
Between the pinnacle and the shore runs a narrow tidal race that forms a
funnel for the surf. It’s a test of judgment to time your entry to the peak
of a wave rather than a trough, and it’s the highest jump of the day, but
not one of the group demurs. Jennings watches as they leap one after another
into the green surf and shakes his head.
“A hundred years ago, no one in his right mind would have come anywhere near a
place like this,” he says. “And just look at us now.”
Chris Haslam was a guest of Breathing Space (01271 890 037, www.breathingspace.uk.com),
which offers half-day coasteering adventures in north and south Devon from
£55
Page 3 - More places to coasteer: ()
Where to do it
1. NEWCASTLE, CO DOWN The coast of Co Down is the best place
for sea caves. Donard is the longest, a dark narrow crevice 300ft long and
barely 4ft wide. Blue Lough (028 4377 0714, www.mountainandwater.com) will
take you there from £46pp for a half-day excursion
2. TIREE, ARGYLL Where better to try coasteering than on an
island? Tiree has rocks and cliffs to suit every level of adrenaline addict,
and half days cost £50pp with Hebridean Pursuits (01631 710 317,
www.hebrideanpursuits.com)
3. ANGLESEY, GWYNEDD Gogarth Bay, on the western tip of the
island, has the best terrain — sea caves, blow holes and hanging rocks are
all on offer. A half-day trip costs £40pp with Surf-Lines (01286 879 001,
www.surf-lines.co.uk)
4. ST DAVID’S, PEMBROKESHIRE Coasteering was more or
less invented here, and the mighty cliffs to the south of St David’s are
still one of its most thrilling venues. TYF (01437 721 611, www.tyf.com)
offers half-day tasters for £45pp
5. NEWQUAY, CORNWALL To further turbocharge the experience,
add a Zapcat — a twin-hulled powerboat that blasts you between the jumps.
Trips start from £70pp with the Adventure Centre (01637 872 444,
www.adventure-centre.org)
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