El Salvador: August 2006

Page 7 - K59 at Last!

Very well then, I’ve finally arrived on the coast where not only there is a wave, but I also have a surfboard to ride.

Right this second, I’m sitting on a comfortable chair with my legs propped up on top of a low wall that surrounds the back patio behind the room I’m staying in, with my calves resting on a pillow and my feet hanging out there over the edge of the wall.

I’m all alone, in a tropical paradise, with a right hand point wave reeling off directly in front of me and nobody riding with the midday LIGHT onshores giving it just a slight crinkle.

Back in Florida, it would be the best day of the year.

Over here, they apologize for the poor quality conditions.

In the final analysis, it’s all about your point of view.

I am completely surfed out, following two very very nice sessions this morning.

So let’s back up a little, and maybe I can tell the tale.

But before I begin with that, I must tell you that this is the FIRST TIME on the whole trip that I’ve actually had time to sit here and write, and stop to consider my words, and maybe change them and maybe not change them and who gives a shit anyway?

Everything else I’ve written about El Salvador up to this point, with the exception of the piece detailing my ride down here in the rental car, has been rushed to completion before it got too late in the evening, and another day’s dawn would soon overtake me and destroy the previous day’s impressions.

I’ve had no time to fucking WRITE, and I do believe that this hurried business of trying to cram an entire day’s impressions into just a couple of hours of time to get it all down has caused the damned writing to suffer.

Or maybe not.

Who gives a fuck, eh?

But regardless of the quality of any of this shit, it FEELS GOOD to be able to just sit here in this damned chair, with nobody around, and the wave reeling along in front of me unridden, and it’s warm, tropical, and just about as nice as anything I’ve ever experienced and by golly I just don’t give a fuck.

So there.

Now, back to the story.

Last night, the FAM group was going to go out and have one last fling, and I demurred so that not only could I sit in the room and write (under that damned schedule pressure, once again), but also so that I would be in fair decent shape come the morrow, when Edgard (that’s EdgarD, with a ‘D’ on the end and up to now I’ve been consistently misspelling it and for that I apologize, Edgard) was to come and pick me up at 0630 hours in the morning.

There were heartfelt goodbyes all around, and then I disappeared up into my room, and that was that. I look forward to meeting these guys again, next time, in particular the Taca people, who were too nice to believe, especially towards a crusty old crab such as myself.

I set the clock for 5:30am and woke up and between having a couple of cups of coffee, dashing off some emails, and the usual morning kinds of things I do, I barely made it down to the lobby of the Radisson in time.

Edgard arrived precisely at six-thirty am, with a lovely lady in tow, and we toss my shit in the back of his car and away we go.

Edgard is just as kind and considerate as possible, and as we roll downhill toward the coast, he’s asking me questions about myself and the Hollands, and clueing me in to various and sundry points of interest regarding his place in particular, and El Salvador in general.

El Salvadorians are cool people, in case I didn’t mention it earlier.

Edgard is a medium-looking kind of person, but with an underlying muscular tension that can’t quite be hidden. He’s nice, courteous, and helpful, but I do believe that I would not like to ever get crosswise with him.

This of course, cannot happen because I am a guest in his house and I’m on my best behavior.

The weather has finally reverted to Rainy Season Standard, and it’s wet outside. It rained like hell last night, and the sound of the rain drumming down on the roof of the building wing adjacent to my window on the third floor was just the balm I needed for a solid restful sleep.

This morning, the debris blowoff from last night’s thunderstorms is still hanging in the sky, and it’s gray, but not unpleasantly so. Gray skies in the tropics are NEVER unpleasant, and if you don’t understand how this works, well then you’ll have to come down here and see for yourself, now won’t you?

The drive from the Radisson to the town of La Libertad is a surprisingly short one, and in no time at all, we’re winding down the streets of yet another funky El Salvadorian town, and Edgard informs me that we’re now in La Libertad.

Hallelujah brother, I’ve FINALLY ARRIVED!!!

La Libertad is pretty rough around the edges, and could give Puntarenas in Costa Rica a run for its money in this regards.

A few turns on narrow streets, and Edgard is telling me that the pier I can see off to the left is the one just past the foot of the point at Punta Roca.

Punta Roca.

The fabled right point wave that I’ve heard so damned much about over the years.

A short block farther on, and we pull off to the side, and there it is, laid out before my eyes.

Unfortunately, my luck with waves on this trip has finally run out, and there’s not much going on out there. The point is very long, and more or less set up as a straight line as opposed to curving around like some points do, and the water’s glurk brown, the sky’s gray, and the glassy ocean isn’t really up to the job of showing me what this place can do.

Out on the end of the point, little wobbly waves are trying to peel, but they’re just not making it very far and there’s nobody in the water.

We look for just a few moments and then we proceed down the road a little ways, turn right, and park in front of a small surfshop.

Finally, at long last, the smell of surfboard resin enters my nose. They have a ding repair area and boards are on the racks waiting to be patched and returned to the water, where they belong.

It’s a good smell and serves strongly to remind me that I’m now finally getting down to the business of riding some fucking waves, goddamnit!

Edgard exits the car and motions for me to follow him inside the surfshop. Over in the ding repair area, there’s a small room piled with boards, most of which are short. Longboarding isn’t really that big of a deal down here, if I can judge by the number of long boards in this room.

Edgard grabs the first longboard, which is a softboard, and I advise him, “That’s not the one,” and he grins back and me and agrees that yes, that’s not the one.

He waves a hand toward the rest of them, and asks me, “Which one would you like?”

Don’t get much nicer than that, does it?

So I look them over and pick a red one, mostly because it’s longer than the others, maybe nine six, maybe not.

It’s a little wide, and is a tri-fin, which I’m not overly fond of, but since I’m the designated gringo here, I thank him kindly and we tie it to the racks on top of his car.

Off we go, once again, and after a left turn, we’re back out on the main highway. The roads around here, as elsewhere, are relentlessly well maintained.

Ah, no potholes.

Costa Rica, are you listening?

We’re driving along, and after a bit, we come to a place where we can sort of pull over on the ocean side of the road and take a look, and there, laid out before my eyes, is Sunzal, which I’ve heard so very much about. We’re not down at sea level anymore, but instead are up on the top of a bluff. Good spot for getting a good look.

The swell seems to be maybe head high or so, it’s kind of hard to tell, despite the fact that there’s a couple of dozen people in the lineup, bobbing outside waiting for a set. One or two longboards, and all the rest are shortboarders.

It’s a point wave, but not exactly.

Outside, there is some shallow water somewhere or other, and it’s refracting the swell so that it comes in crossed up a little, and it’s forming these peaks, which are all going right, but not with the kind of precision that you’d normally expect in a proper point wave.

Here and there, the peaks pop up and break, some of them running for a good distance, and others just kind of crapping out after a little while.

Or at least that’s what’s happening today. My experience base with this place running to ten minutes or so, it’s possible that I’ve got it a little wrong somewhere. Dunno. All I can tell you is what I saw. I give it to you for what it cost me, which is nothing.

It’s dead glass.

Edgard tells me that this is a “good longboard wave” and by that he means that it’s none too powerful and kind of mushy maybe.

I’m alright with that, and after a bit more looking, we’re off again, headed westbound on the main highway once again.

A bit more driving and we pull over into the very short driveway of a home atop the bluff, sandwiched between the highway and the cliff face.

Edgard apologizes for the delay, but he has something or other he must do here. He tells me he just bought this place, so for those of you who might be worried about no room in the inn, it’s looking like the inn is going to be growing a little, one house at a time.

I ask if I can get out and look, and maybe take pictures, and Edgard says, “Of course,” and I lean out over the fence at the edge of the property, and take in the view. From up here, down the coast to my left, I can see the lineup at Sunzal, and a swarm of black dots bobbing in the water.

A set seems to be arriving, and I can see the line warping, bending, and crossing itself as somebody farthest outside strokes into one. I take a couple of pictures, but from this distance they don’t show much.

Edgard arrives from somewhere inside the house, points a little to the right of straight outside, and says “There’s a wave right over there when it gets six feet, but I haven’t ridden it yet. I need someone to surf it with.” The toe of this cliff just plunges directly down into the water, and getting in and out, especially with any kind of swell, looks to be……shall we say…….an interesting proposition.

I stare at the place where the waves are supposed to break, but it’s small and nothing’s showing at all.

Back into the car once again, back into the highway, spot the car coming our way flashing its lights, and duck back into the driveway once again. Car past, all clear, and we’re out on the road, westbound once again.

Another short drive and once again we pull over to the side of the road on the ocean side, and Edgard tells me that I’m looking at K-59 and K-61, down below me off to my right.

A pair of points, side by side. Neither one of them sticks particularly all that far out into the sea, and instead they’re just gentle bends in the coastline.

K-61 is empty of people, but K-59 has about four people, and they’re catching waves.

HOT DAMN, LET’S QUIT STARING AT THIS AND GO SURFING!

Edgard smiles in agreement, and we drive a bit farther down the highway, and then take a sharp left on to a rocky, bumpy, rough little cross between a road and a driveway.

I’ve FINALLY found a bad road in El Salvador!

Fortunately, this one is only a couple of hundred yards long, and it deposits us directly at the edge of the ocean, right in front of the house I’m going to be staying in.

And there, right in front of me, the wave at K-59 is doing its thing.

Maybe not prime time, but certainly good enough for this old man.

It’s dead glass, but there’s a very VERY slight wobble on the water. Additionally, this point too seems to have something farther outside that refracts the swell, and it’s crossing itself a little bit, but not nearly as much as Sunzal was.

Waves stand up outside, and the cross piece hits them and causes them to throw these short hollow sections, as the wave works itself down the point.

From close up, the point reveals itself to be a tiny little thing, just large enough to make the wave work properly.

After Boca Barranca in Costa, and Chicken Hill in the Galapagos, this thing almost looks cute.

But the wave is working, and I’m bouncing around like a rubber ball, all worked up and itching to get into the water.

We’re laughing and joking and scrambling around to get the gear together, and in very short order, I’ve got my calf leash on the board, half a bar of wax down on the deck, and I’m stepping down to the foot of the point between the cobble rocks, timing things to enter the water.

Splash I go.

Finally, FINALLY, F-I-N-A-L-L-Y, I’m in the goddamned water on a surfboard.

And there’s a wave.

It’s looking like it’s maybe shoulder high to head high, with a few noticeably larger strays every once in a while.

I paddle outside and try to line things up, and discover that it’s not as easy as it looks.

With the dead glass conditions, and the light cross and wobble, the waves are very hard to pick out as they arrive. It just kind of bloobs and blobs around out there, and then all of a sudden, there’s a wave and you’d best paddle smartly to get to it.

It’s shifting around, and the sparse crowd is spread around satisfyingly, with waves allotted to everyone, by the luck of the draw.

Edgard is out on his shortboard, and he’s got one of those close-fitting hat things on with a short bill, exactly the same as the one that George Drazich wears. So when I catch him out of the corner of my eye, my brain wants him to be George Drazich. But he’s not. He’s Edgard.

Interestingly enough, he kind of surfs like George Drazich too, except that he’s a regular foot. He works his shortboard with a smooth and powerful style, with no wasted energy and excellent positioning at all times.

He also has an unerring eye for the sets, and seems to bag every last single fattie that comes in. I suppose that an abundance of natural talent, coupled with living RIGHT HERE, doesn’t hurt any.

He’s fun to watch surf.

Not bad for a guy who’s gonna turn forty years old tomorrow.

He has a couple of friends in the water, and these guys know what the hell they’re doing, too.

Inside of us, keeping a respectful distance, are a couple of younger local kids, and everybody’s catching waves, hooting and hollering, and just having the times of their lives. There’s also a guy out here who I saw yesterday, a kid who works with a local tour operator, and who was the ONLY guy I talked to, the entire time I was on the FAM, who knew squat about surfing. He bears an uncanny resemblance to Logan Strickland, complete with the lopsided smile and supereasygoing demeanor, and he’s fun to be around. Damn, but I sure miss Logie. Bob too, for that matter.

For myself, my Mystery Board turns out to be surprisingly good, and despite my misgivings about the tri-fin setup, it handles forceful bottom turns without getting squirrelly or wiggly.

I eventually figure out the lineup, and start taking my share in the rotation.

The waves are coming in here and there, and there’s a noticeable peak part way down the point, just in from the outermost takeoff zone, that will occasionally stand up and throw, and then just rifle down the point, all the way to the little beach at the bitter end of things. The tide’s high, but it doesn’t seem to be hurting the waves any, and I manage to even get a couple of cover ups, on some of those sections.

Hoots and hollers all around.

Edgard very kindly says nice things to me about my bottom turns, and we get into a short discussion about Old Style surfing, and how much I like it. He seems to appreciate it, and it’s always a pleasure to be complimented on your surfing while you’re out in the water, by someone who surfs excellently.

And so I surf and surf and surf.

At one point, I’m paddling out after failing to make a section, and I’m inside, and here comes a wave, and both Edgard, and one of his friends, are going for it.

Uh oh.

Edgard’s friend is downpoint, and I’m almost exactly in front of him, so I’m trying to paddle up point a little bit, to give him some squeak room to get past me and get down the line. But Edgard is up early, farther up point, and the guy kind of tries to work me and Edgard both into his own equation, and things don’t quite work out. Edgard is too deep to make it, and doesn’t get anywhere near the two of us, but his friend loses it more or less right on top of me, and we both go underwater together as the wave breaks on top of us.

I’m grabbing the nose with one arm, and sort of trying to cover my head with the other arm, and as the wave passes overhead, I feel a pretty good whack up just behind my right shoulder.

We come up and he’s as solicitous as can be, and inquires after my health and well being. I reach around with my left hand and feel for anything unpleasant, and ask him, “Am I cut?” He answers in the affirmative, but I don’t come back with any blood on my hands.

So we paddle back out, shrug it off and keep on surfing.

Every so often he asks about me, and I tell him I’m fine, and that’s that.

More waves, including a couple of more cover ups.

The kids inside seem to like that, and I get the hoots whenever I manage to make one. They also seem to like the backwards shit, and they’re grinning and giggling whenever I wrap up a ride going the wrong way.

I’m laughing right along with them.

Did I tell you that the people in El Salvador are NICE? No? Well I guess I better tell you right now then. THE PEOPLE IN EL SALVADOR ARE NICE.

Got it?

Good.

Back to the waves.

Riding and riding and riding, and once in a while a section will pop up in the middle, that I can’t get around.

A couple of times I’ve wound up pretty far inside after having to hop off, and there’s large rounded rocks in there, and in a couple of places it’s pretty damned shallow.

So when I fall, I try to land flat and not penetrate the water any farther than I absolutely must.

But of course, me being me, I continue to flirt with things in there, section, rocks, and all, and eventually I hop off of one, land flat on my butt like I’m supposed to, and manage to hit a damned rock that couldn’t have been more than a foot under water, anyway.

I didn’t hit it squarely, which was probably very lucky.

Instead, it glanced off my right side back there, and I could feel it scraping me as I banged off of it.

Well golly gee whiz, ain’t this surfing shit kinda rough coach?

Yep. It’s a contact sport.

So I’m back outside and my friend of the earlier collision once again inquires after the back of my shoulder, and I laugh and say, “Well I just hit a rock, so I’m not even noticing the shoulder right now, but I’m all right.”

He gets around behind me and says, “Man, that rock really got you.”

Guess so.

There must have been some blood or something, ‘cause I just got up and took a look at things for the first time back there since coming in, and it’s just a couple of small scratches right above the waistband of my baggies, right of center, on my lower back.

And on we surf.

More waves. More hoots. More fun. Edgard and his buddies are just tearing the living hell out of the place, and it’s a complete tickle just to be out here in the water, this close to them, watching surfing like it’s supposed to be done.

Not only are the El Salvadorians nice, the fuckers can SURF, too.

Finally, the heat starts to get too me, and I’m in some serious need of some agua frio.

So I laugh and tell Edgard that I’m going to let him have a few for a while, and go in and get a drink of water. He laughs right back and I’m outta here in short order.

Paddle to the edge of things, time the wave closely, and let the swash take me as far up and across the cobble rocks as I can, hop off in a hurry, and git the hell outta there before the next surge arrives.

The cobble rocks are making a goodly roar as the waves work them in their millions back and forth on the shoreline slope. It’s a very distinct sound, and just a little unnerving. No, I do NOT want to have one of those things smashed into my ankle while standing in the shorebreak, thank you very much all the same.

So it’s up on the beach I go, and slark down two large glasses of cold water.

Please do not touch the refrigerator in your wet bare feet, or it will shock the hell out of you.

Ok. Fine.

One of the guys who works here had my camera while we were out, and he comes back from the head of the point and I break out this old laptop, and transfer the shots to the hard drive.

Takes forever, but finally the task is done.

Edgar’s two buddies who surf well have also both come in, so we all sit and watch as each picture goes up on the screen.

Shots of most everybody.

Unfortunately, my damned digital camera is an old one, with that stupid delay between the time you press the button, and the time it actually snags a frame, and so things are just a little off.

Ah well, that’s the way it goes.

More to the point, however, is that once again I find myself riding a wave that does NOT photograph well, just as in the Galapagos on the last trip.

The pictures make it look quite a bit less than fully sterling. Kind of whoogly and bhoogly, and not really all that focused.

Which is manifestly NOT the case.

This is a VERY GOOD WAVE, sports fans.

It has sufficient speed and power to get you going, and when the crossing wave cuts across the main line just so, you can see it coming from a mile off, set it up, and then just stuff yourself deep into the motherfucker and get yourself duly ejected, soaked and grinning.

Once again, I found myself laughing like a fool with the locals, telling them this would be the day of the year back in Florida.

Fortunately, Florida has surfers, even if it doesn’t have surf, and Edgard had commented earlier about the surprising skill level of Floridians. Yeah, we can surf, and it’s long past time to have to prove ourselves to ANYbody. We just get out there and get the damned job done, and what’s the big deal anyway?

So we hang out, I walk farther down the point and take a few snaps for myself, and eventually I’m more or less rested up to the point where I can do this one more time.

So I do.

By now, the wind has come up light onshore, but the line is still liney, the peaks are still peaky, and there’s only two other guys in the water, and both of ‘em seem to be a little less than fully dialed in to lining it up properly.

Walk my trusty red steed down to the edge of things, time it just so, and hurl my aching bones and muscles into the ocean for one more go.

God, but I’m stiff and tired.

So I paddle outside nice and slow. What’s the fucking hurry, anyway?

And here we go again.

This time, with the onshores capping it over a little prematurely, there will be no stuffings and ejections. Instead, I just snag the outside sets and work the damn things all the way down the point.

The board behaves the hell out of itself, and turns well and easy without any handling weirdness.

Lucky me.

So I surf myself half dead, again, and finally it’s time to come in.

12:30 in the afternoon, and I’ve bagged several hours of really fun waves.

Thanks Carol.

I stagger back up the cobble rock slope, enter the compound, put the board down, stand and cool off under the shower, grab yet another large glass of water, and then collapse into a heap on the low wall that surrounds the porch, with my head propped up against a column.

Edgard and his buddies chat at the table, and after a bit he asks me if I’d like something to eat.

Well yes, now that you mention it, yes I do.

Since I missed the yesterday’s evening’s FAM soiree, and since we blew out of the hotel really early today, I haven’t eaten anything since lunch, yesterday.

No worries, Edgard disappears into the house and returns to tell me “One half hour.”

Which plays well with my present state of exhaustion. I do believe I’ll use that half hour to just LAY HERE, like the dead thing that I am.

And then a plate appears, with chicken, rice, and some vegetables on it, and I tuck in to that sucker like a condemned man eating his last meal. As I snarf the comestibles, tortillas are brought out and I go after them, too.

These tortillas are not pupusas, which seems to be the national dish of El Salvador. Despite the fact that we chowed down on cheese and bean pupusas at noon, whilst visiting Cerro Verde a while back, I’m informed that pupusas are not for lunch. Ok, fine. Suits me. Gimme the tortilla without the filling and I’m as happy as a clam.

Edgard is going out this afternoon to celebrate his fortieth birthday, and I ask permission to just stay here, and rest and write.

He smilingly assures me that no insult is taken, and by damn none was intended, and I take him at his word.

He strikes me as a straight shooter.

And so they tootle off to parts unknown, and I proceed to unwind and decompress out here on the back porch with a cold can of coke and a laptop in my lap.

And right this second, as I look over and through the bright blue and yellow hammock that’s suspended between the two……..what are these things anyway? In Hawaii they’d be called kukui nut trees, but down here I have no idea what the hell they’re called, but anyhow they’re nice for hanging hammocks between. And the sky has gone blue, and the water has gone bluer, and there’s a light onshore, and the water’s crinkled, but the lines just keep on moving down the point, and off in the distance I can see the layers of lava in the cliffs, and there’s waves bashing up against them making a nice white spray when they do, and there’s an old dog kind of lounging around on the porch with me, beating the heat, and it’s warm but the light breeze is making it feel perfect in the shade here, and there’s nobody in the water, and there’s nobody in the house, and there’s no traffic going by, and no planes screaming overhead tearing holes in the sky, and the tv is turned off, and the radio is turned off and my brain is turned off, and if it got any pleasanter it would probably kill me, and I’ve got the whole rest of the afternoon staring me in the face and nothing nothing NOTHING to do, but sit here and either write or not write, and there’s another nice set, and the sound of the ocean is just as soothing as a lullaby, and maybe I’ll go take a dip in the pool that’s just past the hammock, or maybe I’ll go lay down on my bed in the air conditioned room, or maybe I’ll just sit here and keep staring out at the phenomenal peace and beauty that I’m immersed deeply within, or maybe I’ll go scratch the dog behind his ears, or maybe I won’t do any of those things, and it doesn’t matter ‘cause there’s nobody around to have to talk to and listen to and deal with and put up with and golly gee whiz, but this sure is a swell place you got here mister and maybe can I kind of move in and never leave?