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Point Life
We awoke early and met at Greg and Kyle’s communal area.Constructed of wood frames, filled with mosquito screens it was the perfect brekkie spot.Knowing we had a long day ahead we feasted on a plethora of local fruit, especially bananas, gotta keep those potassium levels up. A couple of lads arrived at the door, dressed in the sort of khaki fatigues inveterate tropical travellers wear, it turned out they were Argentinian. I was curious, it seemed odd to be seeing surfers from South America here on this wave that was still so secret, mind you, one could say the same for us Europeans and Americans too! We introduced ourselves, it turned out they were two brothers, surfing filmmakers known as the Gauchos DelMar (check them out on Instagram, you won’t regret it). They had been accessing all sorts of wild and wonderful coasts across the African continent int heir trusty Mercedes Unimog.
Spirits were high, even though the room was filled with people who are no strangers to high-quality, uncrowded surf – you could feel that electricity in the air. We were likely the only people awake, so were careful not to make too much noise or be too animated, but there was still a barely disguised buzzin our hushed tones.
Eventually the excitement got the better of us and we set off to the coast by head torch. The gentlest of offshore breezes was tickling the palm fronds, but as we approached the shore, we couldn’t hear much wave action.
The wave is a fickle one needing a swell direction so rare that it only breaks once a season, perhaps a couple of times on a good year. Forecasts for this part of the world are thin on the ground and far from accurate.
Perched on the sturdy dugout canoes of local fishermen, we strained our eyes to pick up some sign of the anticipated swell. It seemed awfully calm.More figures emerged from the darkness, Jordy Smith and a handful of other South Africans, Kelly Slater too.
The grey light made form and scale difficult to discern.As dawn approached, the eye followed the gentle curve off into the hazy distance. Possibly on account of the sandbar’s vastness and the waves’ form, the lines seemed minuscule.
The mood was somewhat deflated, and the earlier excitable conversation had dampened. A few wandered back for a little more sleep, a second breakfast, or the endless social media scroll.
The chart suggested it should be pumping by now. We’d all spent a lot of time, not to mention money getting to this strip of sand, only for what appeared to be a skunking. The expense and effort are real, but at times like that, surfing, or at least that all-encompassing, obsessive hunt for perfection can show surfing to be the often absurd and selfish pursuit deep down we all know it to be.
Even so, albeit almost imperceptibly, the swell was building. Alex and I hung around, we didn’t have anything better todo and besides, it was pretty remarkable watching the fisher-men’s skills launching those giant, hollowed out tree trunks into the water and timing it out through the increasingly fast and hollow runners on a coast that seldom sees waves.
A couple of hours later the sun was well up and had broken through the haze, regular lines were coiling for hundreds, perhaps thousands of metres, with various choice sections the best being the final 150 metres where the point angled in a little more steeply, helping the waves to slow a little and draw even cleaner as they swung in through a few more degrees.
It’ll come as no surprise when I say there was some pretty exceptional surfing taking place; it was world-class surfing in a uniquely non-competitive atmosphere. The lack of crowd pressure, incredibly playful conditions, and shared understanding that we were involved in something rare (and experienced by few before)leading to a sense of camaraderie not often found amongst the tour guys.Having Kelly Slater there was appropriate too as the point had an EndlessSummer / Bruce’s Beauties meets KS wave pool feel.
All that glitters…Sadly, things had changed quite a bit– and not a lot – since Bruce Brown first documented surfing in the great continent. Locals were still defecating en masse on the beach, so one had to keep your wits about you whilst walking back up the point after a wave and especially whilst paddling out. I suppose you’d hope that this wouldn’t happen anymore, but there clearly wasn’t the infrastructure in place to give any other option. Ultimately, it’s all organic crab/fish food anyway…
The more worrying thing was the single-use plastic. It was EVERYWHERE tumbling down the streets, floating in the sea and making up a significant portion of the beach, at times it seemed there was more plastic than sand. Perhaps this was a window in, a microcosm, of the imminent futures aid to have more plastic mass than fish in the world’s oceans.
Seeing this volume of plastic, I wondered what could be done, it would be utterly pointless doing a‘two-minute beach clean’, there was just so much that it had to be in the food chain too, if there’s that much visible, imagine the micro plastics one doesn’t see! As the fishermen brought in their hauls and the women gathered and gutted them, at one point I noticed a large dugout being capsised on the way in, its precious cargo – a day or perhaps week’s food for many – lost. The men scrambling with the nets and flotsam and jetsam, desperately trying to save what they could, whilst avoiding being knocked out by the giant canoe, which was now pivoting through the lineup. Luckily, the sandbar was shallow, mean-ing they could stand, as many didn’t look like strong swimmers. The realities of subsistence life, the very real prospect of going hungry, so far removed from what we were consumed with: flying around the world, burn-ing fossil fuels, consuming, consuming, creating more and more waste, our only concern? How barrelled can we get?
Issue 587 is on stands now, available for purchase online or subscribe to Tracks to read the full article & more premium content.
