Diseased
It is day three here in Nicaragua - the biggest day of the trip so far at head high or so. I am currently pretending to work while waiting for the tide to drop. It’s a great feeling to have a few small introduction days of less consequential waves to ease into the flow - especially when you haven’t stood up on a board in six months. The exact opposite surf forecast sequence that I typically find myself in (usually big to start, then small).
Trips like these are the adult form of Disneyland for surf-diseased individuals. Wake up, surf, eat breakfast, surf, eat lunch, nap, surf, beer, dinner, bed - on repeat. The routine we all wish we could afford to live on a daily basis. It’s so beautifully simple and deranged at the same time. This thought cycle revolves around an ever-changing ocean that most wives, friends, siblings or parents simply cannot comprehend. Surf trips are the safe space for these diseased individuals to gather and overdose on all things ocean.
There are very few locations in the world where there are consistently good waves. If surf consistency was translated to a numerical scale, Montana would be a zero and South Carolina would be a two. Nicaragua is one of the rare locations where (more often than not) the wind and the waves cooperate to produce barreling beachbreaks. Therefore this group of summer surf starved South Carolinians and one landlocked gringo were primed for overindulgence.
Afternoon, low-tide session. Wilds left, Ellison right.
As a group we had a two week window of watching the surfline forecast for our desired zone to plan our strike mission. When we were confident in the fun-sized swell filling in, plane tickets were purchased and a surf shack was secured. Last minute arrangements are the only way to hopefully ensure that you don’t get skunked. A skunking could be a result of too large or too small swell height, bad wind direction, improper swell direction/period or simply just some bad voodoo from mother ocean.
This was the rare surf trip where the waves were approachable and the wind was mostly perfect every single day. At it’s best, we surfed an empty beachbreak at slightly overhead. At it’s worst, we battled for three foot micro tubes in knee deep water with one hundred other surf-hungry characters from around the world.
Surfing is this strange microcosm of strategy, luck, unspoken hierarchies, skill and passion. It is not simply just paddling out, throwing shakas and trading off waves. It is more like a quiet dog fight, where everyone crowds around the proverbial dog bowl waiting to be fed. Some dogs know exactly where to patiently wait for the main course. Some dogs are content with table scraps. Some dogs (myself) prefer to be loner strays, loitering in sub-optimal positioning.
Our wolfpack got overfed that week - gorging on the perfectly sized A-frame peaks. Three, sometimes four sessions per day. The lay periods in between sessions were filled with surf movies, sleep, smoothie bowls and brownie sundaes. A simple, rich existence ideally suited for the surf diseased and deprived individual in the holy land.
The good stuff
On my last leg of a three flight journey back to Bozeman, I begin to contemplate life choices that have led me so far from the ocean. I realize that I am not full nor satisfied by the weeklong surfathon despite my body feeling like I got hit by a bus. I am diseased - already researching the flights, waves and seasons for the next trip. The itch only gets worse with scratching.
