Dive report: Spearfishing at The Cribbar

Couple of hundred metres offshore from Towan Headland, about to spearfish over the Cribbar

I've never seen anyone spearfishing at The Cribbar. I've seen people spearfishing around Towan Headland, I've done it plenty of times. I've nudged out a little further onto the reef, but till this day, I've never dived the region of reef where the big waves heaves up. I make this claim after surfing Cribbar for 16 years, and staring out over it from the surf school for 13 years. Of course on this day, the swell wasn't running at 12 feet. There was a lot of water moving around though and it was CHOPPY. You could say it was no country for old men, but there we were - Dario and I. I didn't confirm Dario's age but I'd estimate between us we had made over a hundred trips around the sun. We stood at the harbour of refuge, about to jump into the sandy soup swilling around the blocks. One minute later we were shooting out in a bouncy, turbulent rip opaque with particulate matter and kelp streaming everywhere. It was mayhem. I looked over my shoulder, Dario was right on my fins and looking well within his comfort zone. Earlier that week, Dario came to the surf school and said he wanted to spearfish. I asked if he'd been before, and he just said, "yes, I have. I just want to get in for a dive". Something in the delivery told me that Dario had far more spearfishing experience than he cared to tell me about. I was right. Later I learned that Dario's deepest dive was 70 metres. On one breath, no scuba apparatus. Clearly he was suitably qualified for any diveable water that Newquay could offer during late August.

Finning out in the current at Little Fistral

On the day, I decided we'd head out to Cribbar. I thought that this would give the best chance of fish, and some interesting terrain for Dario. After finning around the reef just off of Towan Headland, Dario asked where we could go to really get some fish. Bobbing around in the sea, we didn't have many options. So I decided we should head out to the Cribbar take off spot. It's a big swim, and we kept going till I triangulated our position, using my trusty transit lines, directly over the pinnacle on the reef where the Cribbar wave breaks in huge swells. Dario went straight down into a 90 second dive. To say he was a man in possession of an efficient cardio respiratory system would be like saying the Porsche 911 GT3 RS has 'good grip'. A bit more swimming and diving later, and Dario resurfaced with a casual 'yep', and produced a huge bar of silver: a 60 cm Cribbar bass. Taken right from the Cribbar reef. There were a lot of bass running down there among the caves, holes and kelp.

Dario goes under

The tide started to push. Out there, it never goes slack. It's either pulling or pushing. We drifted with the current, diving, finning, all the way around to the Gazzle to exit at the Z-Walk. If you haven't been, the Z-Walk is really the world's smallest harbour. There's enough room to berth a rowing boat but a very substantial switch back path hewn into the rock, hence the name Z-Walk. Happily the grassy area up top was free from the persistent alcoholic miscreants who have contributed to trashing the Little Fistral car park area in 2026. I explained to Dario that no one has spearfished out there before that I knew of, and I didn't expect that I'd ever see anyone do it again. Back at the surf school, I showed him a photo of the wave breaking in a full rage. It was amusing to see this very cool, composed guy say, 'oh!' with a brief widening of the eyes. Despite many seasons in oceans around the world, he was absolutely not beyond letting himself be surprised.

The colourful kelp around the northern side of Towan Headland was a welcome relief

Dario gifted the bass to me. I said that the hotel chefs would prepare it for him. He explained that while he was very good at catching bass, and cooking them, he could not stand the taste of fish. "It is a curse!". Ha, maybe so, but also a blessing for those around him.

Maenporth to the Roseland by kayak

It's late September, and the biggest tourist season in Newquay since about 1997 has cooled off. Kirstin celebrated by running the Scilly 60, a 60 km ultra-marathon around the five inhabited islands of the Isles of Scilly, each leg connected by a boat ride. Which you would miss if you didn't make time.

As a spectator, something about the combination of metronomic movement by the sea, with only yourself, (some wearable tech, 5G connectivity, a VHF radio) and some energy snacks to rely on, inspired me to set off on a micro adventure of my own when we got back to the mainland. A weather and time window opened up so I took one of our Tarpon kayaks down to Falmouth Bay, an area I know quite well from SUP touring, racing, and spearfishing. With a neap high tide around 1pm and light north west wind, the setting was perfect to finally tick off a section I'd been eyeing for years: round St. Anthony's Head at the end of the Roseland peninsula.

When you look at a map of the Carrick Roads, St. Anthony's Head is the most southerly headland that guards the precious, expensive village of St. Mawes like a tiger's paw. At the end of one claw is the Fraggle Rock lighthouse (real name St. Anthony's lighthouse), it warns ships approaching the huge deep water harbour of the terrible Mannacles stones close to the eastern side of the Lizard. Up along the forearm is Porthbeor Beach; a 400 m bar of golden sand that is only sensibly accessible by sea. At the elbow is Steer Point, and after that, you're onto the sleepy white sand beaches of the Roseland.

St. Anthony's lighthouse with St. Mawes in the distance

I set off from Maenporth Beach for two strategic reasons: the car park is right at the edge of the beach, and a straight line crossing from here to St. Anthony's Head puts you a mile offshore from Falmouth, and two miles offshore from Flushing. I'd hoped to see some megafauna on this paddle and guessed being 'far out' might increase my chances. Spoiler: I didn't see any megafauna offshore. The run across the bay was straightforward, exactly what I was looking for. I wanted to feel the glide of the kayak and concentrate on paddle stroke without the rebounding swell, wind and tide that typically affect the north coast. I diverted slightly for a close up view of the lighthouse; strangely, I think this is the closest I've ever been to a lighthouse. The run from there to Steer Point feels like you're paddling along a coast. The tide started to drag against the wind a little and after 4 nautical miles I was keen to stretch out my hip flexors.

Grey seals near Porthbeor Beach.

At the far end of Porthbeor Beach lies a small cove that can't be seen from the coastpath above. I landed and turned around to drag the kayak up the beach to see five curious snouts break the surface. I'd stumbled on a seals' lair. They came right in, I thought they might try and climb into the kayak. On the way back out, they followed alongside, gliding belly up just below the surface, their whiskery muzzles seeming to smile up at me. Seals are a common sight but that does not detract from their charm, and one's joy in seeing them. They were nearly extinct in the early 20th century. Now, the British population is over 120,000. But that amounts to 40% of the global population; so there's only about 270,000 grey seals worldwide. On a planetary scale, a visit from a grey seal is a rare encounter.

Late 19th century ketch with Swanpool beach in the distance

The natural half-way point for this mission was the 'tiger's elbow' at Steer Point. There were views up the Roseland in front of me, while just offshore an interesting looking ketch was pressing along. I made an effort to intercept it for a closer look, but as I got closer I could hear and smell its diesel engine knocking away so I veered off in favour of natura sounds and fresh ocean air. Still, it was a great looking boat and maybe 120 or so years old. These boars were used for shipping coal and ore, and sometimes for trawler fishing. Crews of the latter regarded seals as pests and would shoot them, contributing to their catastrophic decline. Grey seals are now protected. The first piece of legislation - The Grey Seal Act 1914 - was a temporary closed season on hunting and culling them to protect mothers nursing pups over winter.

Running downtide along the cliffs from Swanpool to Meanpoorth

On the run home, the ebb tide flowing to the SW was picking up out to sea, which I'd have to work against to stay on track. Instead, I steered towards Swanpool to run towards Maenporth as inshore, that tide was running parallel to the coast rather than perpendicular to it. This was a welcome assist for the final run home; I'd burned through two litres of electrolyte, a caffeine / carb gel shot, flap jack, and half a bag of Haribos and still had to lift the mighty Tarpon 140 onto the roof of the truck.

Navionics track of the route. I was surprised at the arrow straight tracking of the Tarpon 140.

This was a 10.8 nautical mile (NM) loop, or 20 km, in about 3.5 hours. Cruising speed around 3 kts. The Phase 3 seat in the Tarpon is a miracle; no numbness or cramping. I think if you were planning a long-haul along the coast and conditions allowed, you could cover 20 NM in a day comfortably enough. Leaving Maenporth, that would put you somewhere near Fowey. Two days and you'd be in Devon, maybe a mission for another time.

You can find out about our privately guided kayak tours here https://www.surfsanctuary.co.uk/kayak-tours-newquay Non-essential etymology: The word 'Mannacles' given to the treacherous rocks fits, as it suggests something unpleasant and trapping. It's actually a corruption of the Cornish Mean Eglos, meaning 'stone church'. I'd originally heard this was because the pinnacles vault up from the sea floor like church steeples. However, I've just read that it refers to sailors looking to spot the steeple at St. Keverne's church to mark a safe approach, hence 'church stones'.

Meanporth meanwhile means 'stoney cove' or 'stoney beach'. Which is interesting, as today it is completely backed by sand.