I love Christmas and all its traditions, but there’s one tradition I abhor. At 11am on Boxing Day the local surfers and lifeguards of Portreath strip off to their bare essentials, exposing pasty, flabby winter bodies, hoon across the beach and plunge into the frigid waters of the North Atlantic.
This is a tradition that has been going on years, since the surf club was founded in the fifties, and now happens at beaches all over the country.
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