Eat. Pray. Skunk: The Perils of Mozambique!

An ‘enlightening’ ten days in Cape Town left me eager to look forward and step into the rest of my life. A growing angst emerged from the uncertainty that often accompanies the end of one’s university career. I was determined to set my plans in motion, making my surf trip a reality. While in Cape Town, I’d been monitoring a weather system off the coast of Mozambique — a storm forecast to produce four-metre easterly swells accompanied by light morning winds. Like cold Coke in a glass bottle, that’s just about perfect. I wrestled with my excitement, intent on keeping a level head (firstly, because tropical cyclones are unpredictable and often change course as the forecast becomes a reality, and secondly, because I can’t stand the nervous energy that accompanies long-range forecasting – constant checking of the swell and weather reports in the hopes that the charts will remain the same, or better, improve).

Despite my best efforts and as a result of the improvement on the charts, my emotions broke free, allowing my mind to find refuge in cascading walls of Mozambican water. I messaged my brother back in Durban, needing a release: “Check the cyclone coming down to Mozam on the 26th!”. Dave had a quick look at the forecast and replied in typical fashion, “Shiiii[t],” he said. “That could be sick, must keep an eye on it.” And so we did. Things unfolded as we expected, solidifying our decision to pull the trigger on the evening of the 24th. I hopped on the 07:00 flight from Cape Town the next morning with the plan set to drive straight from the airport up to Mozambique. The journey’s hard to recall – blurred by visions of perfect, running right-hand barrels. The nervous jitters I’d been trying so hard to avoid had arrived – a symptom of my wandering mind and growing excitement. I had been to this part of Mozambique in the past and scored near perfect five-foot barrels on a far more marginal forecast, so I guess I can be forgiven for getting ahead of myself.

(The boys frothing on the plane home)

We arrived at the border post late in the afternoon, weary from a long day’s travel. Now, as some of you know, Mozambican border crossings are not as simple as they seem. Whether it’s twenty rand for a cool drink on the way in or a quick thouey for an ‘unstamped passport’ on the way out, you’re unlikely to leave the country unscathed. COVID-19 has worsened things, with a multitude of new checks and regulations creating further room for corruption. My dad, armed with this knowledge and a propensity for rule-bending, has developed a comical, yet effective, method of ensuring safe passage. Over numerous past border-crossings, the Bullet, as we affectionately refer to him, observed an intriguing pattern. He noticed that fellow travellers able to exude an air of wealth and opulence received favourable treatment, often making it out of the danger zone unencumbered. He also found that the process took the well-endowed half the time it took the rest of us plebs. Never one to pass up an opportunity, Pops equipped himself with a sports blazer and a Panama hat. However, he wasn’t (and still isn’t) prepared to sacrifice comfort and commit entirely to the ruse. As such, his border-crossing outfit tends to consist of said hat and blazer, a dark t-shirt, some or other pair of informal shorts, and a pair of plastic open-toed sandals. As you can imagine, this outfit doesn’t quite portray the suave, lavish character my dad hopes to embody and yet, somehow, it works a charm (this might have something to do with the fact that most of the checking stations provide a partial view of travellers through a small window, obstructing sight below the torso).

Having seen the charade several times in the past, the three of us boys (Dave, Oli and me) stuck to the Bullet like glue, hoping to take advantage of the slipstream. The success of previous border crossings had emboldened Solly, allowing for a nonchalance which worked in his favour and amplified his air of superiority. We breezed through the border, no questions asked, and made our way over the sandy roads towards the house.

Driving over the final dune, we were greeted by a wild, angry sea. Five-foot sets slammed the sandbars in a disorderly manner. Typically unable to separate my mood from that of the sea, unease washed over me, amplified by a nervous hope for waves. An angry sea often quietens overnight, made obedient by light offshore winds which are not uncommon in this part of the world, making us optimistic for the morning ahead. We slapped some boerie on the braai, cracked open a couple of cold ones, and discussed hopeful predictions. Twenty or so minutes later, we sat down at the table, ready to eat. Pops gestured to me. Intuiting that he was asking me to pray, I raised my hands signalling the others to bind theirs to mine. I began by blessing the hands that had prepared the food, knowing very well that they were my own hands (I never pass up on a blessing!). I continued, praying for our time in Mozambique and of course, amazing waves. We ate our food and headed off to bed, eager to get as much sleep as possible before the early wakeup.

The next morning we woke at first light, squinting to assess the quality of the surf. Oli and I made our way to the end of the deck and studied the waves as the sun rose. A swarm of thirsty bloodsuckers cut our investigation short and we rushed inside, intent on avoiding both itchy bites and malaria, but not before we got a glimpse of the sea. Much to our excitement, the ocean now seemed to be producing uniform, evenly spaced out waves with considerable size and power. We gulped our coffees down and hopped in the car, making the half an hour drive to the wave. Arriving in the bay, it was evident that the sea hadn’t cleaned up quite as much as we had originally thought. While fairly orderly and decently-sized, the waves were far from perfect, providing uneven, jumbled faces.

(The first morning's view)

Nonetheless, there were waves and we were frothing to surf. We jumped in, hoping that time might heal the morning sickness. After a difficult paddle I arrived out the back, realising that the surf was considerably bigger than I’d originally imagined – something that often happens at point-break setups where you tend to observe the waves from quite a distance due to the shape of the bay. I took a few minutes to compose myself and observe the lineup before getting into the session. The waves were fun, with big slopey walls, but far from the perfection we knew this spot could produce. The four-hundred-metre barrelling rides we’d experienced on our last trip were nowhere to be seen. I sat on my board filled with happiness and gratitude, and yet, unable to avoid the frustration that is synonymous with underwhelming waves. “It’s fine,” I thought, consoling myself with the knowledge that the surf was supposed to improve over the coming days with more favourable tides and lighter winds in the mornings ahead. After about two hours and a bunch of enjoyable rides we decided to head in, making a beeline for the C-grade coffee shop nestled in the bay. Discussing the waves over a second cup, I realised we’d all had similar experiences that first morning. We’d had fun but we wanted, and expected, more!

(A couple from the first session)

The afternoon passed by on the couch, my time divided between the Proteas and The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry until, all of a sudden, dinner was upon us. Once again we sat down at the table, staring longingly at the chicken espetadas as we bound our hands. As is customary in our family, Pops had nominated a new person to deliver the grace. Dave, following the usual pattern, blessed first the hands that had prepared the meal (I’d had a small part to play in this one and once again made sure to soak up as much of the blessing as I could). He then went on to ask God to help improve my surfing, finding a way to roast me in his prayer, an art he’d spent some time perfecting. He ended things off praying that the perfect waves we’d been hoping for would appear. The grace gave way to intense espetada eating, silencing the room and filling our stomachs. It was only when the licked-clean skewers lay in the serving bowl that the post-chow drowsiness started to kick in, beginning the collective movement towards the bedrooms.

Ol and I chatted a bit before bed, agreeing that we needed good waves in the coming days to avoid a serious skunking. I reassured him, making note of the windless forecast and quality of our prior experiences. We woke on our second morning horrified at the sight of a corduroy sea, rippled by an unexpected cross-shore wind. It’s not often that the forecast gets it that wrong — predicting windless conditions until 09:00 when, in reality, the wind was up by 04:45. We drove to the main spot, hoping a fool’s hope that the winds might be lighter a few kilometres down the beach. Unsurprisingly, this was not the case, and we arrived in the bay to the same wind-riddled sea. With nothing else to do, we decided to give it a go.

The wave shape had improved from the day prior with longer, more even faces. However, the cross-shore wind created a chatter that bounced your board, making it difficult to commit to turns. Again, the waves were fun, but Dave and I couldn’t help thinking how good it would’ve been if the wind had just held off. The sand was perfect at the top of the point, and the more orderly walls were hitting the bank just right; the kind of day that, if windless, produces friendly three-foot tubes with multiple turn sections as the wave runs down the point. In contrast, there were no barrels in sight and getting a good turn off was a challenge. Although we’d heard it a lot in the past, we were starting to appreciate just how fickle Mozam could be; even with a really good forecast, nothing is a given! The waves deteriorated as the wind picked up and by 08:00 it was no longer worth surfing.

As if caught in a loop, our second day traced the same pattern as the first, heading for a post-surf coffee followed by an afternoon on the couch reading and watching the cricket. By the time the evening arrived, it was clear that the swell had dropped considerably, looking as if it had more than halved throughout the day. It was at this point that the reality of the situation started to sink in. With a dying swell on the forecast it was evident that, barring a miracle, we were going to leave Mozambique without as much as a taste of good surf. The mood shifted, signifying our arrival in Skunky Town!

Heads hung low with disappointment beating down on us like the harsh Mozambican sun. Boisterous conversations turned to whispers, all of us too scared to speak of the skunking we knew was upon us in fear that this might somehow make it more real than it already was. The next few hours crawled by as we waited longingly for the evening feed, which had now become our only source of joy. When dinner did finally rear its head, the Bullet, knowing we needed a miracle, took on the grace. On the surface, nothing much changed. The cooks were blessed once again, and good waves were prayed for, but we could all feel that something was different. A hopeful expectancy had turned to desperation. Where once we’d had the forecast on our side, we were now in need of divine intervention.

With the drop in swell and early winds predicted, we decided we’d wake and assess the conditions in the morning. At 04:30, we dragged ourselves out of bed, needing only a brief glance at the waves to see that it was small and windy; nothing worth being up at that hour for. This was the nail in the coffin ensuring the skunking, and we headed back to bed disillusioned.

We decided to stay in Mozambique for another few days, holding out for a south swell that looked like it might just produce some waves. In the spirit of things, it didn’t, and we headed home a few days nearer to heaven than expected. No harm no foul, I guess.

Despite the terribly underwhelming surf and emotional rollercoaster of it all, I look back fondly on the trip. There was so much quality time spent among friends, brothers, fathers, and sons — time that I’ve taken for granted in the past and time that I’m increasingly appreciative of. This, I’m realising, is the magic of pulling the trigger on surf trips, you never regret it. The more I think about it, the more I see how reflective this is of most of life. Taking the leap is always worth it. If it goes well, then great! If it goes badly, chances are you’ve been put in positions you’re not accustomed to, growing your resolve and confidence in your own ability. I think of my decision to get a waitering job: the fear and anxiety that came with approaching restaurants, the discomfort of the complete unknown, and the subsequent sense of purpose and achievement that’s come from sticking it out. While I haven’t been skunked by this job, I know a skunking’s out there somewhere, prepping its malodorous backside. Instead of fearing this and shying away from opportunities, I’m learning to take the plunge, with the knowledge that it’ll be worth it regardless of what happens!

GLOSSARY

Morning-sickness

noun

1 A well-known surf phenomenon, predominantly observed in locations with consistent offshore trade winds, that sees consistently disorderly waves in the early morning which are then organised by prevailing winds. "hopefully this morning sickness sorts itself out!”

Charts

noun

2 Weather maps used to predict the quality of future surf conditions. A term which surfers often use interchangeably with forecast. "Shit brah, the charts are lining up properly"