Salsa Brava showing it's teeth 

Salsa Brava

End of the McCoy.

In some ways it could not be a more fitting end. Not for this board the ignomy of rotting in a dusty garage, the humiliation of spending the rest of it's days as a restaurant sign. This was a true grand finale, the coup de grace delivered by the axe-like lip of one of the worlds most fearsome waves.

This board was shaped by Greg Pautsch, well known amongst Californian surfers for decades, as a shaper with a clear understanding and an instinctive feel for the effect of fluid dynamics on the boards he created. My guess is that this one was built some time in the late seventies, perhaps early eighties.

The shape was fast, sleek and smooth, allowing for heavy drops down vertical wave faces without any flutter or deviation from the surfers' chosen line. The few times that I have ridden it up to it's potential I have been amazed at the way it held to the steepest wave face, responding accurately to the slightest shift in my body weight, guiding me through the tricky sections. It felt almost as though it had learned something over the years, from the different riders that must have used it. Perhaps it simply carried the experienced knowledge of the shaper; whatever- when you were on this board you felt as though you were in good hands at the most critical moments.

Salsa Brava is the name of the break... Wild Salsa it translates as. Hot and wild just about describes it. This is a wave that takes the focussed energy of trade wind swells which have crossed the Atlantic Ocean and Carribean Sea. On this stretch of the Costa Rican coastline coral reef ledges form an abrupt barrier to these often powerful swells. The way in which the wave rears up, doubles and triples it's height; and then throws it's crest horizontally forwards has given it a reputation as one of the most radical and hollow waves in the Country- perhaps in all of central America. Photographs of surfers riding deep in Hawaiian- style barrels have stoked the fire: surfers come from all over the world to ride this wave.

We were exploring the mountains in the central highlands of the country with Julie and Jill, when the weather turned. A cold front gave us torrential rain (our first for five months!) and unsettled weather for a few days. As we drove down the coast from Puerto Limon we glimpsed offshore reefs throwing up walls of water which collapsed in clouds of spray, visible from miles away. By the time we made it to Puerto Viejo, where Salsa Brava breaks, the sea was a heaving, grey monster- a far cry from the crystal clear, blue Caribbean we had been expecting.

Paddling out into the lineup at Salsa for the first time was a nerve wracking experience. The winding, S shaped channel through the reef boils and foams. Rip currents wash from the reef on either side of the pass- the deluge of water breaking over the outer reefs exits back to the sea through this channel. As you are swept out into the incoming swells surfers are visible, dropping into serious Salsa tubes to one side- perhaps every third attempt ending in crushing failure; whilst to the other side of the channel un-rideable mutants crash on the craggy reef lying just below the surface.

I spent a while sitting on the shoulder of the waves, watching and chatting with the locals, trying to assimilate as much information about the break as I could as quickly as possible. There was perhaps an hour till dark and no guarantee that the swell would hold till the morning- it was now, or maybe never.

Salsa Brava peaks in two distinct places, perhaps fifty metres apart. Catch the right one and you can drop in on one peak and fly through under the lip of the next as it pitches forwards; if you make it through theres a long wall on which to celebrate. Make an error of judgement and the punishment can be severe, as the second peak can drill you to the reef, roll you over it's razor sharp teeth, and leave you gasping for breath as the following waves finish the job of teaching you a damn good lesson. Not a place to practice this- it's all or nothing.

After a few testing rides and a taste of what the wave had to offer I paddled in, flushed with the adrenaline overload, relieved to have come through this introduction unscathed. We had an early night- the alarm clock set for 5.45- the swell looked as though it was holding after all-dawn was certain to be epic.

Two hours into the morning session I made the classic mistake. Tired after a few wild rides and some heavy wipeouts, I caught a long ride in, looked at the beach, decided to paddle out for one more before breakfast. It never fails to get me this one... one last ride, just one more! How many times have I regretted making this decision, but still haven't learned to pay heed.

So back out through the channel, back into the lineup, now filling up with late risers. Tired arms, tired mind: I took off on the wrong one, ended up caught inside, reef on one side, big set on the way. No way out but a relentless paddle through the impact zone and a series of deep duck dives under heavy lips, each threatening to take me to the bottom and the teeth below. The third wave was the one that did the damage.

I had lost my grip on the McCoy under the second wave as it rolled over me. With no time to re-mount and duck dive the third, I swum for the bottom, the board trailing behind me by my legrope. I felt my knuckles graze the reef, the wave impact behind me, relieved at first that I was through, felt the tug as it pulled my board,. But somehow I knew something wasn't right- the tug wasn't as hard as it should have been.

I surfaced, grabbed a lungful of air, looked for the McCoy. There it was, trailing folornly from the leash. No longer the sleek, fast looking blade: now a shattered stub of torn fibreglass and foam. Ungainly fins, once perfectly proportioned for the board's length, now suddenly, absurdly oversized for the remaining piece. In the distance, the front section wallowed in the uneasy waters inside the reef.

It was quite a job paddling the little stub back to the shore- through the eddies and currents, to the keyhole in the reef where deep water runs right up to the palm fringed beach. I flopped out of the water and unstrapped the sad remains of the McCoy from my ankle. In the distance the other half was held in a circling eddy of foam, as if uncertain whether to drift to shore, or out to sea.

It took me a half hour to paddle out on my old faithful and retrieve the wreckage, but I was glad I found it. I need the measurements for the replacement- son of McCoy, to be shaped at South Week Farm in time for next autumn- in Devon.

Shredded! 

Tas has been getting some screamers, here dropping left into a fast Nicaraguan wall. 

Suzanne's been taking off on some pretty big waves, dissapearing in a cloud of spray and reappearing, standing, to ride all the way to the beach. I'd like to add not a hair out of place, but.... 

Harriet up and away. 

Jemima getting the hang of the lefts, Majagual Nicaragua 

Sunzal, El Salvador. An area laced with long points in warm water. Dawn till breakfast in the water, several hours in the hammock, sunset back in the waves.... it's pretty hard. 

Majagual, Nicaragua... perfection every day although the water temp plumeted due to a pulse of cold current... had the teeth chattering a bit, we almost got the wetsuits out again, but... nah.