The Christmas Swell

OK, this one was special.


I feel how a mountaineer must feel when they have at last scaled that elusive peak, a runner who has been training to break a time barrier, a personal goal that has been in the making for over twenty years. This was the fulfilment of an ambition that goes back to those first, floundering attempts to padle out through the shorebreak at Apple Bay, long long ago.

Here was one of those opportunities we surfers dream of and dread: a challenge beyond any we have yet encountered. We know it looks possible, it looks good even. But the sheer size, the overwhelming power, the extraordinary visual contradiction offered by a wave that is travelling faster than any you have ridden before, is higher than any you have looked down from; somehow playing out it's magnificent last moments in slow, slow motion, in front of your eyes. Worse: there is no one else out, you've got a couple of non surfing buddies and a nervous looking wife on the beach wondering why you're hesitating, and theres no excuse! There are boards to hand, time available, nothing to stop you paddling into the maelstrom of the shorebreak but your own pounding heart.

And that same heart chills for a moment when the first wave of the first set rounds the point, pushes out of the deep water over the shelf: that moment of suppressed panic, almost of total disbelief that beyond is another, and then another, that somehow these goliaths are able to defy gravity for long series of seconds before toppling, pitching tens of feet forwards and exploding into boiling clouds of thundering white water.

This all came about because we had been searching the coast South of Puerto Vallarta, and North of Manzanillo for a good place to hole up for Christmas. The surf literature is pretty thin on detail for this stretch of coastline: nothing on the web, nothing in publications like the Stormrider guide. Not even any tell tale boards hanging over the backs of pick-ups on the dirt roads... nothing, not a thing to indicate that there were epic breaks in this area other than a map, showing a hundred miles of very exposed coastline, numerous rocky points and beaches. There simply had to be surf here somewhere!

We had almost decided to stay back to the north, knowing that this next strectch could be trying. Punta de Mita had been pretty good- all the children had ridden waves (Jemima her longest ever), but the whole area was being developed and was one huge clog of diggers and earth moving equipment, villas and hotels. Sayulita looked like a fine wave but sadly overrun with tourists. We made the decision to head into the unknown.

The search began with a hair raising dirt road journey through the mountains to the coast due west of Vallarta. We discovered some incredible beaches with yet more turtle conservation camps, pretty and remote fishing villages; and some tucked-away high class hotels- but the swell was as small as we had seen for a while and any surf potential was hiding out of sight.

At the expense of a tyre and a shock absorber we ploughed on, the children increasingly anxious that christmas was going to be spent on the road and not on a tropical beach! The dirt roads gave way once more to the tarmac as the main road swung back to the coast and we rejoined the traffic heading south. We started to feel as though we would have to forget surf until after christmas, in favour of finding a child friendly campsite to hang the stockings in. This was not an easy moment, as the last forecast we had seen showed 40ft waves in the far North Pacific spread over a vast area- we knew a big swell was on the way some time in the next week.

We decided to take a chance on one more detour before heading for a safe campsite around the tourist area of Melaque- and suddenly luck was back with us again. We had seen noted in one of our campsite guides as an alternative to the more formal sites of Melaque- a place with no facilities, but off the beaten track. It sounded good and looked on the map like an exposed enough place to take in swell from most directions.

We arrived to find the campsite access road virtually impassable for a big vehicle like ours, but somehow scraped through the steep and rutted track onto a sand spit, perhaps a hundred metres long and fifty metres wide, the Pacific on one side, a calm bay on the other; and at the end of the sandspit a large rocky outcrop a hundred metres high, draped in dry tropical vegetation. We were met at the bottom of the access track by a silver haired Indigena who introduced himself as Chuy, directed us to a lovely pitch sheltered by the rock, overlooking the bay and only fifteen yards from the water;s edge. We all knew instantly that we had landed somewhere special.

Just how special was only to become apparent as the long forecast swell finally hit. These waves had travelled a long way, and had mellowed offshore to a long (18 second) period 6-8ft swell. It was when they landed on the steeply shelving beach behind the rocky access road to the campsite that we realised how much energy was still contained in these pulsing messengers of distant turmoil. The beach break was a solid 15ft crest to trough and landing on dry sand- I knew that all we needed to find was a reef, or channel somewhere for this to be a once in a lifetime opportunity.

It happened that we had met a very laid back Alaskan family on the beach who introduced us to one of their friends. Carlos knew exactly where we should go: "I've seen a place up the coast a few miles, it looks surfable to me- but I've never seen anyone on it, I'd love to see someone ride it!". It was enough of a hint to get us in the back of his pick-up for a recconaisance mission.

By now the swell had picked up to the point that it was wrapping a full 270 degrees around our sandspit/rock outcrop and amazingly, the coral reef in front of the campsite was starting to break too! Enough to get the longboards going and even Tas, now confident enough to be skimming over coral heads, was catching waves right in front of the tent.

Leaving the children with our new friends on the beach, we set off in Carlos's pick up, via a series of dusty tracks and through palm fringed fields of avocado trees and tomato vines. Passing through a number of lovely villages decked out in the full christmas regalia of flashy bunting, strung criss cross above the entire length of the village streets and around the main squares; the atmosphere was of a fiesta already gearing up to fever pitch- with a couple of days still to go before the main event.

At last we wound our way down the last few yards of a gorgeous, wide, green river valley, to see the beach ahead steaming with salt spray. Rainbows of sunlight sparkling through the mist told of the immense amount of water vapour hanging over the beach on an otherwise bone dry day.

The surf was huge- a five- wave twenty foot set was running down the point at the far end of the beach and nearer us, on the beach itself a mass of foaming white water was swirling around in rips and eddies. Backwash from the rocks at the point and from the steep sloping sand sent waves hurtling back to sea, and where they met with the incoming swells, the collision would cause explosive fountains of spray to fly chaotically into the air.

It looked pretty intinidating at first, but off the point was a reef, and a channel, and between sets there was a way out through the chaos. It was rideable- there was no doubt about it.

I had broaght along a couple of boards- my tried and trusted friend from England, a 7'4" funshape by Roger Tout of Bude, which had been a good all round board in anything from 2-10ft surf, a good paddling board with plenty of volume under the chest- an oversise shortboard shape really. I had also bought, in Santa Cruz, a 7'2x 19" McCoy semi gun by Greg Pautsch, mainly with Puerto Escondido in mind. I had tried the gun out at Jalama, California and Cerritos in Southern Baja, so I knew it to be a fast and true board... but this was scary stuff, I needed the comfort of my trusted travelling companion. I looked at the waves, looked at my boards, picked up the 'Tout and dived in.

I now know that it was a daft decision- but at the time my chest was exploding with the pounding my heart was giving it- and I was glad to have a quick paddle out between these huge sets. I made it out as far as I thought neccesary, and sat up,trying to control my nerves with long, slow breathing excersises, knowing that even if this didn't work, at least there would be plenty of oxygen flowing around my system when the moment finally arrived.

Which inevitably, it did. The breathing excersises ground to an abrupt halt as I watched, with morbid fascination, the first wave of the set rear up 50 yards to seaward. I could see already the wave behind and knew there was another 3, maybe 4 to follow. I knew the first was going to be an easier option, that the second and third were probably already too far gone for me to contemplate, I waited for the moment turned... and paddled.

The lift, when it came was more like a disney ride than a surfing wave- it took an unfeasibly long time for a start, from the first elevator whoosh to the precarious moment when the up movement slows, the forward movement increases, and the descent begins. Then there was this whole, extraordinary long drop- not a tense, quick bottom turn as required when the drop from crest to trough is a few feet, but a charging sleigh ride of a descent, straightlining down this long stretch of water, which however fast I tried to get to the bottom seemed to continue sloping down ahead of me as the wave sped towards the shore. Several seconds passed, and still this thrilling descent went on.

Eventually the crest of this behemoth pitched above and behind me and I tried to dig the rail of the board beneath me to claw some height back up the face, but the board had red-lined long ago- somewhere on the way down the slope the 21" width had begun overcome the 7'4 length in the unequal struggle with the forces of speed and stability. I popped over a small ripple of foam and flew off the back into the avalanche of white water descending from above.

I knew immediately that my choice of board was flawed- I needed the narrower, more nimble gun, but there was no way I was going back in through the shore pound now- and anyway I wanted another of those crazy sleigh ride drops even If the bottom turn was impossible- the gun would wait till tomorrow.

A couple more of these crazy journeys down this long wave face took another hour- for a start the sets were 12-15 minutes apart, and careful wave selection was required- the wide sets were peaking 50 metres from the "take off" spot, many of the bigger waves were closing out, and I was still nervously shoulder hopping in my quest to balance the needs of safety in this unknown place against the desire to make the most of the opportunity. Eventually I caught a ride in and was dumped unceremoniously on the sand by the shorepound.

Christmas took priority the following day, but the swell held, and we returned, two families and Carlos, on Boxing day, to find the beach as deserted as we had left it and the swell a mellower triple overhead. This time, without hesitation the McCoy was thoroughly waxed and pressed into service.

What a place, and although I have asked around and heard that it has been surfed before, it was still totally empty when we were there. Thanks Santa!!