Skunk Aversion Adventures: Mozambique

Apart from one small hiccup (Nate, one of my Californian clients, had mistakenly booked our accommodation for the month of June instead of July, causing a last-minute scramble for suitable lodgings), the trip had begun fairly smoothly. I had conquered the five-hour drive up from Durban; Nate and Austin — a Coloradan turned Californian — had safely driven from the Kruger National Park, experiencing the post-apocalyptic city that is Maputo before arriving in Ponta do Ouro, and Evan, who’d arrived in Ponta two weeks prior, had greeted us happily. We’d also been blessed with a glorious Mozambican morning and a building swell on our first day — a scrumptious combination delivering playful surf from late-morning through the afternoon. This was the perfect elixir, curing my pre-trip anxiety and giving me confidence in my decision to head north of the border despite the region’s often fickle disposition. How misguided this confidence would prove to be...

(Maputo)

That evening, Evan and I hopped in the car and made our way up to the country’s capital. Alexis, the fourth and final member of the foreign contingent, was arriving on a flight in from Mauritius and I had been tasked with the job of collecting him. Alexis is a fifty-something-year-old French national living on Reunion Island. He’d been a part of the group that visited Indonesia, meeting Nate, Evan and me. Some months later, Evan had visited him in Réunion, mentioning the South African expedition in passing. Alexis, who’d visited Cape Town some years prior, had succumbed to the allure of Jeffreys Bay and made a last-minute decision to tag along.

Stepping out at Maputo International Airport, the drop in temperature was immediately evident. That makes sense, I thought. I’d been monitoring a large weather system moving up the coast from Cape Town. It had delivered stellar surf some 1,500 kilometres south in Jeffreys Bay and was expected to arrive in Mozambique the following morning. The forecast indicated large southerly swell accompanied by strong south-westerly winds — a typically favourable combination for most waves along the East Coast. As such, I welcomed the change as a sign of the swell we had been eagerly anticipating. The only variable that could play spoiler, and the only factor I had forgotten to assess or consider, was the weather. Along with large swells, cold fronts can often bring low temperatures and high rainfall. Being a self-proclaimed all-weather surfer, I often skip over the weather report as it’s unlikely to have any bearing on my enjoyment or decision-making. However, two things were different on this trip. Firstly, although not always luxurious, I’m used to a standard of accommodation which includes concrete walls, impenetrable roofs and sufficient bedding. In contrast, we were housed in shoddy plywood bunk rooms littered with holes in the walls and floorboards. The mosquito net, installed to protect us from the swarm of insects that were sure to find their way through any one of the numerous holes, had giant punctures of its own. In addition, instead of repelling water, the sieve-like roof filtered droplets, channelling them through its thatched composition and onto the floor next to my bed. The second issue was the extreme drop in temperature. While a small dip can be foreseen, cold-fronts are not expected to send Mozambican temperatures plummeting below 13 degrees. None of this was yet known to me, and Alexis, Evan and I chatted merrily through the strengthening wind and thickening clouds as we journeyed home.

By the time we arrived back, the wind was gale-force and the rainfall torrential. The temperature had sunk below 15 degrees, far lower than was suitable for our thin blankets and even thinner walls. Alexis rushed to unpack his belongings before we made our way to bed. The night was a fierce battle for warmth and solitude. With my duvet wrapped around me like armour, I listened for the infuriating buzz of mosquitoes, awaiting the onslaught. I lay with predatory patience, using my face as bait for my unsuspecting victims. Upon arrival, my nemeses came to a sudden and brutal end, crushed by the unrelenting exterminator that was my right hand. After about an hour of fighting this familiar foe, the incessant buzz abated and I went to sleep red-faced and disgruntled.

(unusual weather)

Stepping out the following morning, I was shocked to see that the temperature had plummeted further to an icy 12 degrees while the wind and rain raged on. Eager to see the weather’s effect on the surf, I headed for the sea, clambering over the sand dune that blocked our vision. Much to my surprise, the south-westerly wind, which typically distorts the swell, had clocked around slightly, blowing west-south-west, grooming the waves as they made their way into the bay. Unfortunately, Mozambican point breaks favour north-easterly swells and the surf, with its south-westerly tilt, seemed to be marching straight past the point, up the coast. Giant mounds of swell were visible on the horizon — a stark contrast to the gentle three-footers running down the point. Nonetheless, the waves were clean and orderly, painting a far prettier picture than I expected. I walked back over the dune, relieved to have surfable waves to report.

(A miserable morning)

There are two primary reasons as to why Mozambican point-breaks deliver inferior surf on south-westerly swells, the first being the aforementioned disparity in wave height and the tendency for south-westerly swells to march straight past the points. The second, more frustrating reason is the unrelenting rip current that develops as a consequence of the swell moving northward. As the swell wraps around the headland into the bay, a current forms, pushing water around the point and into the bay. This makes it almost impossible to hold your position in the lineup and even harder to paddle back up the point after a wave. Armed with this knowledge, I led my pack of five around the top of the point past the wave, in the hope that this would allow us to get into position without getting swept into the bay. Thirty-seconds into the paddle, I realised just how strong the current was. Looking back to shore I was shocked to see that in moving five metres closer to backline, I’d been dragged 30 metres sideways, towards the top of the point. Thankfully, a lull in the waves allowed me to get past the breakers just as I reached the take-off spot. Once there, I paddled furiously against the current, fighting to hold my position. After a few minutes an enticing line emerged and I scratched into a picturesque little three-foot wave. Staying close to the power source, I linked three turns as the wave ran into the bay. Pulling off the back, Alexis came into view, surfing his first wave of the trip. I applauded as he drove his board through two sweeping carves, seeing the excitement on his face and feeling my own emotions bubble over, watching him enjoy a wave I’ve come to treasure. We paddled in together, chatting through our waves before hitting the shore and doing the run-around. As we trotted along, Nate and Evan picked off their first rides and we cheered them on, raising our hands in support. The session continued in this fashion — catching one wave before hitting the beach and running back up the point in search of another. After a mammoth effort, amounting to some seven or eight run-arounds, we headed home and although it was far from all-time, I couldn’t help but smile. On one of the most miserable days in recent Mozambican history, in spite of gale-force winds and unabating rain, there we were, finding joy riding a line of swell that had travelled thousands of kilometres to greet us. On a day that threatened to end my fledgling career as a surf guide, Ponta do Ouro had provided just enough to keep the boys interested.

That afternoon, eager to impress and intent on delivering high-quality surf to my paying guests, I called a round-table meeting. We had planned to stay another full day in Mozambique but, with more wind and rain forecast, I’d taken a look at the charts in the hopes that KZN might have more to offer. Thankfully, light offshore winds and sizeable swell were predicted throughout the region. Excited by this, I shared the news, suggesting we leave Mozambique one day early to make the most of Durban’s superior conditions. The lads had their minds set on firing waves, something that Mozambique had not and would not deliver, and agreement was unanimous.

The next morning, after a brief and underwhelming last surf, we took off, heading for the North Coast. The lack of quality surf, although somewhat out of my control, had begun to weigh heavily on my shoulders. I’d spun tales of warm-water perfection, and while gracious and understanding, I could sense that that’s what my guests had come expecting. Confident that KZN would deliver, I used the lengthy drive to formulate a game plan. Assessing the tides, winds, and swell size of the coming days, I ran through the plethora of waves in the area, earmarking certain spots for particular conditions. By the time we hit the long dirt road leading up to my house, I’d developed a plan of attack for the days to come. All that was left to do was wait, and hope that things came together.