Chicahua

I'm sitting on my board, submerged up to my chest in water, forty feet or so beyond the end of the breakwater that extents out from the sun baked collection of wooden shacks that calls itself Chicahua, one of only two surfers in the calm, glassy, grey-blue water. As the first collection of smaller waves from the set begin to roll in I begin paddling for the horizon, only too aware from the previous beatings that I have taken in the same spot that the bigger, more powerful waves will be arriving shortly; terrifying, but predictably peeling uniformly and perfectly off the point in the light offshore winds.

A testimonial to my learning curve, a huge bulge of water suddenly rises out of nowhere as, beneath the surface a hundred feet away, the sea bottom suddenly rises up from the depths; the pulse of swell that has traveled for hundreds of miles trips over its own feet as, my mind completely numb, I paddle towards the shore, my back to the growing 10 foot face of water. A quick glance over my shoulder tells me that my guesswork has paid off and, this time, I'm in the right spot for a takeoff.

I can feel the force take the tail of my board and kick me forwards as, within a second, the surface of the water drops away, leaving me looking down a dizzying drop. The roar of water in my ears builds as I cease paddling for a second to feel that the wave has me and then, without thinking, plant my hands on the rail of my board, straighten my arms and hoist myself into a crouch, poised over the precipice. For a brief moment I teeter on the brink until suddenly, gravity takes over and with a quick glance in either direction I make the drop, screaming down the face of the wave faster than I've ever been and shift the weight to my back foot, digging my rail into the water and carving a hard turn up, up, up towards the lip of the wave that I can see beginning to curl in the corner of my eye. Twisting my shoulders, I drop my hand below me to brush the water and twist my body hard, feeling the board snap around underneath me as I carve back away from the top of the wave to look down into an even bigger, steeper drop than the first.

Suddenly, I'm four hundred metres from the takeoff, kicking out of the back of the dying wave as the section closes out, eight, maybe even nine turns carved into it behind me. Impulsively, I let out a huge shout at the wide, sweeping bay and the distant, hazy forest covered hills as the adrenaline and seratonin sweep through my body in a moment, leaving me with the long, long paddle back to the point.


Chicahua
Monday 13th April 2009