Skunk Aversion Adventures: Wild Coast

In 1959, under the Bantu Authorities Act, the Transkei became the first of several ‘homelands’ introduced by the apartheid government. Part of a nationwide attempt to entrench and solidify racial segregation, ‘self-governance’ and ‘independence’ were introduced to the area under the leadership of several local chiefs. Plagued by corruption and mismanagement, the area struggled along under the apartheid regime. To this day, underdeveloped and lacking adequate service delivery, the area speaks to the devastation of the apartheid era and the failings of the post-apartheid government in their quest to uplift the poor majority of South Africa. For all it lacks in development, the Transkei makes up for in beauty. Known for its long-rolling, grass-covered hills, and wild ocean, the area has long been a haven for sea life, surfers, and barefoot Capetonians alike.

I’d picked this glorious place as Skunk Tours’ third stop for its waves and its remote, authentic feel. I figured Americans coming to Africa wanted to see AFRICA, and as endearing as the North Coast is, it reeks of suburbia. However, I wasn’t about to throw the baby out with the bathwater, making sure to book us into a rustic but comfortable self-catering rondavel. Our accommodation was perfectly located for surf — nestled on a hill above the area’s premiere break.

(The pozzie)

The wave, like most north of Jeffreys Bay, is a long-running right-hander, heavily reliant on sand banks. On the rare occasion that swell, wind, and tides align, a surf trip can be ruined by poor sand banks. Basically, if the banks are kak, you’re screwed. Noting this, you’ll understand my alarm when we arrived to a waveless bay. There were a couple of mitigating factors — the tide was high and the swell was small. Nonetheless, when the banks are good, waves break, irrespective of tide and swell size. I tried to contain my nerves, reassuring the crew that our five-day stint in the area would not be in vain. After a leisurely afternoon, we sauntered up to the communal area that doubled as a cafeteria. We’d opted for catered dinners, saving ourselves the effort of carting food across the pothole-riddled roads of the Eastern Cape. Much to our excitement, taste and quantity were prioritised by the local chef, who, by the looks of things, championed quantity in her own diet.

(When the chef was preoccupied, we made do)

Dawn had not yet descended when I followed the trail of committed surfers drawn to the water’s edge, making my way through thicket before emerging on top of a hill. As the morning light filtered in, it became evident that we stood overlooking an area of ocean above the bay. To my surprise, there was a consistent wave breaking 50 metres from where I stood. Capping next to a large, exposed rock, the waves were running gently but consistently into a rocky cove. “Looks like there’s a wave at Whale Rock,” a fellow surfer chimed, “Yeah it looks fun hey,” I said, pretending I’d been surfing the wave for years. In reality, I was unaware of its existence until that moment, driving nine hours for the ‘wave’ in the bay that still refused to break, despite the bump in swell. As had become the theme of this adventure, I walked back to our lodgings, surprised and relieved to have good waves to report. We had an amazing surf that morning, challenging ourselves as we figured out the wave and its rock-induced quirks. Whale Rock continued to deliver, providing consistent waves throughout our trip. Every morning I’d wake and wander down to the water’s edge and every day, barring one, there were good waves to report. The result was an appetising experience. The gang loved the waves and the wilderness.

(Wave check)

When quizzed about our time there, one morning stood out. Words like unexpected, exhilarating, and daunting were tossed around in an effort to describe it. I’d risen reluctantly that day, sure that the forecast would be correct — giant swell and strong southerly winds beginning before dawn. I fumbled down the hill, caffeinated kick-start in hand. The sky was grey, hiding the rising sun. The sea, bulging and dark, looked uninviting. The wind was cross-offshore, a worrying sign, suggesting that the predicted southerly wind had begun to overpower the land breeze. Although less inviting than previous mornings, it was our only chance to score a decent surf before the wind picked up. It was also big, and we’d been looking to test ourselves in larger waves the whole trip. So, we slipped slowly into our damp wetsuits, smothered ourselves in sunscreen, and headed for the sea. There was a slight warble on the swells created by the cross-shore wind, but the faces were clean and we started trading waves. It was fun, but nothing special. The kind of session that leaves no meaningful mark on your memory.

(How it started)

Over the next hour, a few seemingly mundane but miraculous things happened. Firstly, the wind, instead of blowing from the south, started blowing out of the west. In other words, offshore. This is a rarity on most days, in an area where offshore winds seldom continue beyond 9 am, and a once-in-a-blue-moon event when a strong, prevailing southerly wind is forecast to blow. The wind washed away the morning chop, cleaning up the waves. It was at this moment that the tide neared its trough, emphasising the swell’s effect on the sand banks. Unbeknownst to us, the giant swell had forced sand down the point, filling in the holes and significantly improving the wave’s shape. A wave that had been running for 50 metres was now running for well over 300. More sand and more swell meant that instead of fading out and breaking again further down the line, waves were running uninterrupted from Whale Rock right to the bottom of the point. In essence, a fun wave had been transformed into a phenomenal one. From moth to butterfly, all in the space of two hours. Transfixed by the transformation, I failed to register the warm rays bursting through the blanketed sky. We’d started our morning under thick cloud, darkening the sea and dampening the area’s beauty. Two hours later, looking around for the first time, I was shocked to see the sun as bright and bold as ever. The sea, once drab and grey, radiated rich and blue; the leaves glistened, water droplets shimmered in the sunlight; and the waves pumped – as shapely and consistent as they had been all morning. It was as if our Maker, eager to emphasise His hand in the day’s proceedings, had summoned the sun: a final stroke on the canvas. We revelled in the wonder of that morning, suspecting divine intervention. It was one of those rare occasions when surfers relented before the waves, eyes scorched, lips sizzled and arms aching. The waves paid no notice, firing from dawn til dusk. It was a day none of us are soon to forget.

(How it ended)

If you’re a surfer like me, you go to the Wild Coast for uncrowded waves, but the truth is, you stay for so much more. You stay for early morning walks to the viewpoint and the peace that it brings. You stay for bad Wi-Fi, forcing you off your phone. You stay for candlelit card games before dinner. Most of all, you stay for the opportunity to wholeheartedly connect with the people and the place, unencumbered by modern-day vices.