DAYS 183 - 204: MANCORA, PERU
M A N C O R A , P E R U - (OBVIOUSLY NOT EITHER ONE OF US)
I’ve wanted to learn to surf for like…ever…
When I graduated college my dad gave me a wad of cash and a hand-written note that said move to California, buy a board and pursue your dreams…or something along those lines.
And while I managed the move to California part, I never quite got the surfing bit down. It was so much more terrifying than it looked. If you made it past the onslaught of whitewater - there were the forty or fifty jacked up dudes getting all moody and territorial over waves - and then there was the nosediving, the crashing, the not knowing which way was up or down, the jagged rocks, the feeling like you were drowning, the bonked head, the scraped feet, the sinus cavity full of salt water, the hallelujah-I-made-it back-to-the-surface-gasp for air. Only to get crushed again by the second wave of the set rolling in. Enough to make you drag yourself to land sniffing and snorting - and totally un-psyched to go back.
In the three years I lived in California - I probably went three times.
So the dream sat stagnant. Placed in that “someday I’ll…” category. The one we all have for the things that we’d like to do, but never seem to have the time or energy or persistence to actually pull off. But then along came Brad. Who coincidentally enough - also thought it’d be a cool thing to learn. And so from day one of honeymoon planning - we knew we wanted to spend some time by the ocean.
Based on recommendations from friends, we picked the tiny Peruvian town of Mancora - a scrappy little beach spot from which Earnest Hemingway was supposedly inspired to write “The Old Man and the Sea.” Also home to “an excellent left-hander - with a two defined section” - whatever that meant.
We arrived during slow season and were able to talk this awesome little eco resort into renting us this killllllller apartment 5 minutes from the beach - seriously everything my sleep deprived, amenity-starved little heart had been fantasizing about and more - and settled ourselves in for the longest stint stay of our 365 days.
And the surfing? Oh it started out well enough. The first couple of days we took lessons with a pair of instructors. The kind of guys with dark disheveled hair who smiled a lot and never wore shoes - and who were constantly, very loudly, reminding me to get my hands “behind your boobies!!” And those first couple of days were totally awesome. Because instructors are kind of like the giant orange floaties of the surf world. A safety net of sorts. They watch out for you. Get you into position. Give you a push when you need it. And as a result, you catch a few waves and have a blast. And you start to build up this false confidence that maybe…just maybe…you can actually surf.
But then you have to turn in your safety net and get out there on your own. And it’s like getting fed to the wolves. The ocean, hellbent on reminding you what a newb you really are.
I’ve never tried to pick up a sport that is so unfriendly to beginners. Maybe it’s because most of the people in the water learned to swim before they could walk and have been popping up on boards since they were in diapers. Maybe they’ve forgotten how difficult it is to learn. Oooor maybe it’s just that they’re all a bunch of pricks. Either way - surfers aren’t all as zen-ed out and “peace-bro” as they claim to be. As a group - in whole - they’re nasty. Forget trying to smile and wave hello as they fly past you on their way to the lineup. One glance into their dagger eyes quickly reminds you that this is their stomping grounds. Their wave. And you better stay the hell out of their way.
So, being my wussy little unconfrontational self - I’d stick way far to the outside. Hoping to catch the scrap waves that once in a blue moon would head my way - not yet claimed by one of the locals. But even on the off chance that happened, there was all the other stuff you had to master…
In order to actually catch a wave, you pretty much need to be in exactly the right spot. At exactly the right time. With exactly the right speed. You need to be able to look out over the expanse of blue stretched out in front of you and read the energy pulsing itself towards the shore. To anticipate where it’s going to curl over. Paddle like hell to get there. Wedge yourself right into that nook. Paddle like hell some more. And then, you know…jump to your feet without the nose of your board shoving itself into the water in front of you, sucking the board under - the nose on your face following closely behind - your inner voice cursing and praying and hoping to god that your leash doesn’t snap the board back towards you at the very second you emerge to the surface.
I mean really, the whole experience is a total mind fuck. But we stuck to our guns. And for almost three weeks we dragged our sunburnt, battered bodies into the water twice a day. And a lot of days it was that…dragging. I constantly had to remind myself that I wanted this. That it was…“fun.”
When we weren’t surfing, we were mopping up the water draining out of our nostrils. Stretching our broken biceps. Comparing our bruised hips and cut up feet. In the morning we’d pour a cup of coffee and psych ourselves up to give give it another go. And again and again I would find myself zipping up my wetsuit, trudging into the water, trying to ignore the nasty glances from locals, paddling until my arms felt like they were going to fall off, missing most waves, getting frustrated - paddling some more.
And then - just as our time in Mancora was winding down - something wonderful happened. We started catching waves. Not a lot mind you. But enough to appreciate that feeling that makes it all worth it. That drop in your stomach as you descend down the face - that rush as you feel that energy behind you pushing you forward - that heart pumping, body tingling surge of 25 second joy that leaves you totally high - and makes you completely forget about the 32 missed waves and 7 nose plants you took prior.
I’m still a weenie surfer. I still take care to sit way far outside the lineup. I still expend most of my energy paddling to the wrong spot. I still occasionally find myself getting sucked under the roaring whitewater. But over those three weeks I started to feel just a little bit more confident that maybe I belong out there too - that it’s something I can go out and enjoy with the rest of em. And if nothing else I’ve mastered the art of peacefully bobbing on my board in the water. Enjoying the warm sunshine on my face. Watching the sun turn a late afternoon orange and the waves roll in.
Words can’t express how unimaginably thankful I am for this year. Among so many other things, it has given us time and space. To learn things we’ve always wanted to learn. To do things we’ve always wanted to do. The things that would have otherwise remained on the “someday I’ll..’ list. I hope surfing will always be a part of our lives. That we’ll continue to improve. To get better. To have fun. And I hope that even when this year is over, we’ll still carve out time to learn new things, pursue our dreams and make sure that “someday” list never gets too long.
Until next time,
Kenz
