Hacking away recently at some weeds in the garden, I chanced upon something discarded in the undergrowth: my old paddleboard.
It took me a while to get to paddleboarding. As a kid, I spent hours on those polystyrene boards, rubbing my nipples red raw. (They have been upsettingly sensitive ever since, but let’s not go there.) I tried proper surfing, but was only any good flat on my belly; I couldn’t stand up and quickly became discouraged. I tried windsurfing, but found I was either getting fed up with all the falling off, or going so fast that I was frightened to death. Also, I was too scared to go out on my own as I didn’t trust myself to rig the bloody thing properly.
Apparently, kitesurfing is less of a faff, but potentially dangerous. I read something about a poor chap who had come to a terrible end, so I gave that up before I started. That’s the best way, I think.
So, to paddleboarding I turned. A nice chap showed me how to do it and within half an hour I was on my way home with a board of my own. It was a very solid thing, possibly the last of its type before much better, lighter, inflatable ones took over. But I loved it very much. By the time I had lugged it down to the beach, I loved it a little less, but told myself that carrying the thing was a knack I would soon acquire.
Full of enthusiasm, if already exhausted, I commenced my maiden voyage. I paddled out to sea. After a while, I stopped and had a look around. All very lovely. But now what? Hmm, I paddled back in again. And that was that. Oh well. I traipsed home with it and, upon arrival, collapsed in exhaustion.
I told myself it would be more interesting and much easier next time. It wasn’t. Nor the time after that. And then I never went again. Now, I’ve brushed the weeds back over it and I’m trying to pretend none of this silly business ever happened.
• Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
