There isn’t very good surf forecasting when you’re travelling, I’ve found. The website that I used, magicseaweed.com, is totally inaccurate. It kept claiming that Chicama was good-to-great when the waves were barely at my knee.

I remember surfing Balangan in Indonesia and the day I made the drive down from Kuta to the Bukit Peninsula to surf this wonderful break magicseaweed.com told me that it was going to be poor to fair conditions. I drove the hour and a half on a little scooter through madman traffic (in Indonesia the lanes mean nothing to drivers), hiked down this dirt road worrying that one of the guys who was ‘watching’ my scooter might have a way to make off with it and found perfect slightly overhead left handed barrels.

I should stop using magicseaweed.

Balangan was a perfect, ripping left. Chicama is a long, soft and lasting left. Problem is: I almost never go left.

Going left is not nearly as fun for me as going right. When I go right, as a regular footer (left foot forward) I get to face the wave. I can drive going right, generate speed and almost take the board off the back with me when I do a little off the lip.

When I go left I surf like a kook.

Balangan was a steep and curling left, powerful sections at the takeoff followed by a hundred yard face section that would eventually close out and let the next guy take off. Every once in a while they lined up and by luck I got one of those extremely long waves, from the point across the cove, three hundred yards of surfing, watching jealous little bastards in the water watching me rip by doing my impression of a left hand turn and riding, riding a wave longer than I’d ever ridden a wave before.

Before Chicama.

For the first three days it was flat. Terrible. Fucking lake.

I took out a standup paddleboard on Monday. I’d never tried it before. That shit is hard and too much like kayaking. I’ve been surfing for twelve years but nothing about that SUP was appealing. Never again will I join the ranks of the ocean janitors.

I took out a super long board on Tuesday, thing was like ten feet long; it felt like I was yachting. I caught really small waves and rode them as far as they would go which was really not very far at all.

On the third day, Wednesday, I didn’t even go in the water. I just watched the ocean all day, waiting for some kind of sign of life. I started drinking rum early and fell asleep by nine.

Meanwhile the place filled up. Magicseaweed.com was telling everyone the swell was coming on Thursday. The big group of Brazillians was getting itchy. They had to leave on Friday. I was lucky, I had until Tuesday afternoon.

We talked about surfing and drank beer and hung around in the hot tub that overlooked the ocean, watching, waiting.

On the fourth day something showed up. Knee high turned into waist to chest high and suddenly it looked like things were surfable. But Chicama is a soft wave, super easy on the takeoff and has a tendency to mush out.

I surfed it.

I thought: I came all the way to Peru to surf this? It’s supposed to be the longest left in the world, but you paddle nonstop to stay in position, when the wave comes it’s kind of finicky and closes out before you can really get going.

My wife and I hiked around the corner, past The Point to The Cape, another three quarters of a mile down. I would get in the water, try to catch a wave as the current just ripped me north, catch something small, little nothing, get dragged further down the shore and then come back in. I’d walk back up the sand past my Abbey sitting there trying to get pictures of me surfing these waves.

I have a video of this medioce nonsense, which, if not for my wife’s funny commentary, is not worth posting. But because she’s pretty funny I’ve put a link for it here →

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5KScUHvBeU&feature=youtu.be

Finally on Friday I got a real wave.

I woke up early and it was on. Every morning was overcast and without setting an alarm I had a tendency to puncture my sleep with the first faint little bit of light.

Standing on the sun deck I watched for thirty seconds, skipped breakfast and ran down to the beach. It was almost head high but breaking, really breaking. I jumped on the boat and got towed out to The Point to save the 30 min walk. A little bit further down, at The Cape, it looked bigger. The rest of the group wanted to surf The Point but I talked the kid into taking me further on. I wanted to get more surfing before the current dragged me back to the hotel again.

When you jump off a boat with your surfboard there is this feeling of being way out there, out in the open sea, even if you’re close to shore. It reminded me of surfing Airport Lefts on Bali when it was double overhead and I was a mile from land.

But in Chicama you’re pretty close to shore still. You just use the boat to save from walking and fighting the current. I agree that this is kind of a lame move but after watching that goddamn wave do nothing for four days I wanted to save all my energy for surfing.

So I jumped off the boat and into overhead surf and got those good jitters you get when the ocean is just a little too big for comfort and you’re all alone. A wave came, I paddled and dropped in. I’ve developed this terrible habit of grabbing my rail when I go left which pulls me too far into the wave if it’s not barreling. As soon as I realized what I was doing I let go and stood up properly and pulled the board hard backside and up the face of the wave.

That moment is why I surf. You feel the water building up next to you, you’ve dropped in on the face and you’ve taken that first piece of momentum and climbed up to the top out of your bottom turn and now you are surfing, now you are ready to find a line and see just how much this wave is going to let you get away with.

I had that moment.

Then I had it again.

And again.

And again.

On the same fucking wave.

Sit at the top, turn toeside, drop back down the face, wait on it and get a little bit out front before digging back hard heelside and pull the board almost until you’re driving back toward the wave that is pursuing you and then at the last second hit the foam and bounce the board back around and pump once back to the top.

Then go again.

It’s that moment at the top with the open face before you, waiting for you, calling to you, that is my favorite moment in surfing. Aside from getting barreled. Getting barreled is the sweetest thing you can get, but a wide open face is a close second.

And nobody gets barreled at Chicama. So they say.

(Here is a video I took sitting at lunch on this day—)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9YjmgNtizVY&feature=youtu.be

Saturday: Head high again, perfect conditions, Chicama is a wave machine. Wake up with the sun, get in the water, surf for three hours, come back out, have some lunch, take a nap, have another lunch paddle back out, surf for three hours, come back in have a hearty dinner, drink some wine, fall asleep by 10pm.

Sunday the swell increased. The Australians were starting to call it head and half. I started to break down a little bit. My shoulders were tight all the way around and my neck was giving me a bit of trouble. Weird thing: I had a new sensation: my legs were sore.

All day, everyday, I was riding these long, long, long ass lefts. Just these easy take off, drop in, bottom turn, top turn, bottom turn, top turn, pump to make the section, either make it and keep going or fall off and wait for the next wave, video game of a surf spot.

The waves just never stop. Never. Every 15 min a super set comes through so that’s what you’re aiming for but in between the waves are better than most I’ve ever surfed. Easy, not steep, not barreling, just magic little delicious waves. Kids can ride them overhead high. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was like Church’s near Trestles, if that break went left and was about fifty times longer.

Monday was my second to last day. Everything was almost double overhead. I surfed it in its entirety. I used the boat to get more waves. You can’t believe how fast the current rips you north. You walk for 30–40 min, get in the water and you’re back in front of the hotel in about 8 min.

The boat is expensive, but that walk is long and shitty and frequent. So yes, I do feel bad about it, but I took the boat.

I know the locals hated us.

Tuesday was the biggest day I’d seen. Strong double overhead, maybe a little more on the sets, wrapping big ocean waves.

My last day in Peru. Likely my last day surfing Chicama until I have kids and I bring them back there. I kept joking with the Brazillians who were regular foot like me: I dream of a Chicama that goes right.

I said: Today I will surf it as nature has intended. No boat. Long walks, hard paddles and huge waves.

The walk was reflective. I thought about my recent marriage, our honeymoon together, our future together. I climbed over the rocks at The Point and made my way to the little cove that I paddled out in every day. Timing it right you could use the current to get dragged into the lineup. I had it down.

But I fucked it up.

My head wasn’t in it and I didn’t wait and watch like I should have. I just put on my leash and pulled up my wetsuit and paddled out. Halfway out I got dragged toward the rocks and boom: a set pops up. I’m stuck inside on a goddamn double overhead set that’s aiming me for the jagged point. Danger, to say the least.

What do you do? For a moment I thought to turn and try to navigate my way in, miss the rocks maybe, undo my leash so that if it gets caught on something I won’t be trapped and drown.

And then I gritted my teeth and paddled for everything I had. I don’t know how I did it, but I made it. The first wave almost clipped me but I ducked it and then the next one I barely made it over the top and then the next four or five I just waited out, paddling around the danger spots and scolding myself for my stupidity.

While I waited the current dragged me back to my hotel. All that effort and all I’d done was manage to not die. I got back out, took off my leash, pulled down my wetsuit and started the long walk back down the shore.

I watched the surfers loading up in the boat. The boat almost crashed. Everyone abandoned ship. The surf was big. The ocean was offering a real adventure. Only about fifteen surfers were braving the waves where more than fifty had been fighting it out the day before.

Back at the point I walked much further down, to the far side of the cove, another half mile stretching a 1.5 mile walk into more like 2. I waited. I watched these ripping waves. I timed it. I paddled out with no problem and the current dragged me to the point in a minute or two. I waited. I didn’t paddle for the first wave. I didn’t get trapped inside.

A set of waves comes as tiny little lines in the distance. You see them starting to build a mile away and when they’re a couple hundred yards out you understand if you’re in the right position. You watch them coming in, you feel them going underneath you, swelling up and lifting you and threatening to swamp you if you’re not careful. Always respect the ocean, I’ve learned, never take anything for granted.

I waited and watched and timed it and when the peak poked up I found myself on the right side of the closing slab and I knew I could catch it. A dozen hard paddles to get the speed up and hit your feet and drop down down down down.

I got the longest wave I had ever surfed in my life. Dropped in, pure speed, little tiny coverup barrel that I got on accident because I grabbed my rail. Just tucked right in, came out, pumped the face, screaming bottom to top turn, off the lip, pump pump, another hit off the lip, the wave started to slow down, more hits off the lip and then I lost it.

Describing the stoke is impossible.

Unsure of how long I’d been out there I made two more laps (walk 2 miles down, get dragged back, walk 2 miles down, get dragged back) and got three more long waves, probably seven hundred yards each. It was an endless left, more than a mile and a half if you could make this section. I couldn’t make it, I would lose the face and then catch another wave further down.

My last ride was my best. I’m not sure I can describe it. I got out of the water, thanked the gods of Chicama, began my farewell to Peru (our cab was coming at 3 to take us to Trujillo for our plane to Lima for our plane to Miami for our plane to San Diego for our drive to Mexico, but that’s another story) and faced the mountain of sand you had to climb to get to the hotel at the top.

That’s when Miguel stopped me, this crazy Peruvian guy that ran the resort.

“Mr. Preston, where do you go?”

“That’s it, Miguel, my last wave in Peru. I have to go catch a cab to the airport.”

“That’s it! That’s it! No way, man. You gotta do one more.”

I thought for a moment. Of course I’d go for one more.

Miguel and I walked back to The Point together. There were all of these dead seagulls on the beach. Turns out that during an El Nino the sardines migrate to deeper, colder waters and the birds starve to death. They were everywhere dead. We found one dying. Miguel was in the middle of telling me about his marketing firm and their new resort near Lima. He stopped and got a big rock and smashed the bird’s brain in. We didn’t want it to have to suffer.

At The Point Miguel stopped at the place I’d always paddled out. The one that almost killed me first thing in the morning.

“Let’s go dude.”

“Nah, man, I’m going to go further down.”

“Okie-dokie!” he shouted and charged the ocean. He’s an excellent surfer.

I walked another half mile across the cove.

Standing there, looking out at the big waves and the perfect breaks and the open ocean I felt stupid. I’d gotten the best ride of my life. I’d made my peace with the wave. What was it worth it to brave this again? Yes, I wanted more. I’m always thirsty for surfing. But it’s bad luck to press it.

Buy the ticket, take the ride, as the old man says. I’ll just paddle out and get a ride home.

I waited and timed it and paddled out. A huge set came through. I pushed and pushed. These were the biggest waves I’d seen in eight days. I beat the first one. The second one. The third one came and I was right on it. I turned and caught it.

I rode a double overhead, menacing, blistering left handed wave. The size of it pressed down on me when I was at the bottom of the turn, an ominous kind of wave that I didn’t know would show its face in Chicama. My heart raced with a small fear of falling, a truly beautiful emotion that you only get on the real big rides.

It was big enough to make the connection I’d never made, the place where every wave closed out just enough to reject me from riding all the way back to the hotel. I’d seen some other guys make it, generating speed at the right time to make the section. I finally got one. On the other side I tried new tricks, I used new edges, I spent new energy.

I surfed that wave for goddamn near a mile. Turn after turn, redrop after redrop, every time I made a move there it was again, just waiting for me to slash something else.

My legs gave out. I jumped off. I swam screaming with exhilaration under the water.