Story by Katie McLean
Photos by Ian Zamora
Winos trail picturesque paths to taste different of types of a timeless liquid. Antique collectors scour forgotten corners of the world for fabled finds. Similarly, surfers search the seas for simple seconds of sliding sublimity.
The criticisms of such quests are similar too. What we see as priceless, others see as worthless. And addiction is all too possible. Even to the point of bodily endangerment. Extreme antique collectors exist, by the way. When moments to live for accumulate into a life worth dying for, being crazy becomes comprehendible.
Drunk off nature’s fluids. High from hunt. That wide-eyed moment when all hazards were worth the hassle. The thrill of the find; it fires up your soul.
I’m connoisseur of rights point breaks; a wanderlust embedded in me by my birthplace of Santa Barbara, Ca and forced upon me during summer’s flat spells. In pursuit of tubular treasures, my most coveted conquest had all too long been Cuscatlán, The Land of Precious Jewels.
Only 20 years out a brutal civil war, a country plagued by poverty, crime, gangs, and drastic natural disasters, fear had kept me at bay, but even more so intrigued. Tales of a brutally violent time of torture to terrorize civilians, cruel use of child soldiers, and indiscriminate bombings by plane leaving a quarter of the population without homes. Stories of death squads sending coffins to their future victims, or invitations to their own funeral. Top it off with the head of the Human Rights Commission’s cadaver splayed before the US Embassy. But the rights are to die for.
A perfectly placed palm-covered peninsula escapes from a pristine floral jungle. An endless right wedges off the tip and streamlines down the sleepy shore. Dramatic tide swings reveal never-ending mirrors framed by glittering black sands. Reflections of dark, intricate rock caverns blanketed with plumerias contrast the crystal blue sky.
Lines of swell curl their way down the coast and the light up each point they pass. At the end of your eyesight, El Toro taunts you with a seemingly perfect barrel reeling over secret rocks. A ghostly mirage that prepares you for the incoming set. It hits La Vaca and peels unpredictably through the beach break bay corralled by an untouched valley speckled with cows and lined with cobblestone. Finally it wraps around the point to the reveal the premiere wave.
Whispers of danger haunted my mind, but devilishly egged me on to pull the trigger. I’d spent half the year at Hanalei Bay. Summer was sneaking up. I was anxious. Somewhere, that scale that balances fear on one side and Rights on the other, finally tipped. Coming from the same coastline chronicled for its rights as I, Mary Osborne claimed she was making the voyage. I was all aboard. A crew quickly formed from a collective of right break connoisseurs hailing from the Queen to King of the California coast. We struck gold and scored the opening south swell of the season.
We woke in a dream, dazed from our redeye flight. Through the haze and humidity, we focused our fuzzy sights on the stark contrasts of the country. Colorful birds clamored in cascading trees above canvas-covered trucks of troopers wearing rifles around their necks. The view must have been just as strange a juxtaposition for them. Three young white girls lugging massive coffins an hour from the ocean.
Slap one the biggest and most crime-ridden cities in Central America right by the sea, and you’ve got quite a concoction. We maneuvered through the gauntlet of malfunctions, swerving around some stray dogs in the street and steering clear of the crack heads at the corner store. Between dangling vines of banyan trees and by corroding buildings covered in street art, we bounced over the rough brick road that balanced above the waters edge. Like an ancient Zeotrope animation, we watched through our windows the waves break in slow segments between the slits of each crumbling seashore structure. Cuscatlán still felt untamed.
The air was hot, humid, and electric and the water was warmer than any pool. Maybe this magnified the uncomfortable moment of the first paddle out and that strong feeling that stares can have. I sat in the line up, smiling and secretly clenching my board between my legs, as a large local paddled straight for me. “Hi, My name’s Marco. What’s yours?” he asked in perfect English. Ignorance is a refreshing slap in the face. Stares of discrimination turned into gazes of genuine intrigue. Blonde hair and bikinis will do that.
Mary gracefully bottom turned on a bomb and tiptoed to the nose. I experimented right off the rocks on a tiny Tomo. New technology and new waves. Sketchy and stimulating. Bo Stanley chatted with the boys at the tip, then turned heads as she took off on top sets sporting her stylish one-pieces. Catherine Clark ripped her way through the El Capitan-esq inside as Ian Zamora captured the moments, and Mitch Doler enforced 'ladies first.’
Somehow a seemingly sketchy excursion had become my first girls trip, complete with more hair whipping photo shoots, instagram filter examinations, and bikini changes than I was probably prepared for. But I dunked my head, and did my best cliché sand roll for the camera. Surprisingly or not, the guys were game for our street side souvenir shopping, kitchen cook offs, and dance parties in the dining hall. Bo sympathized with our bunkmate and mother of two, until I found our bathroom sink mysteriously converted into an ice chest of beers and bottles of vodka. Marilyn was keeping up just fine. No man left behind.
In two boats, we trekked up the untouched coast past a plethora of pristine points. Crisp cumulonimbus clouds parted ways for shards of sunlight to streak across the clear sky and pierce the calm glassy waters we soared over. The scent of this sea, fresh, fertile, and freeing, surged my nose. It reinforced the liberating thought that I was far from the clutches of California. I’d escaped the deadly routines of daily life to embark on an adventure. The realization of travel dawned upon me. Flooded with freedom, excitement, and the wonders of an unknown land, I envisioned my alter ego diving into the sea, swimming to the lush jungle onshore and shrinking into the distance til I disappeared into the wild. The boat stuttered to a stop and the stoke of reality set in. A bowling break with a bite slingshotted us towards shallow waters over and over again.
I woke before the world on the big day. High above the water, I stood on the peninsula point sipping coffee as I stared through silhouettes of tropical trees against the pinkest sky. The sun was about to rise. I was separated from everything but the sea. Finally a sound signaled the accumulation of the anticipated swell. An empty, double overhead set wave cracked on the sea’s surface and rumbled as it raced to land. The crew arose quietly, everyone’s mouths frozen open in awe. Slowly the sound of surfboards being waxed echoed through the terrace. Those with enough cojones climbed down the rocks, and we closed our eyes between calling out sets so they could safely paddle into the lineup. To think that surfers were scared of anything. Today they smiled in the face of fear.
From failed paddle outs, to pushed boundaries, to covershots, to limits now known; we all gathered at some point between individual sessions and life lessons at the water’s edge. Sheltered from the scalding sun between abandoned boats and under palm frond palapas, we relished in buckets of beers, fresh coconuts, and live crab v. dog fights. Never turning our backs on the ocean, we hooted and hollered as sets howled across the horizon.
Right when the surf reached the point of no return, we returned to the restless city. As we caravanned on the winding coast to the ‘Wild West’, Bo told tales of when men with machetes waited at the point where the waves peel off a cemetery over urchin-infested waters. Her dad knew well the days when you had to be escorted to this dirty outskirt of the city and pay off the guys guarding this gold. With the coordinates of Scorpion Bay tattooed on her ribcage, I listened carefully to Bo’s danger gage.
6AM and I’m in my panties tied to a pillar on a balcony above the sea. I’m ironically in no danger, but prankster Ian Zamora will be as soon as I fin key my way out of this saran wrap. I spent the next hour searching for my hidden surfboards.
Barefoot in bikinis, Cat and I followed Bo along the brick boardwalk. We treaded lightly past the colorfully painted crosses and tombstones to collect the smiles we came for. Times had changed and we were welcomed by locals who were learning the value of visitors. With so much swell usually hitting their shore, these smaller days were especially mellow. We surfed and sweated as the sun drained us dry. When we walked back through the ghost town of abandoned hotels, we discovered a deserted pool and dove from the second floor balcony into the barely-cold bliss of this odd oasis.
The smell of resin, sound of sanding, and sight of stacked boards behind barred windows lured us into a small ding repair shop. With gorilla glue, the shaper was slathering a mauled boogie board that had seen better days. He stopped to enlighten us. People make do with what they have here, and there’s no shortage of stoke.
Our local guide, Juan, was always smiling, shredding, cackling and saying nicknames in the cutest accent. ‘Hip Hop’ aka Mitch, accompanied Bo and I as we navigated through a labyrinth of tented market stands to gather goods for a gratitude dinner Juan’s mom’s. It was hard to believe Juan grew up through the turmoil this town saw during the civil war.
Juan took us deep into the mountains to show us how the beauty of his country blinds you from any chaos. We teetered in our seats at each turn on the tiny winding way passing volcanoes, villages, and life that we’d never known existed. The steeper the street, the smaller the adobe-style single room dwellings stacked. Then suddenly, they disappeared as if we’d entered a sacred valley. We lost sight, and gained an understanding when we hit the mystical clouds of fog and realized we were completely encompassed by the wild, lush jungle. We ran barefoot through thundering downpours, in a rainforest blooming with mangoes, to fresh waterfalls where we leapt off into cascading swimming pools. Adventure is the fountain of youth.
We travel to become young; to see and feel things for the first time. Fear may come with that, but it brings indescribable exhilaration. So similarly, we surf for these sensations.
I sat above the sea, smiling, writing, and watching the last sunset session. Siloughettes of friends switching off flippers, fishes, and longboards. A symphony of laughter and thunder as waves and clouds roll in. Spontaneously, lightning strikes. Screams of stoke and thrill travel through the streets and up the stairs to find me. A whirlwind of chaos, cackling, gale force gusts, and water circle us. The lighting breaks the darkness and illuminates everything.
