Hotpipe Hillbillies: Riding a wastewater wave

Director Stephanie Hubbard documents an outsider community in Shoreham

By Stuart Rolt

Cinema has long had a fascination with surfing. From classic works like The Endless Summer and Big Wednesday to more contemporary offerings like Momentum Generation and The Fisherman’s Son, each explores man’s ephemeral attempts to harness one of nature’s most powerful energies. Equipped only with a small board, whenever the wind is blowing a (slightly-obsessed) group of adventurers will be battling a force which can turn mountains into sand and spirit away the foolhardy to an unseen doom. There’s a sense of romance and compulsion which has driven filmmakers to build stories around this curious intersection between nature’s majesty, human drama and counterculture.

On a windswept stretch of England’s southern coast, under the looming presence of a power station and the screech of gulls, an unlikely community flourishes. This is definitely not Malibu or Cornwall; it’s the industrial shingle beach of Shoreham, and the setting for Hotpipe Hillbillies, a new documentary from director Stephanie Hubbard. 

Surfing is big business in many parts of the world. Accompanying this is plenty of glamour attached to spots like Nicaragua’s Popoyo, Costa Rica’s Nosara, Jeffreys Bay in South Africa, Oahu and Santa Cruz in the USA, and Australia’s Kirra. In contrast, surfing the Sussex coast itself seems to be an act of stubborn optimism. Britain’s West Country has a plethora of trendy spots to which people flock in their camper vans. Nobody can argue with Cornwall’s reputation as a surfer’s paradise. Fistral Beach plays a huge part in Newquay’s tourist economy. But the idea of surfing this far up the English Channel seems almost mythical.

Hubbard is fully aware of the unlikelihood of something like this happening in an area better known as a port or hosting the occasional illegal rave. For starters, the water doesn’t seem that clean, especially in recent years… Shouldn’t it put people off?

“I thought it would,” Hubbard admits. “But the surfers were totally indifferent. I kept pushing in interviews: surely you care about the sewage? But nobody really had anything to say. If there’s a wave, they’re in, whatever’s in the water. It was almost as though nothing, not even the threat of dirty water, could keep them away.” Soon, a symmetry starts emerging. Just as those surfers became compelled to chase waves created by hot water discharge into the sea, Hubbard and her crew have realised this is a story demanding to be told. It’s a tale of British eccentricity, an unlikely community, finding raw beauty in a barren environment, and the joy of giving yourself over to something larger than us all.

Ask Stephanie Hubbard how a non-surfer became director of Shoreham’s most unorthodox surf documentary, and you’ll hear the story of how friendship begets artistic adventure. She traces Hotpipe Hillbillies back to her best friend, whose infectious spirit and love for the Shoreham surf scene set everything in motion.

“I’m not a surfer,” says Hubbard. “So, the project found me. About a year and a half ago, my friend, Claire, approached me and said, ‘I want to do something creative. Would you help?’ I was reluctant at first. I’m a creative director for brands so that’s my world, and she didn’t have a creative background at all. But she has this way about her… and she’s fantastic at peer pressure!” 

Drawn in by Claire’s enthusiasm, and joined by a cinematographer who knew how to film on the water as well as on land, they began piecing together their project over scattered coffees and excited conversations. “Because I wasn’t coming from a place of surfing obsession, I came in looking for the story. What made this community tick? Who were these people that Claire surfed with on this bleak stretch of coast?” What Hubbard discovered was a crew as raw and unfiltered as their windswept surroundings, and a shoreline that offered something strangely beguiling.

Shoreham Beach is a stretch of shingle by Sussex’s main port, an area mostly occupied by warehouses and industrial depots. On the face of it, it doesn’t leap out as a bustling water sports destination. “It’s the most unglamorous, unsexy beach I’ve ever been on,” Hubbard says with a wry laugh. “There’s this huge, grey power station, a shingle shore, and a massive barrel… the hot pipe… going out into the sea. Honestly, the first time I saw it, I thought it was for sewage.”

In reality, hot water is discharged from the power station, which interacts with tides and coastal forms to produce what is, in local lore, a legendary and fickle man-made wave. “Most of the time, there’s nothing to surf at all. But when it’s on? Suddenly, it’s magical. It draws out a spectrum of people, experienced surfers, total beginners, and everyone has a great time.”

In stark contrast to the azure surf movies set in Hawaii or Australia, there are no white sands or turquoise water. It’s honest, British, raw, and totally unfiltered – the surfers are charming, wonderful and authentic.

“It’s very flat around here,” Hubbard says, talking about the usual wave conditions off the Brighton & Hove shore. “The other surfable spot nearby is up by the marina, and even that relies on the sea wall to create waves. Here, you only get anything because of the power station’s hot water. But there’s an obsession to it. These surfers will arrange their lives around the hope of a wave.”

In the film, she paints a vivid portrait of a community composed of Sussex locals, cheerful oddballs, and wave-obsessed fanatics. “Their passion is incredible. They check multiple apps, watch the weather, juggle their jobs and families around these tiny, unpredictable windows. Sometimes, everything must align: the right tide, the right weather, the plant operating just so. They do all this admin and preparation just to be ready when the wave’s actually on.” Among the regulars is Haddock, who was raised by meteorologist parents. “Where younger surfers have their apps and websites, he just looks at the sky and knows.”

Standing apart from most traditional surf cinema, Hotpipe Hillbillies developed its own narrative and style. Hubbard, who cut her teeth creating brand films and digital campaigns, drew her inspiration not from travelogues but the gritty world of early-2000s skate videos.

“I think people expect a surf film to be a tourist board pitch. Come to Brighton, the water’s fine!” she says with a chuckle. “I didn’t want that. I grew up watching skate films, which were all about a cast of characters. They all have some kind of individuality. They fall and get cut-up, but then get back up. There’s this energy. Raw and unvarnished… I wanted to get that feeling.”

She reveals a small debt to the ensemble British films of the 00s, citing the “Guy Ritchie effect,” where unexpected groups of people with their own nicknames and backstories come together to produce something memorable. “Everyone here has a nickname. It’s so British!”

Obviously, the cinematic world of geezer-drama doesn’t have much in common with a disparate gang of surfers gathering on a bleak stretch of beach between a power station and an unforgiving sea. Far from being a glossy fantasy, the documentary was shot on handheld cameras. Because bad weather creates the best waves, it was often filmed under quite tough conditions. But that became a badge of honour.

“We never wanted things to look perfect,” says Hubbard. “Handheld shots, grey light, the backdrop of the power station, the squawking seagulls overhead. It was important for the film to look real, not pretty. We wanted audiences to feel like they are standing with the surfers, cold coffee in hand and wind in their hair.”

In fact, the various production challenges became fuel for creativity. “The weather was unpredictable. The light was often terrible. Waves could disappear any second. But those things made everything more genuine.”

The crew was minuscule and tight-knit. Everyone working on Hotpipe Hillbillies was doing it for free. “It had to be fun. Otherwise, why pretend?” Hubbard grins at this. What started as a favour to a friend soon became a deep exploration into joy, passion, and the alchemy of creativity, as well as exploring a community that had come together in the strangest of places. Stephanie’s admiration for Claire, who ignited the project, is palpable.

“For someone with no creative background, she turned out to be this incredible producer. Natural, fearless, engines-on at all times. When things got tough, she kept the team together. I learned so much from her spirit.”

But Hubbard took away lessons about herself and her own attitudes. “I’d been sceptical at the start… perhaps more focused on helping Claire than on the actual project. But by the end, I came away with this restored belief in the power of passion, community, childish joy. When one of our surfers talked about being ‘barrelled’, where you’re tumbled around by a wave, they say it’s like being a kid again. I realised we’re all just big kids. It’s what makes us feel alive.”

In a culture obsessed with performance and appearance, everything seems to have become about output, productivity, and being useful. “It’s almost perverse that the tireless pursuit of pleasure and joy is one of the last rebellious acts you can do. All the surfers… they don’t care if it’s raining, or the water’s muddy, or if the wave’s gone. They just want to be out there, together, doing what they love.”

In a way, Hubbard’s story of Shoreham’s surfers is as much about national character as it is about sport. “There’s something beautifully British here,” she muses. “Take our obsession with beer gardens when the sun’s out. You can have people freezing, but they’ll all be chasing that sunbeam like it’s gold.” Similarly, it’s common for everyone to clap and cheer when someone drops a tray of glasses or crockery. Or the ‘blitz spirit’ or making jokes in the face of adversity. We excel at collective, eccentric moments. It’s the same with the surfing community; they’re all so different, but united on this weird, windswept beach.”

Has working on the documentary made her want to surf herself? She shakes her head. “No, but not because I don’t understand it. I ski and I know that’s ridiculous for someone in Brighton, and expensive, but once I found that, I couldn’t stop. It’s about that feeling of being propelled by nature. I can see why surfers love the motion, love the feeling of letting go. It’s addictive.”

The film has inspired a tidal wave of enthusiasm, especially around its upcoming premiere at Brighton’s Komedia. “I thought we’d have friends and family, that’s it,” she says. “But it’s exploded. Brighton loves anything to do with the sea or grassroots culture. The response has been amazing, to the point where lots of friends couldn’t even get tickets! Now we’re submitting to festivals nationally, talking to indie cinema streaming services. It’s become so much bigger than I imagined.”

The film began with a humble idea – to chronicle a diehard passion linking a gang of friends on an abandoned stretch of shore.  Now it could elevate their exploits from local legend to international curiosity. Yet, at its core, what Hotpipe Hillbillies reveals is the enduring power of grassroots community, eccentric devotion, and the rare courage needed to chase joy wherever it appears.

Hubbard describes herself as dragged along for this ride. But the film’s success speaks to her vision: to capture the honest beauty of people who refuse to let geography, weather, or convention get in the way of what they love.

Those hillbillies may ride a rare and unpredictable wave, but their spirit – a mix of pluck, joyful rebellion, and enduring camaraderie – has captured the imagination of all who see it. Hubbard hopes the film’s resonance goes beyond the surfing world. “It’s about celebrating what’s unique and resilient about British culture, about devotion to a thing that doesn’t make much sense to us outsiders, but means everything to those inside it.”