Skunk Aversion Adventures: Weskus

Fever, headache, tiredness and muscle pain are all common symptoms of tick bite fever. How do I know this? It all started on Monday, 31st July. I woke to redness and a strange aching feeling in my lymph nodes — the kind of deep-seated throbbing that often announces itself in the wake of a severe bluebottle sting or a wicked spider bite. The reason for my alarm and the dangerous decision to seek medical advice from the internet, other than the symptoms of course, was an impending strike mission. 

After exploring the rest of the East Coast — sampling Jeffreys Bay, Cape St Francis, and Victoria Bay — we’d arrived in Cape Town. My guests got stuck into exploring the Mother City while I met up with friends, reconvening for a surf here and there. While the city’s surf was underwhelming — big and unruly — a promising swell was approaching, destined for the West Coast. This was the type of lingering swell perfect for a three-day strike mission. The area, littered with slabs, punchy beach breaks, and long left-handers leaves you spoilt for choice: a glutton’s delight, the perfect place to cap off an amazing adventure. With a diminished crew, shrunk from five to two, I called in reinforcements. My brother Dave had serendipitously flown down to Cape Town that week tracking a Dungeons swell for work. After twisting his arm, persuading him to trade pleasant peaks for brisk barrels, we enlisted Marc and Chris, two strike mission enthusiasts and all round frothers.

(Frothers)

It was on the two-hour journey that my suspicions were confirmed. A hyperactive phone alerted me to the typically docile ‘Skunk Tours’ group chat, now brimming with new messages. “I might have been bitten by one of those. Got fever, huge infected bud (I won’t show U. Too disgusting) and two big ganglions,” said Alexis translating from his home language, alerting me to the possibility of something more sinister than a mild spider bite. Some moments later, blood results established that he was in fact suffering from tick bite fever. I closed the chat and rang my doc, anxious to get on top of the vicious infection before it took root. Thankfully, the antibiotics needed to overcome the bacterial infection are easily accessible and Google Maps pointed us in the direction of a pharmacy en route. It was a race against the clock as we charged up the coast. I was desperate to remain fighting fit for the days ahead and I knew that the infection grew stronger with every minute, reducing my chance of scoring and upping the odds of a raging fever and debilitating headache. An hour later, I burst through the doors of the quaint, deeply Afrikaans pharmacy that calls Lamberts Bay its home. I ripped my phone out of my pocket in the same way that Charlie might’ve shown Willy Wonka his golden ticket, frantically revealing the electronic script that held the power to shape my immediate destiny. After handing me my meds, the pharmacist looked on in bewilderment as I tore open the packet, placing the first pill on my tongue while simultaneously asking for a glass of water — clearly unused to this level of urgency. Unperturbed, I gulped down the pill with the ferocity of a wanderer stumbling upon an oasis in the desert. 

That evening, after a fun surf linking wonky sections at the left-hander, the fever took hold. With a headache building in intensity, I was suddenly unable to regulate my temperature, shivering despite the sweatpants and two jerseys. That's that, I thought, certain that the infection had found a footing. I was nervous for the days ahead. Miraculously, I woke the following morning without a fever, and while the headache and muscle pain persisted, I felt well enough to surf. The waves had improved, growing in size and cleaning up over night. Light winds meant glassy conditions for the now lined-up left-hander. Two hours and a host of runners later, we paddled in hungry and satisfied. I felt okay, but the muscle pain and headache had worsened and I decided to sit out the rest of the day, a decision made easier by the following day's forecast of strong berg winds — a recipe known to accentuate the barrels in the area. Unfortunately for me, the afternoon saw a rise in tide and strengthening of the offshore wind which proved to be the perfect mixture for the left-hander, taking it from good to great. Saddened by the thought of missing out entirely, I tagged along, video camera in hand, hoping to share in the excitement. The boys scored; Marc snagged the wave of the day which ran the length of the point, while the other three sat on the inside, picking off the wider ones and upping their wave count. For me, filming is the next best thing when I can’t get in the water, and I felt as though I was out there with them. And yet, a part of me still ached watching perfect waves roll through, unable to capitalise on glorious conditions. Am I making the right call? I asked myself. The conditions and the state of my health the following morning would be the answer. 

(The afternoon's offerings)

I stood on the sand dune with a clean bill of health, watching as exquisite A-frames exploded on the shallow sandbank — thick barrels intensified by the offshore berg wind. The answer to my question was unequivocal. Had I done the right thing? Absolutely! I trotted back to the car, filled with butterflies — a feeling I’ve become accustomed to when it’s big and cooking. After the usual routine and a nervy paddle (these conditions — big powerful peaks detonating on shallow sandbars — can cause real damage if you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time) I was out the back with a handful of guys. A couple of mistimed drops and a few lips to the head were all it took to realise we’d been duped — there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, and big barrels don’t come cheap either. It looked all too easy from the safety of the sand dune but the truth is, the swell was one or two feet too big for the sandbank, resulting in rip currents that distorted the wave faces and pulled you out past the backline. The drops were as treacherous as ever — hollow waves, offshore winds, and strong currents pulling you back, guaranteeing late, unnervingly steep take-offs. Adding to this potent concoction was the knowledge that one misstep could see body and board broken, distorted by destructive lips. Actively working to keep my mind from these obvious dangers, I focused on making sense of the lineup and building confidence, slowly increasing my wave count.

It approached some time later — that thick, meaty wall of water that chose me as its rider. I’d had about an hour to implement my strategy, slowly adding to my wave count and building my confidence. This gave me the guts to drift away from the pack of pros trading waves on the main peak, heading for another spot slightly further down the beach that produced less consistent but more intense tubes. That’s when it revealed itself. I had no sooner paddled my last stroke than I saw the bomb peeking its head over the oncoming wave, eager to get a glimpse of the spectators it had come to impress. I scratched for the horizon, scrambling to get into position. My pulse drummed in my ears, brain registering the enormity of the coming moments. My eyes darted left and right sizing up the set and its surroundings, scanning for any impediments. I felt my board swing towards the shore as though it had taken control, a consequence of one-dimensional focus referred to as ‘flow state.’ As my board moved towards the shore things quickened, the wave taking hold of us. I fell through the sky, weightless. I was convinced I’d botched it, hanging in the air for too long when my rail gripped the surface of the water, pulling me up the face into the barrel. Everything slowed down — nothing existed beyond that moment. The morning light shone through as my view shrank, tunnelled by the tube stretching out in front of me. What must have been three or four seconds felt like a minute as I sat perfectly positioned — my body sank deep into the wave face absorbing its power as it propelled me towards the exit. And then it was over. I fizzed off the back of the wave, grinning as my mates whistled me on. The rest was all icing on the cake. My day, my trip was made as I exited the tube. 

Luckily for us there was icing aplenty that day. The swell tapered off and the waves shrank just the right amount — exactly what the banks needed to produce consistent barrels. Remarkably, the pros then decided to head in, leaving us alone in the lineup. What a blessing, I thought to myself, stroking into yet another bomb. 

(one of many from an epic day)

Much to our surprise, the swell wasn’t yet finished with us. The following morning we stood perched on the same dune, eyeing out enticing peaks. We surfed alone that morning from start to finish — one final reminder of South Africa’s unique offerings before my American counterpart flew back to the big smoke.

So there you have it. A journey full of unexpected obstacles and riveting revelations. One that took me from the Portuguese and peri-peri chicken of Mozambique to the Afrikaans and Atlantic waters of the Weskus. Did I enjoy it? Yes. Would I do it again? Without a doubt! 

From crime to corruption and mismanagement, economic and infrastructural decline, we’ve got it, but we’ve also got immeasurable riches. If the balmy winter days, luscious greenery, and warm waters of KZN don’t tickle your fancy, take a jaunt down the coast and you’ll be feasting on the rolling hills and teeming ocean of the Transkei. If you’re not into that, maybe the world's best right-hand point-break, or perhaps one of the world's most beautiful cities, Cape Town, will suffice. If you’re unimpressed by all of these options, the West Coast, with its sprawling wildflowers and rugged charm, might just keep you satisfied. The truth is, I’m in love with it all and I could think of no place I’d rather be!

(Frames from the trip)