A spectacular white fork stabbed the ocean and illuminated the inky night sky. With each flash, the surrounding palms and jungle foliage were silhouetted into a dramatic tropical horror movie. The rain beat down and we huddled under an umbrella too small for two, eagerly awaiting any vehicle that passed. Normally, you can’t walk down this street without being hassled by a Tuk-Tuk driver, but tonight I hadn’t seen one.
Motorbikes and buses sped by, alarmingly quickly for such poor visibility, but then again, no amount of traffic or lack of visibility slows a driver down in these parts. We were waiting along a stretch of coast that is usually, one of Sri Lanka’s best. One complete with wicked restaurants, surf shops, bustling hostels, coconut stalls, and a literal stone’s throw from four different surf breaks. It is a part of the world that combines the tropics, with marvellous food, welcoming locals and the epic user-friendly reef breaks you dream of.
However it was early season, and the same wicked restaurants and bustling hostels were either undergoing renovations or closed–bordered up and empty. We needed Dhal curry and cold beer, and twenty-five-cent coconut rolls. But heck, anything would do at this point. Eventually, a Tuk-Tuk came by and stopped–our shiny red chariot. Dripping wet, we climbed inside and sped toward town. Take us anywhere with food I asked the driver with a smirk. “Okay, Sir!” We reached town and stumbled into the first roadside eatery we found. I ordered as much Roti, and Lion Beer as my crumpled handful of soggy rupees afforded us. It was mission-successful. But I couldn’t say the same for the waves.
We had only just arrived, but I quickly realized that my peaky, azure A-frame dream would not come true this trip. Surfline had predicted 4-6ft of jumbled onshore wind swell, non-stop rain, and thunderstorms. So the next 2 days were even less promising, even for the most optimistic surf venturer such as myself. The next morning, I rose early, eager to catch a glimpse of the waves, although I already knew what to expect. The storm had encroached further toward the coast overnight and I stood looking at a confused capuccino mess of filthy whitewater–a total write-off.
We had been lucky to have made it this far south as many surrounding villages and low-lying areas had been flooded, with highways cut off and homes evacuated. We had only arrived via a series of tiny pot-hole-ridden streets that cut between local villages, and even then, it was touch and go. There would be little surfing happening here, so if the flooding allowed, we had to leave.
Thankfully, the trains, the South Coast’s preferred local transport, were running and with most other roads out of action, it was our last option. Trains in Sri Lanka are typically sweaty, and crowded, and cost less than $1.00 between major cities. Safety doesn’t exist and passengers routinely hang out in the carriages while flying along, with the nonchalants only someone with a lifetime of Sri Lankan train riding could have. Taking surfboards onboard is always fair game, but an arduous task if the train is full. But this time the train was quiet. This time we were lucky.
We rode the train to Hikkaduwa, Sri Lanka’s largest surf town, and checked into a beach-front hotel overlooking the waves. I woke in the pre-dawn twilight and peered out to sea from the balcony. The sky was baby-blue and the ocean a shimmering mirror. The waves were head high and broke top to bottom, with a light offshore combing the faces. There was no one out. Surf check criteria we all love. The spot in question was a fun beach break, not the area’s premier break, but a super fun empty one nonetheless. The sandbar was shallow and the line-up was plagued with closeouts, but the straight-handers were corners and the opportunity for make-able tubes.
I dashed across the beach to where I’d seen a head-high right, rifle across the sand bar, and spit its guts into the channel. I paddled out, stoked to be in the water, stoked it wasn’t raining, and even more stoked I was alone. I fought rips and dodged closeouts, hunting for patches of calmer water and the next promising corner. I pulled into a few closeouts, with no chance of exit–plugging my ears with sand and Indian Ocean.
I gathered my breath as a spectacular sunrise bathed the beach in golden light. I sat for a moment, taking in the moment. This is what you come to Sri Lanka for, ay. Moments later, a right-hand wedge popped up and I scrambled for it. I paddled frantically to get into it, pushing my chin into the nose of my 5’9 Sharp Eye. I just about made the drop and pulled up under the lip. The wave threw over me and I pumped through the unloading section as my world turned circular. I squashed myself down to squeeze out of the pinhole exit, but just as the wave spat, the lip clipped my head and I fell out of the barrel on my back and into the light.
A make? Probably not, Did I care? No. While QS judges might have handed me a 1.00 for my efforts, I came up laughing, stoked I was suddenly surfing a hollow beachie to myself! This was everything I’d come to this wonderful country for and I had forgotten the previous week’s storms and skunkings. I came in that morning, with a wide smile and the sort of relaxed contentedness an avid surf traveller can only achieve after such a morning. What a difference 12 hours and a good surf can make!
