Peru

Day 1

There's nothing like trying to get comfortable on a cold tile floor, especially when it's at an airport. I was enclosed in the steel and glass structure that is the Jorge Flores International Airport in Lima. I just arrived and I was waiting for my traveling buddies to show up. Unfortunately, Ike had to cancel at the last minute as his Dad's heart was failing and he had to fly home to North Carolina. So I was waiting for John Thomas(JT), the only I go I know who is less committal than me, and more down to travel anywhere at anytime. His flight wasn't due in until early the next morning so I had 8 hours to kill at the Lima airport. The thing that always strikes me about large international airports, is that no matter what country they are in, they are like little countries within themselves. Little self contained centers of comfort and security (even if it is false) amidst whatever chaos and squalor might sit just outside the door.

I drifted in and out of dreams as the floor slowly drained the heat away from my body. After a few hours of difficulty I got up to distract myself with other measures. I drank a Cusquena beer, checked my email, and searched for a place to watch the world cup game. A note for any future travelers to Peru, there are no sports bars at the Lima International Airport. I still had a few hours before my flight to Trujillo so I went through security again and found a few seats in a row where I could stretch out and make another sleep attempt. I soon awoke to find JT smiling down at me. It was time for the next flight.

Trujillo is a small to mid sized city on the north central coast of Peru. It is the closest access point to many world class surf breaks along the coast. We planned on renting a car but couldn't find any name brand rental agencies inTrujillo. We just figured we'd find a car rental place when we got there. It turned out there were no car rental places, but there was a guy who seemed to be one of the local fixers who offered us to rent us a Toyota Yaris for $60/day. Instead we opted for a taxi to Chicama which cost us about $40 for the hour long trip. We probably got juiced a bit but that's what happens right out of the airport.

The road leading out of Trujillo is straight up depressing. It's lined with huge piles of debris, brick mostly with slums stretching out on both sides. The cloudy weather hung over us like a blanket as the dirt encrusted desert zoomed by on both sides. Half built and half falling down buildings clouded my vision, soon to give way to the plastic bag encrusted desert which chicken farms. Soon we were driving into a the dusty little fishing town of Punta Malabrigo better known as Chicama which some claim the longest left hand point break in the world. On a good day a surfer can get waves that are more than a mile long, so long in fact that your legs will simply get tired. Instead of paddling back out, it is advised to just get out and walk back up the point.

We found a run down little guest house with a half empty, brackish swimming pool and great views of the point. Cameron had recommended a hostel in Chicama run by a local Peruvian named Alex. I guess Alex had helped him out after Cameron got all his stuff stolen from him at knife point in a town outside of Chicama. Unfortunately when we arrived we were told Alex had moved back to Lima. For some reason I wasn't surprised. Chicama has the feel of a dusty little town where one could start to go crazy for lack of stimulation. It's not just that it's quiet. I've got nothing against quiet. Being out in nature is quiet and yet totally engaging. Chicama on the other hand is nothing but a wind dust blown place comprised of brown dirt, brown water, wind blowing straight offshore, and thousands of plastic bags and other trash sticking to every possible surface. Something about the combination of those things I found a little unsettling.

Perhaps most unsettling were the waves. I'd say it was about 1-3 feet, hardly even worth surfing. I was so tired from lack of sleep I just passed out on my my lumpy mattressed bed. When I woke up it was getting towards evening and decided to wash the dust off with a surf. It was sooooo small and not very good at all. It didn't matter though, cause I knew that a big swell was on the way. At least that is what the surf reports said.

Day 2

JT and I had spoken to a few Uruguayan guys who had been at a point an hour or so north of Chicama in the town of Pacasmayo. They had said that the waves at Pacasmayo were always about twice the size of Chicama. We packed up our stuff and went up there hoping for bigger waves.

Pacasmayo turned out to be a bigger town and we found a great little hostel called Los Faroles. Some surfer had written about in his blog and it looked pretty nice and cheap. Soon we were posted up inside a walled compound, with a clean room, hammocks, a ping pong table, green grass and trees all around. It felt like paradise compared with the wreckage of the country that swelled outside. The place had a few other people staying, all surfers.

The wind was howling but we took the long walk up to the point anyway to get wet. The point is called El Faro (The Lighthouse) because there is a lighthouse that sits out on top of the point. The point itself may not have been as long as Chicama but nevertheless was huge. We paddled out and got some more mediocre waves about chest high, which happened to be out twice the size of Chicama. I wasn't worried though because a big swell was on the way! At least that's what the surf forecast said. It was Tuesday and it was supposed to start hitting on Thursday.

Day 3

The next morning we wake up and take a moto-taxi to a point about 20 minutes south called Poemape. A moto-taxi is the Peruvian version of a Tuk Tuk (for those of you who have been to Southeast Asia). It's a motorcycle on the front with a little tarp covered cab in the back with a bench seat. They're really sketchy and unsafe, but also really cheap and convenient. The waves at Poemape were bigger than El Faro. It was still kind of mushy and weird though. At home, I would have been stoked with point waves like these. But after traveling a few thousand miles I had visions of barrels in my head. I wasn't too concerned though, the epic swell was supposed to hit on Thursday. That's what the swell forecast said.

Day 4

Back down to Poemape. Our moto-taxi breaks a chain just before we get there and I watch with curiosity as our driver Pedro Macgyver's it back together. We get some better surf with some pretty long rides. It's about chest to head high, but still a little warbly and junky. The swell hasn't arrived yet.

After lunch and a nap, JT and I take a walk down to El Faro for some decent surf, about head high, with some rides as long as 200 yards or so. Still, the surf is nothing to write home about. And the water is gross and brown. I don't know if it's because of the brown-dirt desert that surrounds us or if it's pollution or a combination of both. That's ok though, an epic swell was coming. Wait! Shit it's already Thursday and it hasn't gotten here yet.

Day 5

Leave it to surfline, always hyping the swells. It seems like every time a macking swell is supposed to hit it is always getting pushed back in the forecast and when it finally does arrive it's never as big as the forecast projected. I swear I'm gonna send Sean Collins who owns surfline an email complaining about his swell forecasts.

Day 6

It's already Saturday and the Thursday swell forecast is now pushed back to Sunday! God, I'm pissed at that Sean Collins guy! I swear I'm gonna send him bill for my plane ticket! We moto-taxi down to Poemape in the morning and don't surf. It's really junky and bumpy. We head back to Pacasmayo and go for a surf at El Faro. Nothing much to tell you about except I'm giving my paddling muscles a workout paddling back up the point after every wave. US loses to Ghana in the World Cup which sucks too. A busload of Uruguayans show up. They have come from a point up north called Lobitos. They said it was epic but when I look at their pictures it looks no better than what we've been surfing here. I guess when Uruguay is your home break anything looks pretty good. Plus they are all totally pumped up because the Uruguayan National Soccer Team beat South Korea to get to the quarter finals of the World Cup. Maybe I should adopt some Uruguayan spirit.

Day 7

It's still dark. The sun hasn't come up yet and I hear JT shuffling around. “What's up?,” I mumble to him through the darkness. “You wanna go surf?” he says. Jesus, he has made good on his promise to “crack it” as he likes to say and get into the water before the South Americans have even thought about their first cup of Yerba Mate'. “Alright,” I reply unenthusiastically. There's nothing else to do so I might as well surf.

Pedro and his moto-taxi is waiting for us outside the gate of Los Faroles. We had planned on walking but apparently the owner of Los Faroles and Pedro have conspired to give us a ride up the point. We agree because he's here, it's a 25 minute walk, and the price is about $1.75. What the hell.

The point is showing bigger waves and we paddle out and get some genuine long rides of 300-400 meters. It's head to head and a half high with some legit power behind the waves. Lots of cutbacks, a few racy sections, some mushy sections, some closing out sections, and no barrels. Darn! The tide is a bit high but we're out there alone for a couple hours anyway. By the time anyone else is even looking at the point I'm tired enough to come in. The swell is picking up by the minute, getting bigger and bigger.

My two fried eggs and toast go down quick for breakfast followed by a huge bowl of oatmeal and fresh papaya. Yum! I settle in to watch the World Cup.

Apparently the swell direction is all wrong. That's what we find out from local Peruvian surfer. He says the ideal swell direction is about 230 degrees. This swell, although big is coming in from about 190 degrees. Damn! Why do these point breaks have to be so fickle?

We head out to El Faro in the afternoon. I wax up my 7'2” for the job because it looks big. I paddle out from the top of the point and time it perfectly getting out between sets. The current is honking down the point and I paddle hard to make my way to the takeoff spot. “This is a one wave day” John says to me. He's kind of right. The current super strong. Soon a set looms on the horizon. JT takes the first wave as I paddle over it. A big lumpy wall moves in towards me. I paddle towards the peak, spin around and paddle hard, making sure to take a few extra paddles to get down the face. This wave is big! It jacks up to double overhead and I turn hard off the bottom, speeding up to the top and cutting back into the power spot. I'm going really fast as I zoom by John paddling back out and a couple of other guys struggling against the current. This is the kind of wave I made the trip for! My board is handling it perfectly and after days of surfing crappyness I'm feeling pretty good. The wave goes on forever and I finally kick out as it sections out ahead of me. Somehow I manage the strength to paddle back out for another go. My shoulders are probably being fueled by adrenaline because I'm feeling pretty sore. After 40 minutes of solid paddling I'm back out at the top of the point and really tired. I get another good wave. It's getting dark, and time to go in as I make my way back down the beach to town. Tomorrow the swell is supposed to be even bigger. Triple overhead plus. Everyone is calling Chicama because it's smaller down there and much cleaner especially with this much wind. We'll check it in the morning and make our call from there.

Pohnpei dos

With all the importation paperwork finished, we are just waiting for the container to get offloaded. I am more impatient than John. He is more satisfied just kicking back than me. I putter around, a little anxious unless I’m doing something. I write, clean up around the cabana, swim laps in the turtle pond and plow through my second book.

Friday morning after breakfast the palate with boat finally arrives. Jason,Wilbur’s son shows up in a grey truck with the palate in the back. We are stoked! We unload the box and take it apart with the drill gun that we bought in Hawaii. Even though John hasn’t used inflatable since he had a sailboat a few years ago, everything goes nice and easy. I inflate the boat using the foot pump, while John works on the motor. By early afternoon we are making test runs around the lagoon. We go for our first surf on our own. The waves are about head high and it’s windy as usual. It doesn’t matter though. We’ve got wheels!

Blood gushes over my lips and past my chin. It’s really warm. I sit up on my board, a wall of whitewash cascading towards me. I lift my left hand up to my face and feel a large hole, a gash. No time. Chest back on my board I rise up, arms extended like I’m doing a pushup and shove the nose of my board down through the water as deep as I can. At the moment I can push no further I place my right foot on the tail and sink the back of the board, trying to get underneath the wall of descending water. I am tossed through the washing machine and pop up, my hands gripping the board. Another broken wave in a wall of white wash is thundering down on me. I paddle south hard towards the channel.

Fuck!

A moment ago I was surfing, riding fun waves. I had dropped in on an overhead wave and as I trimmed down the line, it sectioned out in front of me. I fell into the whitewater.

WHRAM!

It happens so quick I don’t even see it, just feel the impact of a hard object. The nose of my surfboard. I know its bad.

I look down and blood is splattering red on the board, diluting clear into the water. I hope to God it’s not all the way through my lip leaving me with some weird quasi-harelip. I push my board down and through the white wash again. I come up again. John is paddling back out towards the lineup. I raise my arm; wave it, side to side, with big broad movements.

“I’m hurt.” I yell out, he looks me but can’t hear me through the roar of the waves and howl of the northeast trades.

“I’m hurt.” This time louder. I’m paddling and pointing to my face at the same time. Blood is gushing down my lip, over my chin and soaking into my rash guard. John gets it this time strokes hard towards the boat. I hear the motor gurgle to life. He unties from the mooring, swings the boat 180 degrees and heads towards me.

I hand John my surfboard and hoist myself up and over into the dingy, moving quickly.

“I cut my face. Don’t know how badly.” The words leap from my mouth. I reach up again to feel if it’s all the way through. All I feel is a deep chasm on the left side of my nose. My hands work themselves around to my lip. Everything is intact there. Whew. I exhale for just a moment.

“Lemme see it,” John says.

I’m peeling off my rash guard as I turn.

“Yep, you cut yourself pretty good.”

I don’t want to know anymore. Plastic surgery. Stitches. Scars. Hospital. Infections. Images swirl in my mind. I roll up my lycra rash guard and wrap it around my face, around my lip and underneath my nose. The blood stops flooding after a few seconds and I’m holding onto the rope on my side of the dinghy. The whole left side of my face aches. There’s a dull pain. Not sharp at all like I might have expected. I put my hat on my head and cinch down the draw cord. I’m breathing awkwardly through my mouth as the rash guard doubling as a bandage is so tight up under my nose that I have to gulp air through my mouth.

We turn the boat into the wind and smash through the incoming wind waves. Our little inflatable boat flies into the air and comes crashing down over each one. It’s jarring to the bone. I hold on tight as ride towards home.

Two hours later I am in the hospital getting sewn up by a very nonchalant doctor. The nurse dresses the wound and I walk out. There is no charge as this is a government hospital.

We pull out of the hospital parking lot and onto the road I see bigger, shinier hospital across the street. I ask Alpa, one of the workers from Nihco what that hospital is about.

“At that hospital, they charge you a lot of money,” he explains.

“Good. Drop me off here; I want to have my wound checked.”

I walk in and within a few minutes a Philipino doctor is looking at the sutures that the government doctor put in. He tells me he is going to re-suture the wound as the other doctor only put in two stitches and completely missed a deep gash beneath my nostril. Immediately I feel more comfortable. The doctor asks me if I have had a tetanus shot within the last ten years, if I am allergic to any medication, and how well the other hospital cleaned out the wound. The Doc patiently puts six stitches into my face and sends me on my way. He tells me to come back in five days to remove the stitches. The bill with antibiotics comes to $110. I’m happy to pay.

I wake up in the morning with my face pounding and swollen. John has left early to go surf. I hang out in the cabana all day icing my face, reading, and sweating. I can’t go out into the sun. I convince John to buy a blender and I spend my days making papaya-banana smoothies and reading and catching up on movies I haven’t seen. The guys and girls around Nihco pay me visits every few hours to check on me. People stare at me as the walk past our open door or as I sit on the patio under the thatch roof. I smile or say hi and they always smile or say hi back.

I’ve always thought one could tell a tremendous amount about a culture in the way they stare. It is all in the eyes. In Mongolia they stared at me like I was some strange furry animal. Curiosity was in their eyes. In China I was stared at like I was a caged animal. The eyes seemed like indifference. In Morocco they either ignored me completely or stared at me salaciously, like I was a walking dollar sign. In Pohnpei they really like to stare. They almost always smile when they stare. They aren’t scared either. Even the little kids and toddlers stare at you but when I smile, they smile back. It’s the first time I have kind of enjoyed being stared at.

And of course, as I sit waiting for my face and nose to heal, the biggest swell of the season rolls in. I know it must be really good because John doesn’t get back until late in the afternoon. He has stories of thick open barrels easily bigger than double overhead. A few minutes later the Aussies roll in. Jaime, one of the Aussie guys broke his board in half. He says three other guys snapped their boards too. They have photographic evidence and my jaw drops at the size and ferocity of the wave. On a big swell like this the wave does its best Teauhopu imitation. It feels like I missed the biggest game of the year, sitting on the bench.

The next day I can’t handle it anymore and decide to go out in the boat and watch. I put on my surf helmet and pull down the sun shade to protect my healing face from the water and the sun. The twenty minute dinghy ride out the reef pass is always really wet. We wear our raincoats not to keep us dry, that is impossible, but to keep the wind from giving us a chill.

We pull up to the mooring and tie off. The waves are smaller today but still solid. Nobody is out and the tide is high. John paddles out. I sit in the boat with the video camera shooting John on wave after wave. He gets a couple of nice barrels. An hour later a boat from the surf camp shows with about eight guys on it. The tide is dropping and the surf is getting hollower. Soon the lineup is crowded with almost twenty surfers and five boats. Beautiful and cavernous barrels are rolling through. Boards are snapping in half on blown takeoffs and inside on the reef. Soon John is paddling back to the boat. He was able to surf it alone for about an hour and a half and although the waves have gotten a lot better, it’s just not the same when you are dealing with nineteen other competent surfers in the water.

“I got you on the video cam in a couple of barrels,” I say as he paddles up to the boat.

“Yeah, I broke my board,” he says.

He hands me his surfboard and it is buckled in the middle.

“That sucks man.” I pull the board and lay it into the bow of the boat. As I look out towards the waves another set marches in firing beautiful cylinders over the reef.

“Yep, time to go get some resin and try and fix it.” John climbs into the boat. He stuffs a few bananas into his mouth.

We make the rounds from boat to boat, doing the surf talk thing.

The conversations blend into one.

“I had the best session of my life yesterday.”

“Did you see that photo of you dropping in?”

“I must have gotten twenty barrels.”

“What happened to you face mate?”

“That Japanese guy was charging yesterday. I want to go shake his hand.”

“I snapped my board.”

It’s the old shoulda been here yesterday routine. I’m over it. My face hurts and I’m ready to go back to the pad. We finally untie from the mooring and fight the wind for the whole bouncy, wet ride home.

I’m laid up for the week. While everyone else is out surfing, I get to hang out at the cabana with a swollen face, staying out of the sun. I don’t feel like doing anything except chilling out. I read all the books I brought with me. I go into town more than normal to check email and get on the internet. Time moves in that languid manner of the tropics.

On Thursday Wilbur the owner of Nihco lends me one of his cars and I drive out to the Hospital to get the stitches removed. It only takes a few minutes.

“When can I go surfing again?” I ask the doctor.

“Oh, you can already go surfing,” he says.

My face and nose still feel as someone hit me upside the head with a two by four. The surf has fallen into the flat category, so it doesn’t really matter anyway. In the evening Wilbur, Jeffrey, Alpa, Joe and a neighbor shows up to drink Sakau. Sakau preparation is really cool. A flat triangular rock is put on top of a couple of old tires filled with coconut husks. The Sakau root is placed on the flat rock, and three or four people sit around the Sakau rock pounding the root into a pulp with rocks they hold in their hands. The best Sakau rocks make a sound like a bell when they are struck. It sounds like music.

Once the root is pounded into a pulp, water is poured over it. It transforms into a pasty brown sludge. The brown sludge is laid onto several strips of sappy hibiscus bark. The bark gets wrapped around the sludgy mixture, and is wrung into a coconut cup. The result is a slimy coffee and cream colored beverage with an earthly aroma. As the slime falls down the throat the mouth is left with a slight numbed feeling. Soon, that numb feeling spreads throughout the entire body. It feels pretty good! The group drinking goes from boisterous, to quieter. Soon everyone is sitting around staring off into space as the Sakau cup goes around and around.

Although my stitches came out, my face and nose are still pretty sore. It hurts to smile or laugh or make facial expressions where I move my lip. Luckily there is no temptation as the surf because the surf is flat. I wait three more days.

On Monday John’s buddy Russell arrives from Honolulu. He is here for a month. Russell and John go way back. They have had endless surf adventures in exotic locations together. Russell just finished nursing school in San Jose and starts his new job in April. He rides a knee board and has a bit of that Devil may care attitude. He spices things up a bit. The funny thing about old friends is that they go through so much stuff together there always funny and embarrassing stories to go around. I get to hear my fill about both of them.

In the morning we head out to P-Pass. It is my first surf since I got injured and I am really looking forward to getting back in the water. The surf is small, chest to head high. The northeast trade winds are blowing about 20 knots. Looking out the ocean is white capped as far as the eye can see. At P-Pass the peak stands up on the outside reef, windblown and chopped, but as soon as it hits the inside reef section the wave transforms itself into a clean little monster. We are the only guys out and we each get many waves. I’m feeling a little clumsy but it feels good to back in the water making some turns.

Three days later and we have been surfing everyday. Yesterday and the day before we actually got a nice head high wind swell, so it has been fun. The swell forecast says Friday were supposed to get a 6-10 foot swell. Hopefully the magic will happen. Hopefully I’ll be ready.

Click on the image below for Photos

Phonpei

Pohnpei uno

Saturday

“I hope you’re a competent surfer mate. It’s heavy out there, breaking like Teauhupo.” The Aussie is thick and tanned in that red sort of way. His blonde mullet and goatee flash against his red skin.
“Two broken boards today and I ripped the fin out the bottom o’mine. You sure as hell don’t want to get caught inside.”
I gulp nervously, visions playing out in my head of the wave at Teauhopu. The take off is so steep, and the lip of the wave so thick, it boggles the mind. When it breaks it looks like the entire ocean is lifting up and dumping onto the reef. I like to surf, but I don’t have a death wish. The Aussie is talking about Palikir Pass, which is the best known and most frequently surfed spot on the island.
“How are the other waves around here?” John pipes in.
“They’re shit right now mate. This is the only wave that’s working this time of year. Wind’s too strong for the others.”
Great. We’ve just flown over four thousand miles to this remote island in the Pacific for a death wave that I might not even be able to surf.

The island of Pohnpei lies in the Pacific about 1800 miles southwest of Hawaii, southeast of Guam, and just north of the equator. It is one of the four main islands that comprise the Federated States of Micronesia (FSM) and the main town called Kolonia is the capital of the FSM. The island was the scene of heavy fighting between the Americans and the Japanese which was just another chapter in their colonial history. First the Spanish came to town, followed by the Germans, the Japanese, and now the Americans. The U.S serves as the primary financial sponsor of the FSM. The island itself is mountainous, covered in lush jungle, surrounded by mangrove and a barrier reef. It also happens to be one of the rainiest places on earth, averaging over 400 inches per year.
Flying in from Honolulu we hopped through the Marshall Islands, stopping at the atolls of Majuro and Kwajalein. Majuro is the capital of the Republic of the Marshall Islands and comprises nothing more than an atoll about 200 meters from one side to the other. Standing on the tarmac, seeing the Pacific on both sides of me, I felt as I could be swallowed up by the ocean at any moment. Kwajalein is another atoll, mostly filled up by a US military base. Judging on the installations I saw there, I can only guess that it is a listening post to pick up on satellite and telecommunications for this part of the world, another piece of America transplanted to the middle of nowhere, complete with golf courses, swimming pools and movie theatres. After touching down in Kosrae which is another FSM island we departed to Pohnpei. Pohnpei emerged out of the misty rain clouds like the island where King Kong lives. It is wet, warm, dark, and green. The pungent smell of decaying organic matter fills the air.

My traveling buddy is John, whom I met and traveled with in Chile. We achieved one of the ultimate surf fantasies together in the middle of the Atacama Desert; that is finding our own perfect wave in the middle of nowhere and surfing it all to ourselves. We’re both hoping the good wave karma holds.
Through perfect travelers luck and help from the friendly locals, we end up at a place called Nihco Marine Park, which serves as the local swimming hole, barbeque area, and general hang out spot for the locals on the weekends. They have a house and a small cottage that they rent out. The house happened to be rented by Steve, Damien, and Jaime, crude, funny at times, hard drinking, (yes I know it’s an oxymoron) Aussies. Steve has been posted up here about six months and is the one responsible for the mullet and the Teauhupo comments. Damien and Jamie are two of his buddies from Queensland. Since they were in the house, John and I take the far less epic, thatched roof cottage, which is attached to the store and the pool room at Nihco. It gets a bit noisy on the weekends from the parties going on. We’re not complaining though as we rented the place for the month for $300. We can’t help but gloat a little bit at the guys who we met on the plane and are staying at the surf camp for $150 a day.
That’s the good news. The bad news, when we check with the shipping company is that John’s inflatable boat and motor that he shipped over won’t be arriving until next Thursday and today is Saturday. This is a major bummer as Palikir Reef Pass lies about a mile offshore. That means we have to find another way to get out to the surf until our boat arrives.

Sunday

The Aussies have borrowed a boat from the owner of Nihco Park and after some brief negotiations they agree to take us out to the reef the next day, as long as we pay our share of gas. I’m nervous as hell, not knowing what to expect from the wave. I haven’t been surfing all that much lately and imagining a razor sharp reef a couple of feet below me does nothing to instill confidence. Still, at this point there is no backing out. Steve tells me he’ll come by the cottage before sunrise to get out to the pass before the guys from the surf camp so at least we have an hour or so without a crowd.
I fall into a restless anticipatory sleep, buffeted by the ceiling fan, the sweat drips from my forehead. I wake up at 5:40, make my way downstairs, and drag my board and supplies for the day to where the boat is parked. Wordlessly, we pile our stuff in the boat and Steve starts up the outboard as we pull out of the mangrove. Soon we are navigating our way through the lagoon, dodging reef and looking for sea lane markers. Damien has a big handheld spotlight that he uses to illuminate the bottom, in case it gets shallow, or to see up ahead for the poles acting as markers sunk into the reef.
The ocean flickers with wind as approach the reef pass. I catch myself thinking that maybe we won’t actually surf today because of the wind. I’m almost relieved. The waves look pretty small, and they are misshapen from a side shore wind. Apparently the prevailing northeast wind blows hard during this time of year. We wait and watch for a good fifteen minutes. Damien can’t handle it anymore.
“I’m out theyaa,” he says with his thick accent. He strips off his shirt, grabs his surfboard, and hops overboard. Within a few minutes I’m in the water, staring down at the reef through the clear water. A small set wave comes my may and I turn and paddle hard. The wave jacks quickly as it hits the reef and I hop to my feet. Although small, the wave lifts me up and shoots down the line, the reef seemingly a few feet underneath my feet. I kick out and I’m stoked as I paddle back towards the peak.
“How was your first wave out here mate?” Jamie asks as I approach.
“Well I got to my feet, got down the line and it was kind of sweet.”
“Now you gotta get a barrel,” Damien says half turning towards me.

Monday

We’re out at P-Pass again with the Aussies. The waves are a bit bigger today, over head high on the sets, thumping hard on the inside shallows. We stay out for hours and I get a bunch of waves. Still, I feel a bit awkward on my board. I fall on some easy cutbacks. This is what happens when I just don’t surf very much at home. I have to get acclimated again. After four hours of surfing I go back to the boat for bananas and coconut. I love coconuts! There is nothing better after exertion than to drink down sweet cool coconut milk. It is the best ever!
John is surfing with his usual solid and smooth style. The only complaint I hear out of him is that he hasn’t surfed a right in about a year. Poor thing! That’s what happens when your surf travel resume includes three months in Chile followed by sailing from Ecuador to Tahiti and surfing perfect barreling left reef passes in the Society Islands.
The Aussies of course absolutely rip.
I head out again for a few more waves and end up getting caught inside on the reef with a set bearing down on me. One of the main differences between surfing in a place like this and at home is that here there are serious consequences to little things like getting caught inside. At Ocean Beach if I get really worked and caught inside I might just get pushed back up onto the beach. Not here. I don’t know how shallow it is but with the white water from a broken wave bearing down on me I duck dive. As I pop up back through the foam I look and see two more walls of white water rolling towards me. I’m being pushed back farther up onto the reef. Shit! I have got to get out of here before I get seriously scratched up on the sharp coral. I duck dive again and here a clunk against by board as hit something. I don’t pay much attention to it as I’m in serious get the hell out of here mode. I paddle furiously towards the channel as the set subsides and with spaghetti arms slowly make my way back to the peak. I catch a few more waves then go in. I’m tired and the crowd has grown to about 15 people. The surf camp is responsible for the additional people in the water as their second boat shows up with a small crowd of Americans, Aussies and South Africans.
John is back in the boat. He got dragged across the reef and has some decent scratches on his back. The reef also tore a hole in the butt of his board shorts. I turn my board over as I put it into the bow of the boat and John notices a hole in the bottom.
“Looks like you did some damage, “he says.
“Shit! I must have done that when I was duck diving. That’s what that sound was.”

Tuesday

The Aussies are up all night drinking, and don’t even go surfing. As a result we’re pretty much stuck hanging out around Nihco Park. We meet Wilbur, the owner of Nihco and then his son, Jason, and his wife Maggie. Maggie as it turns out is the line female senator in the FSM. They have virtually an identical system of government as the U.S. Following WWII, the U.S. not only sponsored the FSM but also set up the government. Wilbur and his family also own the main office supply store on the island. They have a partner in Los Angeles who procures supplies and ships it over here. The little store at Nihco Park is stocked with Heineken and Corona from LA. Wilbur tells us that he brought in 50 cases of beer the last shipment. The Aussies have drunk 40 of them already.
“I have never in my life seen anyone drink so much,” he exclaims. We have a good laugh at the Aussies expense.
John and I spend the rest of the day trying to figure out the situation with the boat. Wilbur and his family walk us through the process of importation and tell us they are going to help us out. First we go to lunch at the Cliff Rainbow Hotel. We meet Pete who is the owner of the Cliff Rainbow and is a former governor of the FSM. We all sit down. Pete hands me some betel nut wrapped in some sort of leaf with powdered lime (not the fruit, the mineral).
“Will this make my teeth red?” I ask. You can tell any Pohnpeian who chews betel because their teeth are almost black from chewing the red juiced nut for years and years. I don’t want the same to happen to me.
“No, if you chew it everyday for a week maybe, but not from this,” Pete laughs. I place the concoction in my mouth and a mildly numbing feeling spreads from my tongue to my gums and cheeks. I’m feeling a little buzzed and it’s kind of. I spit out the betel when my lunch of sashimi and rice shows up. The tuna melts in my mouth as the sky opens up the rain pelts down around the outside of the veranda where we sit.
After lunch Jason, Wilbur’s son takes us to the customs office. They stamp our import papers and charge us six bucks. As we leave, Jason tells us that the guy who stamped out papers was his cousin. It’s nice having a few local connections!

Wednesday

No surf again. Aussies drinking again and they don’t head out until the afternoon. They don’t invite us to go out with them. I’m a little irritated and impatient. At least it gives me time to repair my surfboard. The kids are all fascinated by my board and spend a good bit of time running the hands around it and touching the wax on the deck.
At night I run into the local guys who work around Nihco. They are sitting in chairs surrounding a flat triangular rock propped up on two tires drinking Sakau which is the local version of Kava. The Sakau is a root that gets mashed up, water added to it, then wrung out through tree bark into half a coconut used as a cup. Alva, Joe, Jeffrey, and Redley invite me to sit down with them and I drink a couple of rounds. The Sakau tastes like cool mud going down and has the consistency of slime. I have to open my throat not to gag. Soon I have discovered another mouth numbing island sensation. After another round I’m feeling really relaxed and mellow. The guys tell me all about Pohnpei and the local traditions. Apparently there are six different dialects of Pohnpeian on the island. The Kava makes me tired and head off to bed.

Thursday

I walk downstairs from my bedroom and the Aussies still haven’t woken up yet. Damn, I hate depending on those guys. Thank god the ship with our boat will be here today. When I walk outside towards the lagoon Alva motions me over.
“Come eat with us man,” he says, his hand waving towards me. I walk underneath the thatch roof and sit down around the little plastic table. Jeffrey and Alva are eating rice and what looks like boiled meat for breakfast. I cringe a little bit. It is always a challenge for me to eat meat with big chunks of fat on it. I know I can’t refuse though.
“What kind of meat is it?” I ask.
“Pig man,” Alva says, pointing to the pen behind him with a large pig happily eating a pile of compost.
I hesitantly grab a pork rib. As I bite into it I decide that’s it actually pretty good. I spit out the fat onto the ground and it is quickly lapped up by the dog.
“We like you Americans better than the Australians,” Alva says. “They never eat with us or try our food.”
I look over and the Aussies are bringing their boards and equipment out! Sweet. We pile our gear into the boat and take off. John stays put to deal with the boat. We surf for a good four hours and then I go for a snorkel over the reef. I see other surfers’ feet dangling over their boards waiting for a set. The jagged reef is only a few feet below.
When we get back from surfing John is there with a couple bags of groceries from his trip to town. The ship has arrived but our boat has not been off loaded yet. Damn! Another day of waiting.