Skunk Aversion Adventures: An Introduction

I squatted deep, lowering my body and strengthening my stance in preparation for the sharp bottom turn. To my dismay, instead of responding in typical fashion — speeding through the arc towards the lip, my board stayed rooted in its path towards the shoreline, sending me head over heels, chin first, into the sea. I struggled underwater, wrestling with confusion. How had this high-performance machine transformed into a slow, clumsy, barge? The reality - that it was my three-month absence from the surf that was causing the damage - sunk in as the session continued, with numerous mis-timed turns and uncharacteristic wipeouts. Shivers, I thought to myself — I hadn’t expected the salt-water sabbatical to have quite as severe an effect on my skill level and I found myself questioning whether I’d ‘peaked’ (It’s crazy how quickly we link the things we’re good at to our value, and how much havoc this can cause should our level of performance waver).

The reason for my dip in performance was an extended trip to Europe. There, I slugged beers with the Brits, demolished mayonaise-laden french-fries with the Dutch, frolicked topless with the French, guzzled liverwurst with the Germans, and indulged with the Italians. It was a glorious time spent with friends. For all its greatness, its focus was on food and architectural beauty. Things such as fitness and ‘leading a healthy lifestyle’, which had formed the bedrock of my twenty-three years prior, were temporarily forgotten. A severe case of athletic-amnesia.

(Foreign favourites)

Ordinarily, as frightening as it is, a dip in performance would not cause me much dismay. However, things were different this time. During my time in Europe, I had been organising a twenty-day surf trip that would see me and a group of four foreigners dipping our toes in warm Mozambican waters before exploring most of the South African coastline. I met and connected with my clients while working as a surf-guide in Indonesia.

(An Indonesian introduction)

During our time together, I’d waxed lyrical about the wonders of surfing in South Africa, describing the variety, consistency, and emptiness of the lineups on offer. To my surprise, I’d delivered an enticing enough description to persuade them to take a look for themselves. Having witnessed my effervescent enthusiasm for South African surf and, surmising that my knowledge of the country’s premier waves was extensive, they gave me a call. After brief preliminary discussions, I was hired as their guide, tasked with forecasting and locating the best waves along the East Coast. Beyond finding waves, a good surf-guide is expected to surf with the guests; highlighting the easiest point of entry, explaining and illustrating which waves to take, and finally, serving as a mediator between the local crew and the foreigners. Consequently, my skill level had the power to influence the quality of my service and I was intent on sharpening up and sanding off the rust before my guests arrived. Thankfully, after a few lengthy sessions, my muscles remembered their role as the seeing-eye-dog to my surfboard.

(sharpening up)

Confident that I had recovered sufficiently from my time out of the water, I shifted my focus, making the final preparations for the journey ahead. Last-minute adjustments were made to the itinerary, my rucksack was carefully packed to include all the essentials necessary for twenty days on the road, and our respective routes into Mozambique were reiterated. At last, after much anticipation, the journey began.