The Duck Dive #21
Mi amigo from Palomino
I always struggled to drag my friends into surfing. They rarely agree with what I have in mind: it’s always too early, too far, a little too cold… I don’t blame them - it is hard to appreciate all the moving parts behind good surf conditions, let alone to put yourself in the flow of things. Last summer, I was forced to reconsider my approach. I (painfully) learnt that surfing doesn’t have to be a convolution of wind, weather and swell forecasts. This is a story about embracing flow - whether that includes pumping barrels or not.
I knew that planning a trip to Colombia with 3 surf-muggles would be an uphill battle. But I rarely visit countries that boast two oceans, warm waters and consistent waves. So not fitting in a proper surf window was unthinkable. “I think we might split for a couple of days after Cartagena” I said. All three just laughed it off, as if I was crazy. “You’re being ridiculous we’re not gonna split”. Vianney took a big drag on a newly-lit cigarette as they moved on to something else. I guess they thought I was manifesting my surfer personality again - like a cry for recognition - and preferred not to drill on it. The case was not so easily dismissed in my head. I knew they would never dedicate a full week to a surf coast. Not with the Botero-filled museums, Comuna 13, the Cocora-Valley’s moto rides, the hikes and Tayrona park on option as well. If I wanted to surf, I had to act alone. I shut up, but a deep conviction resonated loud and clear within me : when the time would come, I would kick out of the group and do what I had to do. “Hasta luego” I thought.
Fast forward a couple months, we’re moving out of Cartagena with a solid rumba fever hitting in full swing. Our driver speeds through a broken track and tells cartel stories from not that long ago. We’re on our way to a dreamy little island to find peace in hammocks, warm seas and maybe some fishing. Suddenly, I realised this was the part of the trip when I secretly wanted to go surf alone - which I ended up never planning. Instead, they convinced me that 2 days in Palomino - a hippie town with surf rentals available on the beach - would do the trick. This atrocious car ride must be the price to pay, I thought. Pay for what ? For not putting yourself in the right spot at the right time. Somewhere in Colombia, perfect little waves were peeling down a beautiful coast, for longer than the eye can see… The hangover whispered that I was letting myself down, that it had been ages since I last surfed. I kept the thought to myself, closed my eyes and let a beautiful vision of a white sand beach come to my mind. The dense tropical forest’s green contrasted with the dazzling sand, and waves morphed into warm chlorine walls. But the car heat felt like torture.
After four days of reading in hammocks and watching sunsets burn the (flat) horizon, and scooping coconut flesh, we drove into Palomino. I was still burning to surf. We got there late but I managed to borrow a foam board from a surf school for 10 minutes before it was completely dark. There were no real waves and the wind was up, I was chasing small and scrappy glides left and right, paddling nonstop in the dimming light just to get a kick. In the beach bars, people were already a few drinks deep. My first Colombian surf must have looked like a joke, if not a fail. I was just surf deprived, and slightly offbeat. A yoyo-like whistle came from the beach and the surf instructor called me in. He seemed happy for me, called me brother and told me to come back the next day - as any surf instructor would.
I showered quickly and joined them at the back of a hostel’s bar. Red and green lights were flying around the palm tree roof and green plants were hanging from every corner like a deep jungle. Reggaeton tunes were blasting - I was late for cumbia. I found my friends outside, sat with a shirtless rasta. They spoke in a mix of Spanish-and-sign language. I’m not sure which was more effective, but everyone seemed eager to make up for each other’s lack of understanding and trade stories. They had been together for a while, judging by their laughs.
When they saw me, Esteban stood up and hugged me firmly. “You have to meet this guy - Kayson. He can find us some boards and drive us to a wave only 20 minutes away. You’re gonna love him.” The sentence was delivered like a surprise. When he let go from the hug, a huge smile stayed on his face. He knew nothing would please me more. Out of the other two, one was eying the dance floor and tuning in the music with gentle moves. The other was face down on the wooden table, glasses off, with a cup of water next to his head. Kayson invited me in a fist bump and smiled. They were high as kites.
We snoozed an 8:30 alarm once or twice the following morning. Kayson had no phone, so sticking to the plan mechanically was the only option. We felt like we’d been hit by a truck. Kayson was at the meeting point. The 5 of us picked up the Spanish-and-sign dialect we discovered the night before. The first bit I understood from Kayson that day was his imitation one of us falling head down on a table after taking a puff. That put the first smile of the day on our faces. Either that or the first look to the four boards he had picked up. Each board looked like they’d lived three lives before Kayson resurrected them for a final rodeo. In retrospect, he clearly had none when we met him the night before. He later confessed that he was as much of a surf teacher as we were. Recently, he had also been a hiking guide, a fishing guide… the list went on until Kayson picked up his contagious laugh. He was basically a Venezuelan refugee trying to survive. So kudos to him for getting 4 boards before 9am the next day. His boogie boarder tattoo was authentic though - we were in decent hands.
After a 15 min ride on a public bus, Kayson gave the driver a whistle. We walked through tall coconut trees, eyeing the horizon to see the promised waves. That’s what I was eyeing at least. There’s always a special feeling that comes with following a local. It’s a way of getting to know someone. How many times has he walked past these trees ? Where can he start telling if it’s going to be good ? Is it his favourite break? As we reached the beach, I realised the waves would not morph into warm chlorine walls. I thought about that quietly for a minute. When I came back from that thought - everything felt right into place : my friends were eyeing the horizon, Kayson was getting ready to teach us the basics - drawing a surfboard in the sand. He lied down next to it, pointed to his feet, then said something in Spanish. Then started paddling with his chin raised high, and pop-up. Here we were. The waves were small and our instructor was a boogie boarder, but we strapped our leashes on and I had dragged my friends surfing. We were onnn!
Come back to this when you go to bed tonight:
(and if you like it, check out this playlist).
Magnifiquement bien rédigé comme d’habitude ! Ça donne envie d’aller visiter la Colombie :)