Skunk Aversion Adventures: North Coast

For all their skill, knowledge, and expertise, surf guides are victims of circumstance. A great guide can take a spell of bad surf and deliver fun waves for their guests, tapping into a wealth of experience to find the exposed outcrops that produce a two-foot wave when the surf is flat, or the sheltered cove that remains clean despite strong winds. And yet, no one can eke out epic surf with uncooperative conditions. While travelling surfers are typically well informed and have an understanding of the conditions and the quality of surf expected on their adventure, the success of surf trips ultimately boils down to the quality of the waves, and surf guides can often become the scapegoats for poor swell. After ten days of one-foot surf, you’ll have some unhappy customers, regardless of the guide’s prowess.

Mozambique had underdelivered and I was in danger of becoming one such victim. Add the fact that I had persuaded my guests to travel across the globe, passing up on several more convenient locations to experience what I had described as ‘some of the best surf in the world,’ and you start to get an idea of the pressure that was mounting. Thankfully, in the same way that poor conditions undermine the role of a surf guide, stellar surf works to lift them up, simplifying their job, and amplifying their skill set. In this way, Durban became the antithesis of Ponta do Ouro, lightening my load and overstating my expertise.

We’d headed north on our first morning, opting for a secluded right-hand point break well suited for the predicted combination of light winds and mid-sized swell. Referred to with reverence as ‘the best barrel on the North Coast,’ this wave is known for delivering fast, heavy tubes. We arrived to clean, albeit slightly bumpy conditions. As the session progressed, the offshore wind picked up, grooming the waves and improving their quality. In addition, the four locals who had shared their waves with us headed home, leaving us alone to enjoy the spoils of an empty lineup. The Californians were shocked by the solitude; a non-event in a state that is home to more surfers than the whole of South Africa. Despite a lack of consistent tubes, user-friendly waves and an uncrowded lineup furnished everyone with their fair share of waves.

(A good first morning)

The following morning, with similar conditions and a slightly more groomed ocean to look forward to, I decided to change location. The chosen wave breaks in front of a rock shelf that runs almost parallel to the breaking waves. While this fact might seem arbitrary, it’s important for two reasons: firstly, it’s a recipe for superb sand banks. Sand, transported by large southerly swells, is forced into the space in front of the rocks. Instead of continuing, as it may on another rockless stretch of coast, the sand is trapped, causing a build-up that creates sublime banks. Secondly, in contrast to the mellower waves fabricated by deep bays and perpendicular rock shelves, this setup forces swells to break abruptly. The combination of shallow sand banks and fast-breaking waves discharges ferocious barrels.

With all of this in mind, I scrambled down the steep embankment that leads to the beach. An obstructed view of the sea was sufficient evidence to confirm my suspicions: it was on! An excited jog reduced my travel time and I was on the beach champing at the bit a few seconds later. The sets, peaking in front of the rocks and breaking with speed and precision, were about four-foot — that pleasant size big enough to get unequivocally barrelled and small enough to have the confidence to pull in.

(Money)

My first wave was a screamer — a late, under-the-lip take-off put me deep behind the peak and I drove through an idyllic tube, exiting the barrel just as the wave clamped. It’s hard to have a bad surf after a start like that, and I continued my session hunting down the sets in an adrenaline-fuelled frenzy. My foreign counterparts were just as besotted with the day’s delivery, contributing to an atmosphere of appreciation I seldom experience outside of the water. After three hours of unrelenting excellence, and with the feeling that I was finally delivering the quality of waves I had promised, the session ended and the five of us, sunburnt and satisfied, made a beeline for my preferred cafe. There we drank coffee, discussed the buying power of the dollar, and divulged the feelings that accompanied the morning’s best moments.

(Mo Money)

It’s extraordinary how quickly things change. I’d returned home from Mozambique with the weight of the world on my shoulders, an underperforming ocean bogging me down. Two days later, I felt as light as a feather. The change in tide (excuse the pun) had transformed my mood, quelling my fears and bolstering my confidence. Beyond the waves, Durban’s balmy weather and easygoing disposition had gone down well with my guests; they loved the people and the pace of life. The combination of great waves and an appetising lifestyle inspired an atmosphere of contentment within the group. This, I decided, was the perfect environment within which to take my greatest surf-guiding risk to date.

The conditions for our third day were forecast to be almost identical to our previous morning — offshore winds predicted to still as the day progressed. The one important distinction was a two-metre, 13-second ground swell set to fill in overnight; impeccable conditions for the barrelling right-hander we’d just surfed, with a rise in swell guaranteed to produce thicker, longer, and heavier tubes. Cognisant of this, and aware that my guests would be thinking similarly, I wrestled with the idea of mentioning another wave, a wave that was far less certain to produce good surf, heavily dependent on the formation of adequate sand banks. And yet, it was a wave with the potential to outshine all of the rest on its day. After chatting with my dad, I decided to introduce this ‘other wave,’ posing it as a possible alternative.

Speaking of the adventure that accompanies a trip to the other wave, I described the journey: waking in the dark; the long, bumpy ride through a township; the excitement as you come over the hill and around the bend, in perfect view of the swell lines stacking up, one behind the next; and the feeling as you get to your feet, the entire wall standing up in front of you. I emphasised how a trip to this wave encapsulated the spirit of far-flung surf missions — how the risk makes the reward that much sweeter. The guests were sold and we readied ourselves for the adventure to come.

It was my first ride of the morning, at around 7:15 a.m. that confirmed the quality of my decision. The sun was still rising when I’d clambered over the rocks towards the water and I couldn’t quite make out the size or quality of the waves before I jumped in. After a successful rock dodge and a short dart, I found myself out the back, all alone. Hardly a minute later, quite to my surprise, a solid five-foot wall rose from the depths, standing up eerily in front of me. Luckily, I’d paddled further out than usual, uncertain of the day’s size, and I happened to be in the perfect position to ease into what can only be described as a bomb! Standing up, I was startled by the length of the wall in front of me — this spot is created by a deep bay and perpendicular rock shelf; the kind, as already mentioned, that typically delivers more slopey, less stretched-out walls. Inspired by the seemingly unending wave-face, I channelled my inner Occy, staying high on the wave and gathering speed before sinking into a deep bottom turn. I blasted off several turns, drawing long, smooth lines. Seeing this unfold, my foreign counterparts rushed to the takeoff point, eager to have a crack at the J Bay-esque walls. The 45 minutes that followed saw flawless conditions enjoyed by few. We had that first hour all to ourselves, free to take any one of the exquisitely groomed waves that passed us by.

(The fruits of a risky decision)

Now, I can’t speak for my guests but if I were an American, freshly grounded on South African soil, this would be the moment when the enigmatic magic of the country shone through: looking onto an informal settlement and the lush surrounding hills an hour from suburbia, riding some of the most enjoyable waves you can find, with warm water, balmy weather, and no surfers in sight. Instead of looking inward, as a crowded lineup so often causes you to do, this place urges you to look outward. With no one to battle, you find yourself looking at the boulders that line the shore, littered with fishermen toiling happily, intent on catching the evening’s dinner and eager to enjoy the sport of it at the same time. You see the local soccer team, kicking balls through wonky, makeshift goals, practising on a field bordering the ocean. You look more closely, eyeing out battered, ill-fitting shoes that seem to success as football boots, before lifting your head to see the players’ faces, bright and beaming. You look out across the sea, teeming with life as bait-balls dart this way and that, chased by something bigger. In all this looking you get a glimpse of the defiant, resilient beauty that is South Africa and its people.

We soaked up every ounce of surf that morning, basking in the glory of the day and the place, for it was to be our last surf in KZN. The following morning, bags packed and boards strapped like coffins to the roof, we began the long, slow journey down to the Wild Coast. My last road trip had been anxiety-riddled, but things were different now — no fear, no frown, just a large, toothy grin and an incoming southerly swell.