It looked perfect on the charts–every ingredient coming together for hollow sand-bottomed tepees. Swell not too big, not too small, just head high, morning high tides–prime for the spot in question. But my target was a good day’s travel away, from one end of Nicaragua to the other. A 300km journey might not sound particularly arduous, but as anyone who has travelled in these parts will testify, you will quickly discover that things just happen as they happen. A good rule of thumb is to take your predicted time frame and double it. That’ll give you a more realistic ETA.
I dragged myself and all 25kgs of my board bag through Managua, fending off taxi drivers and vendors selling me anything from fruit to empanadas and hard drugs. I declined all three for I had another bus to catch, on the other side of town. I spotted one of the less aggressive drivers, who promptly stepped into gear, took my board bag and shoved it through the back, securing it with a tattered length of string. Good to go.
After another taxi, another bus and one more taxi, I arrived in Northern Nicaragua, sweaty, smelly, and with the frazzled brain one can only achieve after a day’s travel in 35°c heat and stifling Central American humidity. I ditched my things into a dingy, nearly empty dormitory, a long wooden-clad room containing five beds in a row along one wall. The power was out and the en-suite bathroom came with a stinking stagnant pool of water. Guess that’s what $10 a night gets you. I ordered a Pollo a la Plancha from the restaurant downstairs, then collapsed on my bed and passed out.
Later that night an ear-splitting crack woke me suddenly and as I opened my eyes, a flash illuminated the dormitory. The rain pounded on the tin above my head and then again, another flash. Another crack. This one even louder than the last. Despite nature’s cacophony outside, the room was stifling. The electricity had been cut off hours ago and the lifeless silhouette of my fan stood at the foot of my bed, mocking me as sweat poured from my brow. So with no chance of sleep, I ventured out onto the balcony for a front-row seat to Mother Nature’s nighttime screening.
I clambered into a hammock, wrapped a sheet around me as a mosquito shield and watched the show. Lighting bolts stabbed at the surrounding jungle and the rain hammered down relentlessly, interrupted only by the occasional thundercracks. Eventually, with the cool of the breeze and the spray of the rain, I was lulled to sleep.
A few hours later, I was awoken before daybreak by a man shaking my shoulder. As my eyes flickered open, I saw him swaying, struggling to stay on his feet on the hostel balcony. “Discuple, teine un Cervezas?” (Translation: Excuse me, do you have beers? “What?” I replied in English. “Seinto, no hablo Espanol” (Translation: Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish. He was pissed off his head, swaying and lolling his head as he stood there–looking just as perplexed as I was.
I didn’t know how to say “fuck off it’s 5 am”, in Spanish, so I shrugged and went about getting ready to surf. I grabbed two surfboards, shoved some wax and water in a plastic bag, and headed to the beach. Even in the pre-dawn twilight, imposing cumulonimbus packed the sky and the jungle hung sodden and limp around me as I paced down the dirt track toward the beach. I marched on, board under each arm, and massive anticipation for what the day could bring. With any luck, it would be spitting a-frame tubes, breaking right on the shore.
I strode through twist after twist, bend after bend before, eventually, I reached a clearing. coming into a clearing, and someone’s home. A man, with one arm, and bulging eyes came out, presumably to berate me for trespassing on his property. But before he had the chance, I raised my palm apologetically and with a combination of Spanglish and hand signals, I asked him the correct route to the beach. “Disculpe, Donde Esta la Playa Sinor? (Translation: Excuse me, where is the beach sir)?
He pointed through a small field, which I promptly followed to another track. This path, however, was even more overgrown than the last, with the jungle foliage arching out over the track. It looked as if no one had walked the track for years. This can’t be the way. But I pushed on, eager to find the waves I had come so far to find. The air was damp and came with a whiff of salt water and seaweed. I must be close. Mosquitoes ate me alive as I walked, and with a board under each arm, I was left defenceless and at the mercy of the little vampires. And the track just kept going and going and going. How far could this fucking place be?
Suddenly, a vicious bark cut through the morning still, as two dogs came running out from a nearby shack, bearing teeth and salivating at me. Oh no. I hastily retreated, stepping back into the undergrowth, cracking sticks and disturbing whatever critter’s home I had just invaded. The dogs ran at me, stopping just metres away and continuing their verbal assault.
Barking, bearing teeth and edging their way toward me again. We then entered a standoff.
But they kept coming and with a surge of adrenaline and in fight or flight mode, I stepped toward them, kicking some dust and sticks in their direction, screaming “Raaaagh” as I did so. They scuttled back for a moment, then resumed their attack. Barking, bearing teeth and edging their way toward me again. We then entered a standoff.
Over my shoulder, I spotted a large concrete block standing about chest height. That should give me a solid height advantage. Keeping my face toward them, I stepped back further into the undergrowth and edged around the block so that it now stood between us–ready to haul myself to safety. The block was a concrete electricity box, with a lid overhanging the top, so it would be awkward to scramble, but I had no choice. What I would do after, was anyone’s guess. My only option would be to wait long enough so that the dogs became bored or went about attacking some other unwitting foreigner who was stupid enough to walk the same track. Ok, one big jump and that will get me up there.
But just as I went to place my hands on the lid, I saw to my horror, that a snake had curled itself under the lid. My heart did its best to spring out from under my ribs and my hands began to shake violently. While I didn’t have time to check, it was long enough to wrap around both ends of the block, and I couldn’t see either end. I sprung backwards, almost falling as I did. Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with this fucking place?
The snapping sticks as I stumbled back only provoked the dogs further, who were now at the edge of the path. With a moment’s pause and an extra surge of adrenaline pulsing through my veins, I reached for a stick, and ran at the dogs in a sprint, smacking it on the ground and screaming as I did so. One backed off but the other came at me again, so I swiped the stick right before it and kicked some more dust in its face.
Eventually, I edged around them, keeping my weapon and facing toward them until I backed up the track and lost sight of them. If that’s what you have to go through to get a surf in these parts, I don’t care how good the waves are, I don’t want a bar of it. There must be another route. I headed back along the main street and found an alternative route, this one less overgrown and would be the one that took me to the beach. It was one of the more interesting warm-ups I’ve done for a surf. This path wound on and on in the same manner as lizards and crabs scuttled into the jungle on either side of me and mosquitoes continued their fleshy feast upon my arms. But this time, there were no dogs, and this time, I found myself at the beach.
I stepped out onto the long expanse of jet-black sand and looked out toward the ocean. The tide was a touch low, and the overnight storm had somewhat messed up what would have been an organised long-period swell. The rain continued to patter around me, and I took refuge under a tilapa in front of the main peak. Damp, itchy and very much awake, thanks to the canine-induced adrenaline spike, I watched a few sets peak up along the shore–most of which ran too fast to make. But things were looking up, the storm was passing and the wind had already begun to puff offshore. A touch more tide, and an hour or so of strong offshore and things would come good. In fact, it would be more than good, later it would be firing.
Within half an hour, tepee wedges began to pop up, along the beach and with no one out yet, I waxed up and paddled out. The water was bathtub warm and I paddled around the line-up, in and out of rips, hunting for one of the wedges I had seen from the beach. There was a little backwash and most peaks still closed out, but if you were patient enough, you could find some gems. I pulled into some closeouts, racking up my fair share of vision, before getting one runner, that let me both inside and back out of. An insignificant wave by mot’s barrel riding standards, but for me, it made the trip. And for a moment, after that ride, I had forgotten about the morning’s ordeals.
I surfed for hours until the sun rose to boiling point and the wind swung onshore. Exhausted, I headed back down the track, through the gauntlet of sand flies and mosquitoes–the sun roasting me even through the canopy, sweat poured down my face and the volcanic sand clung to my skin.
It had been a wild night and even wilder morning, I had slept little, fought off dogs, and almost disturbed a serpent, but eventually, I did find waves, and hollow ones at that. The afternoon drew out long and hot and heavy… and the heat rendered my normally overactive hyper-productive brain into mush, so I spent many hours laying in a hammock, mindlessly scrolling Instagram and scribbling in my notebook.
The following few days, took a turn for worse, as a dipping swell met more storms, more rain and onshore winds–a peculiar pattern in a region known for its clockwork offshore/onshore. The storms provided only narrow windows of opportunity between each storm front and high tide. I tried to surf, whenever I could, battling the onshores and forcing a surf whenever conditions allowed. But ultimately it wasn’t working. I was fighting a losing battle. I had already gotten what I had come for, albeit only a small taste, but with the forecast looking marginal at best for the foreseeable, I packed up and headed north out of Nicaragua. North for El Salvador, with a few tubular visions and another story to tell the grandkids one day.
