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Stories

TheReef Posted by MalPaisTico on 6/18/2001, 3:31 pm 208.15.16.8

Because of the persisent seasonal flat spell, I've had time to write a few short stories lately. This one is entitled "The Reef." Below is the first part of the story. If anyone is interested, I'll post the rest as the week goes by. MPT ------- The Reef I finally found the break. I had been driving south for 30 minutes when I came upon the sign with the arrow saying "La Playa 10 kms." I drove for another 15 minutes and came to a fork in the road with a sign saying "La Playa 8 kms." What gives with these distance measurements? I suddenly laughed out loud. Obviously, Central American kilometers were much like miles in my native rural North Carolina. These were "country kilometers," where a couple of kilometers probably meant about 5 miles. About 20 minutes prior, I had put the rental Toyota 4-Runner in four wheel drive, to better negotiate the road, now a mud track, moistened by the thunderstorm the night before. I had to routinely spray the windshield with washer fluid and give the wiper blades a chance to clear my field of vision. Mud was beginning to dry on the hood, the side windows, and probably the top of the truck, after the sideways slide I had just endured, where I felt certain the truck had "bottomed out," a term that is a technical way of saying "get stuck." But I was finally here. I had been trying to get to this particular break ever since I had seen it in a surf publication about 10 years ago. Up until today, I had almost exclusively surfed beach breaks all my life, occassionally venturing out at rocky points and sand/rock breaks on my surf travels. But today, I was going to paddle out to a full-fledged, world class reef break, wait for the set waves, summon all the testicular fortitude I can muster, and hurl myself over the ledge. I had felt the butterflies multiplying in my stomach the night before, as I told my wife I would be fulfilling a lifelong dream tomorrow. Let me interject at this point in the yarn that I am by no means a "world class surfer." I have, to my credit, a little more than twenty years experience under my belt. That's twenty years of East Coast surfing experience. As Randy Rarick, a great big-wave rider from Hawaii puts it, I suffer from ECD, or "East Coast Disease," an ailment that afflicts the geographically and meterologically-challenged, causing them to call a 5' wave double-overhead. If you take all surfers with twenty or more years of surf experience and rank them, I feel confident I would fall somewhere well south of the fifty percentile. I drove along the crude wooden fence that bordered the rental cabinas and bar that made up the compound overlooking the break. There was a small clearing in the path ahead, and a compact rental SUV was parked there. I pulled up to the space next to the compact and shut off the engine. My bowels turned to ice water, as I suddenly was stricken with fear. What if the reef is sharp? How shallow will it be? Will it be urchin-covered? I shook off the fear, thinking back to something I had read recently, but forgetting who wrote it. It said "if you're scared, that's normal, paddle out anyway. But if you're really scared, don't paddle out at all. No shame in sitting a session out. We're out there for ourselves, anyway." I was just scared, so I reached in the back seat for my trunks and towel. Towel? Hey, I'm at the end of the road in a remote spot in Central America, and there's nobody around. So a moment later, I'm standing stark naked by the driver's side door at the edge of the jungle, still craning my neck to get a glimpse of the surf. I quickly don my surf trunks, lock the truck door, and head down the little path where I hear the ocean at the end. As I walk down the path, an iguana sprints across the track, fast enough to startle me. Wow! Boy, am I on edge! I come to the end of the path and see a wonderful site. Here is a little bay, surrounded by lava outcroppings on either side, and a brown sand beach, pockmocked by the drippings of some volcanic explosion within the past million or so years. The water is a bright blue, clear, and glassy. Problem is, there's appears to be no swell.

Re: The Reef Posted by MalPaisTico on 6/19/2001, 8:31 am , in reply to "The Reef <1933.html>" 208.15.16.34

Back by popular demand, the continuing saga of the critically-acclaimed "The Reef:" --------- My fear is replaced with disgust. I just spent a solid hour driving on sketchy third world goat trails to get to a world class reef break at the end of a very remote road and its FLAT! As I stand there with my all-too-typical-ubiquitous-American-look-of-impatience, I see a native walking slowly along the beach, looking down at his feet. I walk up to the approaching young man and bellow out a 'hola,' coupled with a slight wave of my hand. The young man, startled, waves back. I walk closer to the man and I notice that he is somewhere between the ages of 20 and 40 years old. I ask him in my best gringo-accented Spanglish, 'Donde esta la roca del surfear', literally 'where is the reef of the to surf?', hoping this guy has a clue what I'm asking him. He's looks at me puzzled, glances out at the little bay, and humbly says, 'aqui, me amigo'. 'Here, my friend.' At that moment, we both look out to the northern rock outcropping, and a legitimate, headhigh swell starts to feather, then collaspe on itself, forming a perfect, albeit a tad mushy, right hander for about 110 yards, maybe longer. I immediately remember that the tide chart I brought with me for this region had stated that high tide was about 5:45 a.m. this morning. I look at my watch and the time is 5:51 a.m. So its high tide. By the shape of that set wave, this place has the potential I had seen so many times in the surf video I bought off the Internet that included all of three and a half minutes of waves peeling off that headland. Then I suddenly remember that you never, ever, wear a watch to the beach in the wilds of Central America, simply because your timepiece represents a month's living wage for the natives. But this guy doesn't seem interested in robbing me, and if he's a bandito, I feel confident I can defend myself, unless he implausibly pulls out some sort of weapon. I snap out of this train of thought as I notice that my new-found friend is asking me something in Spanish. It sounds like 'de donde es' or something. Is he asking me 'where I'm from?', I think. I answer quickly 'Estados Unidos'. My friend answers, 'si, claro', and does not add, although I'm sure I can read his mind, 'yes, of course you are from the United States.' I hurriedly blurt out an 'adios' as I walk briskly, no, run, back to the rental truck to grab my board. Its already waxed up, a ritual I had performed the previous night as my wife and I watched Seinfield reruns with Spanish subtitles on Sony Entertainment Television, arguably the best channel in Latin America. I slide the board out of the back and pause, running my hand along the rail, contemplating what I'm about to undertake. I sense my pulse rate quickening, as I stash the car key under the back bumper on the driver's side. I jog along the trail leading to the break and as I emerge onto the beach, a wave, maybe headhigh, is crumbling on the reef. I slow my rate of transit down to a stumbling gait, as the beach is littered with rocks. To the left of my present position is a deeper part of the bay, and the sets appear to back off as they approach that portion of the shoreline. I immediately anoint this area as the channel, and walk toward the water's edge, leaning down to attach my leash to my right foot. As I submerge myself in the crystal blue water, I get that all-too-familiar tingling feeling all over my body, the same sensation I get everytime I paddle out somewhere new or into large surf. I've always assumed it was just my body releasing adrenaline, or on a more cosmic and metaphysical level, my spirit detaching from my body. I am definitely in the channel, as another wave peaks and peels off the reef. It is becoming increasingly apparent that what looked to be headhigh on the beach is a touch bigger, and not as mushy as originally categorized. A clean barrel spins off as the wave hits what turns out to be the first of two distinct bowls, transforming a gentle wall into a cylindrical masterpiece for about 20 yards before mutating back into a gently sloping wall for another 20 yards, then hitting another, more shallow, bowl and doing the best impression of a Surfer Magazine Indo reef break cover shot I have ever witnessed. While observing this rare phemonenon, I suddenly realize that my initial fear and apprehension is immediately replaced with wanton desire. I must get inside that wave! I paddle through the channel, easing over a swell and anxious to get to the peak. The swells appear to sense the rock bottom about 75 yards to the north of my present position, so I paddle in that direction. There is an exposed tabletop flat boulder that sits at the northern limit of the bay, and a few yards south begins to look like the prime takeoff point. I aim my board in that direction, paddling, and staring through the crystal clear water and at the fortified, yet relatively benign, bottom. After a few moments of waiting in the lineup, a set looms. This set appears to be about four waves and they are heading directly toward me to begin their self-destruction and releash of pent-up, Southern Hemisphere inspired, energy. I let the first wave go by, intent on waiting for the third or fourth swell before I commit. The second appears to peak a few yards seaward, so I take a few strokes toward the outside. The third swell peaks even further out, and I paddle furiously outside even more. As I paddle over the third swell, an instant before it breaks, I see the hump of water that represents the fourth wave of the set. Something fires in my head and suddenly every fiber of nerve and muscle in my body is in tune with that wave. I turn, paddle three times, and jump to my feet as the blue mound goes concave before releashing its fury onto the reef. The drop is easy and smooth and I gather myself at the bottom, peering down the line. The blue wall is beginning to stand up straighter and I deduce in a millisecond that this wave has a better than average potential to barrel.

The Reef - Conclusion Posted by MalPaisTico on 6/20/2001, 7:00 am , in reply to "Re: The Reef <1951.html>" 208.15.16.25

To read the conclusion of "The Reef," please have $9.95 ready and go to www.fullofbullsh.... Just kidding. Here's the conclusion: ----------- The barrel, or tube ride, is the ultimate manuever in surfing. There is no other aspect of surfing that can provide the same rush or sense of satisfaction. The art of riding inside a breaking wave, then coming out, cannot be duplicated in any other activity. Most barrels, as elusive as they are, last for no longer than a few seconds and a barrel longer than five seconds is considered the benchmark. Any tube ride greater than five seconds is considered epic in all corners of the globe. Every surfer remembers their first tube ride and their longest tube ride, and tube riding is respected among the shortboarders and longboarders alike as the quintessential goal of every session. The chance to ride the tube has literally killed surfers. Everyone wants to spend more time in the barrel. Its that simple. As the wave hits the first bowl and the lip begins to pitch out, I instinctly lean on my inside rail, then quickly shift my weight to the tail, effectively stalling my board. At that moment, the lip pours over me and my field of vision is filled with a parabola of curving water with a distinct exit. I drag my hand, not so much to slow myself further, but to pet the beast I am riding. Time slows as I am mesmorized by the circling water in front of and around me. Then, as suddenly as time has slowed, reality is injected into the situation and I am moving my inside rail higher on the face as I contemplate my escape. A moment and a weight shift later, I am gliding on the shoulder as my body tingles with a sensation that can only be modestly described as euphoric exuberance. A long, slow cutback off the cascading wall later, I am faced with another potential barrel in front of me. As the wave feels the shallows of the second bowl, it stands even straighter as my board begins to accelerate. There will be no need for stalling on this section. I pick the high line and crouch, unconsciously rubbing my right hand along the water. The lip pitches over me and I again experience the view of a breaking wave from the inside. This section of the bowl is not as perfectly cylindrical as the previous section and I watch the pouring lip with heightened attention. I have to generate speed by pumping my board a few times to stay in sight of the the narrowing opening and the light inside the wave becomes darker. I think to myself, I've been inside here for a long time. Concurrently, my mind fills with images of the shallow reef and skin tearing on sharp rock. I am suddenly stricken with an anxiety attack. Its time to head for the door. One more quick pump and I'm miraculously on the shoulder, piloting my board up the wave face and over the back as the wave collaspes upon itself. I instinctly hop off my board, forgetting that I'm surfing over rock reef, not the soft sand of my home beach break. My feet quickly hit solid rock hard as pain shoots through my left heel. To compound the pain, I look down and I am standing in two feet of water, approximately four inches from a purple, spiny urchin about a foot in diameter. Good thing I didn't fall, I quickly think. Next wave, I won't take it this far inside. I hop on my board and paddle to the south about ten yards, finding the channel and the safety of deeper water. As I paddle back out, I relive the wave in my head, thinking about the shallow rock bottom on the inside and how a misstep at any time can lead to a visit to the hospital, about two hours away if I had calculated distance and direction in the Third World correctly. Not a pleasant thought, as I reminisce about an impromptu rendevous between a rock and my head during a Costa Rican visit a few years back, resulting in six stitches at the emergency room in Liberia, a fair-sized town for that part of the world. Suddenly, these negative thoughts are replaced with the reality that I just had two legimate tube rides on one wave. The first tube ride was at least three seconds and the second approached and possibly surpassed the magical realm of the five second tube ride. I suddenly do my best impression of a Vegas oddsmaker and declare that the possibility of another five second tube outweighs whatever superficial cuts I could possibly receive from the reef, as long as I "fall shallow," a term a dubious expatriate from Florida named Frank had taught me while drinking beers and talking story about surfing the Caribbean side of Central America at a bar in Samara. The die is cast and I hurriedly paddle back to the empty lineup, eager to get another perfect wave in this paradise at the end of the road. THE END