Canada and snow

Dear moll diary,

I'm sorry it has been a while between drinks (I always presume my readers have are drinking while reading my posts - I sure am) I have been very neglectful of my blog but I am now returned and swear I will be more diligent with updating my adoring (or indifferent) public on my moll discoveries.

Our second last point of call on Mr Bodyboard and my trip around the world was Canada. This experience went as follows - 4 months. Winter. Snow!

There is one place with no ocean access that you can take a surfer without them becoming alarmingly suicidal. The snow. While in Mexico I learnt about the migratory path between there and Canada that thousands of adrenalin hungry surfers follow every year looking for that ultimate rush. And where the surfer treks, so does our moll.

My first time on 'the hill' (a giant snow covered terrifyingly steep mountain of danger) I learnt how the snow complicates the natural relationship between surfer and moll. There is no sitting and watching! It's a (see above description re 'hill'), and if you find yourself at the top of said mountain physical participation is mandatory ( unless you stop at the bar at mid station and spend the day drinking. This is an excellent alternative but 4 months would be a little tough on the liver).

This forced involvement for molls is every surfers dream. Secretly they wish that they could drag us out the back of the ocean and make us stay there until we suddenly develop a raging and uncontrollable passion for all things surf. The snow gives them this opportunity because the chair ride up is deceptively enjoyable, and once you are up there is only one way down (I know this seems obvious but when you are there it is quite a confronting reality!) .

Previously when Mr Bodyboard had coaxed me into the ocean on a board it had been on my terms. I would go out as far as I wanted, take on the waves I chose, and if I felt like the teacher (Mr B) was being an annoying asshole I could paddle in and give him the finger from the safety of the shore. Up the mountain, things are different. No amount of swearing at your partner is going to change the fact that between you and the bar there is a giant, tree covered, icy, snowy, mountain.

Friends said that they could tell from miles away when I was up the hill with mr B. 'Stay the f--- away from me you f---ing ---- why the ---- did you ----- ------- ------ that!'

and so on

I cried, I screamed, I may have slightly overacted to certain suggestions, but at the end of the run I would sit on the chair lift to go back up top and do it all again. Why? Because it was really really fun!

Racing down (OK so maybe that's a bit of a stretch but 'sliding down on your bum' doesn't quite have the same ring to it) a snowy slope surrounded by a winter wonderland with your (sometimes) beloved partner is a supremely enjoyable way to spend the day.

True to his promises Mr Bodyboard turned out to be a fantastic teacher. He would take my abuse with a smile, and then calmly unwrap me from around a tree. While I was crying, stuck in a wall of snow (Oh it happened, and yes it hurt) he cheered me up taking photos to commemorate the event. And best of all, when I was at my absolute lowest face down in the ice as children under the age of 5 used me as a ski jump he would reach into his bag for yet another delicious sandwich full of the chocolate magnificence that is Nutella. He sure knows the way to my heart/sanity.

Does this experience mean I will now follow mr Bodyboard into the ocean to frolic in the surf? Not on your life. The snow doesn't have giant blood lusting sharks or vicious blue bottles, and when you fall over snow is like a lovely powdery bed, not a sand filled washing machine of death.
Does this mean I will become a ski bunny? Not on your life. Time spent in the summer heat at the beach is bliss

And what have I learnt? To always pack Nutella sandwiches.