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.
