‘Surfing is not a sport, it’s a disease’ said my friend Dom the other day, on Facecrack. Here’s an example:
It’s our last night in Panama. It’s dark. We’re sleeping. I say sleeping. For fiscal reasons, the trip has not been as restful as we expected. Aside from five luxurious nights on the Caribbean, in bunkbeds in a dorm shared with six other people, we have been roughing it. At first we used tents, but then Becky had a snake in hers. A small Boa. She was lucky it wasn’t a Fer de Lance – the venomous, aggressive version of Boas, known as Ekees by the locals, their name for the letter X.
So we moved into hammocks. At first we put the tents up beside the hammocks, to put our stuff in – money and passports, that kind of thing. Then we ran out of money and couldn’t be bothered to put the tents up, so it was just us and the stars and the driftwood fires we cooked on, morning noon and night. There are advantages to running out of money. We re-mapped the night sky, for one thing. There was the machete, the coconut, the pelican (I had to work to win Becky over to that one), the cafe con leche (that one, too). There is something about naming your own night sky. This was the northern hemisphere (just). Since returning, when I step outside my shed and spot the machete smiling down at me I am reminded that the whole tropical thing was actually real and not a dream. Then I quickly go back inside and sit huddled by the fire, watching endless repetitions of Nashville and weeping.*
But that night I was still on holiday. Only I wasn’t sleeping. Not just the usual kind of not sleeping you do in hammocks in the jungle – a sort of half-sleep, with one mammalian inner eye always alert to the weird sounds the crabs, iguanas, racoons, potential jaguars, howler monkeys etc make and the other mammallian inner eye alert to the fact that one’s feet are accidentally wrapped around one’s head. But this night I am really not sleeping. I am listening to the sound of waves breaking. Swell has arrived. We’ve been waiting for it. Now it’s here. And we’re leaving.
My third mammalian inner eye knows that the perfect wave that has caused us to set up house under this almond tree in the jungle and that has been a little too small thus far, is only surfable at high tide, because of rocks. I’ve already had some interactions with these rocks and do not wish to have any more. We have no watches, phones or other devices and yet, judging by the position of the machete in the night sky, and using my fourth mammalian inner eye, I think it’s probably about 3.30am. It takes forty five minutes to walk up the beach to the wave, due to difficult terrain. I know that if we wait until it’s light it’ll be too late. I’m convinced that if we go now we’ll get there just before dawn. We’ll be in the sea at first light and catch some of the swell before the tide drops out and we have to go and catch our plane. I glance across at Becky. She is sleeping. It’s night.
‘Becky’ I hiss, wondering if I’m doing the right thing.
She is not sleeping.
‘I’m going to go for a surf, do you want to come?’
Becky looks at me, through one of her actual eyes.
‘I think I heard a cockerel crow.’
This is not true.
‘Okay’ says Becky, and gets up out of her hammock. She is already wearing her bikini.
I love my friends. I really, really love my friends.
An hour later we arrive at the wave. It’s a delicious, perfect, peeling right-hand point. We think it’s breaking. We think it’s quite good (bigger). We don’t know for sure, because we can’t really see it. It’s still night. Luckily there is a moon. There is no sign of first light. I convince Becky there won’t be any sharks (I have no fear of sharks, simply because I have never seen one and am therefore unsure they actually exist. Becky has seen a few and possesses a healthy fear.)
Sharks come out at night. We get in anyway.
There is no wind. The surface of the sea looks like black oil. I can just make out the rocks as I paddle over them, glowing green in the moonlight. I have no idea where I am in relation to the land. I have no idea where the waves are breaking. I find out by getting nailed. Getting nailed in the dark requires me to use my most fish-like senses – my skin, my lack of breath. I can’t use my eyes. I am totally disorientated. Back on the surface, I am still totally disorientated. I try to catch waves. It’s a game of chance, but I luck into a couple. It’s just like those trust games, when you fall backwards and hope somebody will catch you. I paddle and hope I’m in the right place. I have no idea. I try to feel when to jump to my feet. Time slows down.
Back at the camp a few hours later it is still night. I realise my fourth mammlian inner eye was mistaken. There is no sign of first light. We are eating porridge, cooked on a driftwood fire.
‘The best part was watching you’ said Becky. ‘Like a negative photograph.’
I knew exactly what she meant. Soon after we paddled out, while I was still trying to get my bearings, I saw Becky take off on a steep, head high wave. She looked like a superhero. Which is why we do it. Obviously.
We go to sleep. Again. When we wake up it’s day. And the wind has gone onshore.
And the moral of that story is – if it’s good at night, don’t wait till morning.
*Obviously I don’t really watch Nashville – far too cool.