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Feathers, Barrels and Silver Scarabs |
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Tours Of The Osa |
I wake slowly to the sound of pounding surf and spider monkey dumps thudding on our roof. There’s a deeper timber to the spider monkey dump due to their rich diet of fruits, whereas howler monkeys give more of a splat from a predominantly leaf diet. I reflect on how strange to know the difference as my wife and I walk down the path to see the waves.
Checking the outta control conditions with a cup of strong brew in-hand we’re greeted by “Colorado Chris”, a Crested Butte contractor here for a month working on his property. Moments later, another friend, BD, blasts out of the trees astride his horse Diamante. Quite the rider, BD nonetheless has his hands full with Diamante nervously prancing about the flotsam, strewn beach. The combination of a huge, southwest swell and full lunar, tides was tearing at the base of palms and beach almonds entrenched on a berm of sand below the forest edge. We watched in nervous fascination as thunderous waves wedged free 60’ long, 5’ wide tree trunks deposited on these beaches from landslides long ago. Having to scramble to higher ground ourselves to evade the surge from a monster set, we sagely decided to surf a point further inside the gulf that proffered 400 yard rights on days like this.
BD, needing to trade his horse for his surfboard, rode home so Chris and I took the time to stretch and wax up after partaking in a hippie speedball. Afterward, Chris and I hoofed it down the beach scanning the sand instead of the horizon as we walked. It’s always cool to find jungle treasures and our bookcase is full of them... monkey and turtle skulls, odd-shaped driftwoods, conch shells and the like.
What caught my eye this morning was curiously prophetic... a hermit crab shell, the size of a 20 colone coin and reflecting bright mother of pearl. This in itself isn’t so strange, but this one had been perfectly pierced by a two foot long macaw tail feather through a hole in its cone. With no campers nearby or even footprints to suggest anything other than chance, this totem and its strange vibe were now mine.
An avid reader of neo-tropical cultures, myths and legends, I recalled the importance macaw plumage has to peoples of central and south America. It’s ornate and intrinsic beauty displayed proudly on the headdresses of shamans and rulers instilled a power over the conquered and common lower class.
With that, I stashed the feather for later retrieval and ran to catch up with Chris who had by now, rounded a point locals call, matachancho. There he was, slack-jawed, as a set of 18’ waves cracked on the outside reef, then dredge a huge brown tube in front of Land Rover-sized slab of basalt before screaming into the bay. I experienced a sort of vertigo and Chris was still gaping like a Halloween Scream mask when I approached him. “We can’t surf Pan Dulce after seeing that,” I said. “Even if all our friends are ripping up 15’ perfect rights, this is something special. We’re going out here.” Chris mumbled rebuttals about never having surfed it but, sensing a lull, I jumped in hoping for a channel to sweep me toward Pavones. There was no channel, no lull, and I paid dearly.
Getting thoroughly pummeled by two bombs that somehow managed to scalp a patch off the back of my head the same shape as that 20 colone-sized hermit crab shell, I regrouped way inside and gagging on salt water. Fins, rail or rock, I still don’t know who the culprit was, but know for a fact I’ll never sport the “shaved dome look” for fear of it’s Braille-like appearance. Chris, having waited or just out of sheer terror, escaped the carnage but we both felt the tension when I paddled up to him on the outside.
The only guys that surfed the place were “Captain” Mike, who was on vacation in Hawaii, and “Big J”, a 250 lb old-schooler who earned naming rights by pulling switch stance bottom turns on a 9’ Diff about 8 years ago. He eventually got blasted by a set and hasn’t surfed it since. I’ve paddled out with Mike on smaller days and clearly remember him telling me...”don’t ever wash off speed by cutting back before the rock, or you’ll be doomed!”
I passed this advice on to Chris as we cautiously moved toward the peak. It wasn’t long before opportunity stacked up out of the Pacific. Desperately wanting to avenge my head wound and set a more confident tone, I dropped into a doable 12 footer. Coming off the bottom on my thick 7’2”, I wrapped a short cutback into the foam before realizing my error. Without the speed needed to pump past the rock, I was in a dead zone with the rest of the set feathering outside. I faded high on the face in order to get some speed back just as the wave began to hit the shallow bar in front of the barnacle encrusted massif.
A big reverb in the wave launched me off the face and nearly separated me from my board. My fins caught on touchdown however, and awkwardly reshuffled my stance closer to the nose in time to backdoor through a tube with all the unpleasant ness of an abandoned farm well. I can remember being lifted up from the tail section and tweaking my body toward the wall as if being frisked by airport security.
After surviving the exit, -for to not, would surely have meant death- I dreamily flew down another fifty yards of top to bottom carves. No claims, no cameras, just relief. I had the look of Robert Horry after draining the winning 3-pointer against Sacramento in game 5 of the western championships. I was wearing the shamans’ headdress now and though amping on all cylinders with Chris and surfing bigger sets with more aplomb, it was that first wave which opened the door.
Walking... no floating back to the house after the session, I got the feather and studied its elegance. Bright red, it actually looks molten in the sunlight and softens in hue in the shade. The hollow shaft has a fine, plum colored line running the length of the vane.
For the rest of that day, whether volleyball or chess, things came effortlessly. A group of us enjoyed a barbeque on the beach rehashing our stories as the swell continued to pour lines into the gulf under a watchful full moon.
Before going to bed, I decided to record the events of the day and slip it into the shaft of the feather. While writing, a brilliant silver scarab landed on the paper diverting my attention. Aimlessly meandering for a few minutes, it suddenly looked ready to fly away. The hard, outer wings split open but instead of taking off... it shook like a wet dog displacing dozens of polished mini beetles. My paper looked as if I had spilled liquid mercury on it! Then, mom did fly away and I was left in charge of her tiny, chromatic brood thus capping a most memorable day.
Article courtesy of Andy Pruter of Everyday Adventures www.psychotours.com |
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