#surf guiding

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Pure Joy, Nicaragua, Idealism, and Free Will

PURE JOY

Surfing more than I ever have in my life over just two months, I researched and developed bottom turns, tube stalls, and off the lips like a well caffeinated lab scientist studying chemical reactions and taking notes.  To my supreme pleasure, all the waves here rolled in like a good scene in a surf porno.  Each morning they beckoned me like beautiful girls pleading for morning sex, even though the night before had already been really good.  Manzanillo, with it´s wild moods and dangerously rocky takeoff in crystal clear green water, which bowls and briefly mushes before the hollow second section which demands a backdoored tube stall entry; Colorados, the land of barrel riding; Panga Drops, a dreamy reef wave with A-frames always at least head high; Lances Left, overhead lines peeling for hundreds of meters with no one around; yeah Nicaragua pleaded and I did not turn her down.

Photo: Me on a big day at Manzanillo.

Photo: Me again surfing playful cobblestone reef waves north of Gigante, enjoying boat only access.

Photo: Gigante from El Pie de Gigante.  The beach to the North is Amarillo.

What enabled this purely joyous surfing lifestyle was the job I´d secured before ever leaving, as a surf guide catering to affluent foreigners in an all-inclusive resort-style surf lodge.  I took the job rather hastily, and left for my trip earlier than planned to take the job.

See, most surf junkies, upon hearing in a job interview, "You´ll be doing a lot of surfing, going to secret uncrowded spots only accessible by boat, and the beer is free," would do exactly as I did: take the job without further question, because everything else in life is secondary.  I quit a full-time job, sold all my possessions, and permanently left my life I had going, off to surf my brains out.  It was simple man: go get barreled.

And I did a lot of surfing.  Never before had I felt so communed with the ocean.  Each wave therapeutically washed away the pain of mundane 9 to 5 living, of relationships gone wrong, of bridges burned and friends lost, washed away my total disappointment.  Out there riding waves, beyond the crumbling ruins of twenty-first century capitalism and the dismay of the straight-laced, everything went away.  In the waves I had zen, a mind freed from noise, a place for meditation and soul-nourishment.  And ultimately, in the aftermath of flying down the face of an eight footer, my fears overcome and adrenaline released, I had pure joy from riding gigantic waves of liquid energy.  The whole process is addicting.  There´s a famous quote by Miki Dora that goes

"My whole life is this one wave. I drop into it, set the whole thing up, pull off the bottom turn, pull up into it, and go for my life... going for broke, man. And behind me, all the shit goes over my back: The screaming parents, teachers, police, priests, politicians, knee boarders, windsurfers. They're all going over the falls, headfirst into the reef. Splat. And I'm shooting for my life and if it starts to close out, I pull out to the bottom and out to the back. And I pick up another one and do the same goddamn thing."

NICARAGUA

The lodge was situated in a remote village only recently turned tourist area, amongst a diverse cast of expat and local characters.  Tucked away behind just one impassable dirt road, life was basic but colorful in our little beach pueblo of 380 people. 

Nicaragua is second only to Haiti in poverty level in the northern hemisphere. The pay in our village averaged $5usd per day for a full days work; most worked six days a week, ten hours a day. Most women bear children by the late teenage years.  All the coffee was, sadly, instant coffee.  If the swell was peaking during a big high tide, the ocean practically flooded the streets.  You could eat fresh Pargo Rojo every day.  Showering well was a near impossibility.  We washed our clothes in the sink. Pigs and Cattle littered the streets and beaches. Once a cow was fatally electrocuted by a fallen power line. 

As the sun faded, a big crowd of locals gathered around the bloodied animal, concerned, shocked, and discussing what was to be done.  It wasn´t until nightfall that they all turned to each other and simultaneously burst out laughing.  "Vamos a comer la rez entonces;" I guess we´ll have some beef. 

Power outages were frequent, and there were only a few generators in town, just one pulperia, and a village of fisherman who rise at 4am and sleep by 8pm. Howler monkeys sounded unseen from the trees.  Gigante ran on rice and beans, which is called Gallo Pinto when sauteed together in a pan with vegetables.  This was included in just about every dish. 

The locals were constantly trying to learn to speak English, though struggled greatly, as they were not nearly as efficient as the institutionalized learners from the first world.  In fact, most hadn´t schooled past the fifth grade.  The fast and rhythmic campesino dialect made re-learning basic spanish tedious, and anything beyond that nearly impossible.  With the nearest police station over 50km away, the sense of lawlessness was very real.  There may have been a cocaine problem.  Everyone kept their machetes sharpened.  Gringos were targets of thieves.

The wind was offshore most days, all day, and there are points, reefs, and beaches all within boating distance.  The intense sun burns in a matter of minutes, and with time, deeply tans skin and bleaches your hair.  This will caused some locals to mistake me for German.

REALITY AND FREEDOM

In the end, the reality of the surf guide job wasn´t quite so romantic as the idea.  As I learned, surf guides seldom make any money at all, and tend to work 12 hour days, switching between cook, waiter, electrician, plumber, brick layer, painter, ding repair man, deck hand, boat captain, translator, general manager, and finally, surf guide, on a daily basis.  Surfing is more of an afterthought to coordinating lunches and setting up massages.  It became a delicate balance between the luxury of surfing and working a shit job. 

After two months at a grueling pace, I was more exhausted than a bedridden fat lady halfway through the Boston Marathon.  I had a right shoulder impingement from overuse from paddling, enough lactic acid in my lattisimus dorsi to acidify a ten ton tank of wine, and scars from cuts that healed while immersed in salt water, which now resemble craters on the moon.  The weight of the job had become intolerable in light of my waning ability to surf.  It was time for me to leave.

Sad as I was to leave the beautiful breaks of Nicaragua,  inwardly I was bubbling with excitement and anticipation.  As a surfer, quitting any job is the best thing you could possibly do for yourself. "Unemployed" is the job title which reigns supreme in my book. 

I spent a few more weeks in the area working on barrel riding and, learning how to live cheaply on my own terms, and finally, exploring a spot further north, which is frequently described as "boardbreaking," and "empty."  It was ironically during this period that I scored the best barrel of my trip yet; maybe all that research is starting to pay off.  

I was riding the 5'10 Xanadu Groveler.  I dropped in to a nice long walled-up wave and immediately the lip just heaved over me.  It was barreling too fast, all at once, briefly closing out; curtains of water threw out, over, and down way out in front of me and I was left riding in a big hollow enclosure of white sea foam and brown sediment.  But I was prepared; I had already chosen the right line and anticipated the barrel.  I got low and anticipated charging through at full speed, then amazingly it opened right back up and I looked at the now-peeling lip from inside the tube.  A quick pump up and I outran the barrel to the shoulder as the wave folded and spat and the barrel dissolved behind me.

Meanwhile I´ve formulated plans, huge plans, one of extended vagabonding accross oceans to lands of epic reef barrels and european women and cheap beer.  I´m laughing; I frequently spend time alone in a corner with a maniacal grin and hushed, secret chuckles, as I realize the epicness of my life.

Photo: El Alacràn.  Where I slept for two months.

Photo: Dale´s boat-building project construction site, also my "front yard" at El Alacràn.  Lets just say, I never needed an alarm clock.

Photo: Please do not ask me where this wave is.  I suppose you could probably bribe me to tell you.

Photo:Shine Rilling, a man rooted in sound diet, high-art tube riding, and native american religious practices.  A very inspiring man to surf with.

Photo: Keeping the mind sharp.

Photo: This guy had the thickest, dirtiest New Jersey accent I´ve heard in a long, long time.  He eerily resembled my Uncle from New Jersey, who spent his time chasing waves around the globe like me.

Photo: A toñar en Leòn.