Surfing with Bull sharks (Hugh; more for my own memory so you may want to skip this)

On our various boat trips, I had been enjoying admiring the various breaks that we passed with Roberto our guide.

Shorebreak

It was not long before we discovered a mutual interest in surfing. He is a recent convert, having only surfed for 4 months, but his tutor is one of the young captains here, also called Roberto (“El Pelican”), who is a big wave surfer. The coast around here boasts occasional breaks of up to 7 metres, although you have to be prepared for the odd encounter with bull sharks. Needless to say, overcrowding is not a problem. Another captain, Oscar, also surfs and the three of them go out after work, between 4pm and dark. You can see where my mind was going.

We hatched a plan. We were to meet at 430 on Thursday night, down by the boat. A bit overexcited, I was at the agreed spot, but no one showed. Finally, rather late, a breathless Roberto arrived to report that the hotel owner (a yank) had got wind of the plan and stuck his oar in, not happy with the hotel’s liability. This, despite a note from me to the Manager taking full responsibility for my own actions and formally absolving the hotel of any liability. I was pretty mad, not being a great fan of the moronic American approach to matters of this sort - had I come to some grief, this is not a case which even the great Barney Branston would have picked up with any relish.

Not a happy chappy

After a bit of searching I found the owner later that night and gave him a piece of my mind. Such a shame to find this blight here in such an otherwise perfect place, and a totally counterproductive state of mind. So I am not allowed to go surfing, but when I hurt myself through no fault of the hotel doing a formally organised activity e.g. bitten by a snake on a walking tour, or, as could well have happened the next day, I drown when sent off unaccompanied on a morning’s sea kayaking in 3 metre waves, I sue the hell out of everyone I can see. Not my style but I guess he wasn’t to know.

Things look up the next afternoon, when Roberto’s smiley face appears from a hole in the bushes across the pool from us, indicating that a covert surfing trip is on the cards. I grab my rash vest, kiss the family goodbye, and leg it down to the beach. There are four of us, the usual team and me. I am lent a board, Roberto’s 6’5 short board, while he takes his spare. The 3 others are super-excited – it is supposed to be the biggest swell so far this year. Pelicano had been past Rio Claro earlier and reports 3-4 metre waves, the biggest that he has ever seen there. Given that he lives here, this is clearly going to be quite a big day. I am getting worried that I have overcooked my “chat”.

We head for Rio Boscio, the next bay along from the hotel. We are in Roberto’s “lancha”, a tiny boat with me perched on the prow.



It takes 10 minutes or so, then we arrive. Roberto gives me a mini-briefing. There are bull sharks here, he says, and he was “bumped” by one a few weeks ago, leaving him with a scratch on his shin. Another had an encounter with a 3 metre bull shark a few weeks before, legged it to the beach and had to be picked up by boat. These sharks are notoriously aggressive and a couple of years ago accounted for 2 policemen lost crossing a river down at Sirena. The drill if you see one is to shout very loudly and make a shark fin with your hand on your head, a signal I have probably not used since the heady days of “Downtown Manhattan” in Oxford. Before we plop over the side, everyone smears a little gasoline into their shins – bull sharks don’t like the taste apparently.

Each then settles to the task of waxing and scraping, then one by one we pop over the side and paddle off to the break. You can see, from the back at least, what looks like an immense wave, breaking from left to right. We are paddling, in silence, 50 or so yards apart. Total silence. I am Mike Parsons in the opening scene of “Billabong Odyssey” the best 3 minutes in the history of cinematography (it’s on Youtube). Just the sound of the water as I paddle, and the roar of the shorebreak in the distance.

A couple of locals are already in the water and we swap “yeehaas”. All these guys are really friendly, keen to show a gringo their waves, not resentful of new heads in the line-up. Looking back as the waves march in, they are absolutely terrifying, and Roberto, Oscar and I hang back as Pelicano and the locals get involved. It turns out that Roberto is not at all experienced, and has no intention of touching any of these waves. Oscar is similarly shell-shocked, but I haven’t come 3000 miles just to hang back and watch. After a good while pondering how to go about this. I finally pluck up courage, paddle in and catch one.

I just remember looking down this wonderful smooth surface from the peak – it feels like I am looking down at the base of the wave out of a first storey window. And then I am standing up, but I’m too slow, and the board is literally sucked from my feet and disappears beneath me. I see it go into the water nose first and say my prayers, as I am surely going to land straight onto the rear, three fins into my backside. But this doesn’t happen – goodness where the board went, but I disappear into the depths of the tube and am rolled around for what seems like minutes before I am spat out. I look up, and I am only yards from the beach, then turn out to sea and see the next monster on its way in. I grab the board, and paddle like a man possessed out to sea, desperate to get back out before I am munched. I make it, but only just. The wave is breaking, I use my newly perfected duck dive, and dive down, as deep as I can. It’s just deep enough. I feel the wave plucking at my ankles but not hard enough to pull me back with it. I am back in the lineup.

Hardly a confidence building experience, but I am still in one piece, and during the next hour or so, try two more times. I never properly get up. The next attempt sees me stand up too soon and the wave passes underneath me. The third attempt is almost as gnarly as the first, but on a smaller wave and I don’t get so badly mauled. I am luckier than one of the locals, Samuel, whose board is snapped clean in two. The whole experience is just something else, though, and I need to get better, come back and do this again. The camaraderie in the boat on the way back is good laddish fun – my appalling Spanish proving good enough to join in. As we approach the hotel beach, we must return through the surf, and I am told to hold on tight. Pelicano guns the engine, gives it maximum revs then checkins through the rocks to beach the boat a good 10 yards up from the high tide mark. This manoeuvre is called “la pista” and avoids having to carry the boat up the beach. Good fun, but I don’t think it would go down so well with some of the older hotel guests.

We went again the next day, 430pm at the beach. Again no success on my part, and I get really badly mauled twice. Both times I was trying to catch some smaller waves nearer the beach and just didn’t see big sets coming in time. The first time I used my duck dive, but couldn’t get deep enough, and as the wave curls over me, I feel myself become part of the curl itself, am pulled over on my back, and just hold on to the board for dear life. I don’t know how long it takes, but finally I feel the beach on my backside, stand up, and am in ankle deep water. And that was holding onto the board. What would have happened if I’d lost the board, goodness knows.

I am not good enough to be here, nowhere near, so spend the next 10 minutes or so watching the others. Some of the locals are seriously good. At least I got out of the boat though. Oscar, very wisely perhaps, stayed resolutely put. I think he will live longer than the other guys.