My Time Nicaragua

I woke up before the alarm went off. Twice. Excited by the prospect of leaving Maine and my desperately small college behind in search of waves and 70 degree nights on the Nicaraguan coast, I forgot to brush my teeth as I grabbed my backpack and checked for the essentials: passport, wallet and camera. Like an overexcited 11 year old coming home from his first sleepover, I fell asleep in the passenger seat of Dan's Highlander somewhere north of Portland on our drive towards Logan Airport. Just in case our excitement hadn't fully manifested in my near sleepless night filled with fantasies of playing in the surf and eating fish, we arrived at the airport four hours early.

Traveling with only our backpacks and boards, we passed through customs in Managua without a question about our destination or return flight. After a two and a half hour cab ride on dirt roads through Nicaraguan pastures and farmland, we got our first glimpse of the arid shoreline and heard the first clap of swell rolling in across the Pacific. For the next week and a half, two of my closest friends (my sixth-grade locker partner Will and my college roommate Dan) and I played like lost boys.

Disconnected from computers, cell phones, and work, we wandered the beaches of Nicaragua. At high tide we surfed. During the heat of the day we hid in hammocks in the shade. When our restlessness got the better of us, we scrambled to the thundering waves of the sea across the beach's sweltering sand only to return to the protection of our hammocks after force-filtering a few gallons of salt water through our sinuses. Hundreds of miles away from the nearest umbrella-protected drink, we ate our fill of fish and beans and rice. We talked with Ex-pats and Euros over the cheap national beer about books, life and waves as stars rose, uninfected by light pollution.

Cows roamed the beaches, running from whitewater and picking at pieces of washed-up debris in search of food.

To quote Johnny Utah, "Nice Point break. Long Workable Rides."

Dan watching the waves close out at high tide.

The trustful watchdog.

Some deceased mollusk.

Will points to a set of waves pitching upwards like frost heaves on a New England country road.

Twenty years of civil wars and numerous campaigns for land reform left the coast line peppered with vacant houses and undeveloped stretches of land. For better or worse, the turbulent political and economic climate in Nicaragua has kept development of the coastline to a bare minimum.

In the distance white spray marks the peeling of waves on the reef.

A Nica line fisherman.

Our arrows in their quiver.

Two lost boys walking down the beach towards a reef break.

My hair got lighter and my skin darkened as the salt, sand and sun penetrated everything I had. Adhering to the, "No News is Good news" ethos, I went incommunicado.

Barefoot, we ran down the beaches excited by the sound of waves and motivated by the heat of the sand.

A horse at sunset.

As the sun set, Will and I walked out on a point to watch waves crash in. Scrambling around tidepools we edged our way farther out on the rocks. In the distance, Dan hooted as he dropped in on a waist-high wave.

"I caught my first tube today, sir" Will yelled back at Dan as he bent over and fingered a flat stone out of a crack. With a deft flick of the wrist, he skipped the stone across the tide pool towards the sinking sun. I was on vacation.

Here are some more links,
Right By the Beach (Picasa),
Lost Boys on the Beach of Nicaragua (Picasa).

Surfing in 38 Degree Water

With the limited dexterity afforded by 3 mm neoprene mittens, I pull the hood of my wet suit over my head and gingerly run into the knee-high whitewater. The first bite of the 38° water seeps through a hole in my left booty. I keep wading as the cold water circulates around my foot and slowly warms.

Brown peppers the whitewater as an overhead wave crashes in four feet of water. In an act of desperation, I try to jump over the wave but am swept off my feet. Searing cold stings the small circle of exposed skin around my eyes and mouth as I hit the water and struggle to hold onto my board. I quickly regain my footing, take one step, jump onto my board and start paddling with purpose in the brief window between waves.

Dan observing a point break at high tide through a pair of vintage Vuarnets.

Focusing on each pull of my stroke, I paddle out of the last of the whitewater. Through the thick neoprene of my hood I hear Dan excitedly shriek, "Set," and dig deep like a terrorist in the mountains Pakistan. (For those unfamiliar with the proper nomenclature, set refers to a series of abnormally large waves.) Spitting saltwater on my board, I look up and see the the shadows of wave gaining shape. Four strokes, I have four strokes before I dive under the wave, I tell myself as I turn it up to 11. Three strokes later, I look up to see a wave cresting and immediately kick with my left foot to steer me towards the remaining smooth section of the wave.

Cresting the wave, my sense of accomplishment evaporates as I see a wall charging towards me like a drunk 20 year old girl towards an unclaimed box of pizza. Realizing my chances of making it over the looming wave are as slim as my chances of being a professional lineman, I ditch my board and swim towards the sand. The wave breaks over me with a hollow crash and I tumble around like the marble in spray paint can. Clenching my nose and eyes, I wait for the buoyant 5 mm wet suit to pull me to the surface.

Gasping for air, I pull my board in by the leash and regain my bearings. With no imminent waves in sight, I breath a sigh of relief and paddle out towards Dan sitting some twenty yards away.

"That last one looked fun..." Dan said.

"What did you say?" I ask as I catch my breath and slide onto a sitting position on my board.

"You got pwned by the last wave," he yells as he scans the horizon for sets of incoming waves.

For the next forty minutes we swim in the frigid water, catching the large sets and chatting the way two content friends do whilst enjoying a mutual pastime. The occasional Mainer walks by, stops for an instant, shakes their head with a chuckle and continues down the deserted Maine beach.

The hole in my left booty and right glove eventually gets the better of me and I bid farewell to Dan and paddle in. Immediately after leaving the water, the sun warms my black suit and I run to the car to change and grab my camera.

I will always remember the solitude and excitement of surfing in 38° water on beach breaks along the Maine Coast.

Here are some more links,
Surfing in 38 Degree Water (Picasa).

Surfing after Sunset

Last weekend, Virginia declared a state of emergency and Atlantic City flooded. For a Maine surfer dedicated enough to don a thick wetsuit, booties and gloves, news like this means one thing: waves are coming to Maine like the British to the Falklands in '82.

I spent the weekend cramped in a car with four college students and our surfing gear, driving around the Maine coast in search of the optimum pit. Unlike other parts of the Northeast, Maine's coastline is relatively unexplored by surfers. An inherent sense of exploration combined with the intensity of surfing when it's freezing out creates an experience few will ever enjoy.

On Sunday evening we ran into the water twenty minutes before sunset on an exposed shore break northeast of Bath. After two tries I made it past the whitewater and thundering waves, finally stopping my feverish paddling 75 yards from the beach. Looking around I spotted my two roommates evenly spaced 100 yards apart bobbing around in the white caps.

For thirty minutes I bobbed around the waves in my own world, observing curious seals and catching the tastiest waves. As time marched on, the sun sunk toward the horizon, bringing a warm light to the low fog.

As the last rays illuminated the fall sky, I paddled in and sat on the beach. One by one my roommates followed the waves into the beach and we congregated at the edge of the surf. We swapped stories as the foam from the whitewater shot around us.

(Spencer Philips took this picture)

We lay on our backs until the first stars of the night shined through the low fog. Who says you have to surf in the summer?

Here are some links,
Surfing at Sunset (Picasa).