Surfing Skeleton Bay: The Treacherous Task of Tackling Namibia's Ludicrous Left-Hander

“Maybe it’s just not meant to be,” said Dave, urging us to take the doors, slamming in our face, as a sign that we weren’t supposed to make it to Walvis Bay. Chris and I had tried everything to get there. Originally we’d planned to fly into the coastal shipping town and rent 4x4’s. To my dismay, just about every off-road vehicle in Namibia had been booked — a surefire sign of the swarm of pros descending on the region. I was about to discard this option when my inbox lit up with word from ‘Nolimit’. I scanned the rather matter-of-fact, mildly-aggressive text excitedly, encouraged by the suggestion that the last available 4x4 in Namibia was up for grabs. The only snag — we had to pay the entire rental fee upfront to secure it. R16 000 is a big commitment for anyone, and a giant risk for two unemployed twenty-something-year-olds. We sweated over the decision, weighing up the risk of getting scammed against the agony of missing the swell of the decade. After much discussion, we decided it had to be done —  a risk worth taking. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” we exclaimed, feeling proud of our decision. The feeling was short lived and our bravado dissolved as we realised that lengthy deliberations had cost us our preferred flight, while other alternatives had almost doubled in price. With that option out the window and days of high-stress planning down the drain in an instant, the trip was looking perilously close to a false-start. 

Many, including myself, would typically pack it in at this point, but we’d come too close, dreamt of Skeleton Bay for too long and envisioned ourselves in too many endless tubes to let it slip through our fingers. The swell was a once-in-a-decade event and I’d be lost in the wilderness of ‘what ifs’ if we didn’t find a way. So, we explored other options. With word that four wheel drive was imperative — an essential element needed to tackle the treacherous sand track that lay between you and the wave of your life — we started making calls. We called any and everyone we knew with a 4x4 in Cape Town, offering them R8000 to rent their vehicle for the week. After countless dead-ends, we finally found someone enticed enough by the offer of an easy R8000 to risk 2000km of desert mileage and serious damage to their car.  Once again, after significant effort and unconventional thinking we were on the precipice, gazing hungrily upon the Skeleton Coast. My shoulders relaxed, as days of anxious planning faded into the periphery — body and mind simultaneously concluding that the big decisions had been made.  We were about to pull the trigger when Chris got word from Jordy Maree – a pro surfer on location in Walvis Bay – that the sand was unusually hard and two-wheel drive would suffice. Chris then remembered a conversation with his sister a few days prior. She’d offered her 2x4 Ford Ranger for the journey; a gesture he’d automatically dismissed due to prior assumptions. Assumptions be damned, we thought, relieved not to be risking an acquaintance’s car in foreign territory and ecstatic at the thought of saving bucks.

“Shit, what about our passports,” said Chris, only then considering anything beyond transport, realising we’d neglected to consider all other necessities of international travel. Once again, with our passports over a thousand kilometres up the coast in Durban, the trip was a bust. Chris picked up the phone despondent — a last ditch effort to keep the dream alive. ‘Dad, we’ve got a problem,” he said, explaining the situation. A glimmer of hope shone in his eyes as Stu mentioned that he might be able to make a plan. Half an hour later, that glimmer transformed into a toothy grin as confirmation of our corporate courier filtered through. The next morning, a businessman landed in the mother city carrying his briefcase in one hand and our ticket to ride in the other. We were headed to Skeleton Bay, with a chance to tame the beast!

With passports in hand, the enormity of the drive dawned on us. It’s approximately nineteen hours from Cape Town to Walvis Bay, assuming everything runs smoothly — which is about as likely as Kelly Slater winning another world title. A gruelling but surmountable trek when completed over two days. Ten hours a day, and the chance to take in the sights. Sadly, Chris had prior commitments, forcing us to leave the day before the swell. Consequently, we had to decide between a mammoth road-trip, and missing the first day of waves. Miss the wave of your life for the sake of convenience? Not a chance! We’d take it down in one gulp. 

We fired up the engine just after 1 am on 3 August, straining our eyes as we meandered out of Kalk Bay. The plan was simple; breeze through the boarder just after 8 and trudge on, stopping only when necessary. It wasn’t until we reached the boarder post, seven hours later, that we encountered our first snag.

We stood at the transparent, perspex screen, looking on in shock at the border official. Seconds had passed since he shattered our plans for a smooth, uneventful border crossing. “This isn’t going to work,” he’d said, “you need an affidavit giving you permission to drive someone else’s vehicle into Namibia.” After several minutes of back and forth, I realised two things; one, he wasn’t joking, and two, we weren’t getting past him without the correct documents. We stood to the side in bewilderment as we tried to think of our next move. Half an hour of intense panic later, he sauntered over, revelling in his position of power. He revealed his plan with great ceremony — as if he were a modern day Moses, parting the red sea. “Boys,” he pronounced, “it’s simple, all you need to do is call your sister and ask her to get an affidavit at her local police station.” You could’ve told us this half an hour ago, I thought, fighting to exude appreciation as opposed to the irritation I felt, in an effort to smoothen proceedings. After the fourth call, her husband picked up — hymns ringing in the background. “Please bow your heads,” filtered through the cellphone speaker as we explained our position. Desperate to keep moving, we asked if they wouldn’t mind offending the pastor for the sake of firing waves. Thankfully, they obliged. Forty-five minutes later, we were finally allowed into Namibia. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief, mistakenly assuming that the worst was behind us.

We were firmly rooted in no-mans-lands when I saw the poster — ‘R200 foreign vehicle fee,’ written in bold. My heart sank, remembering our earlier conversation stressing the importance of a cash withdrawal before we crossed the border. We’d forgotten all about that conversation — our minds consumed by terror and excitement at the thought of the incoming swell. “Hopefully they have a card machine,” I said, unsure of what to do in the unlikely event that they didn’t. It was only when I saw the two machines, neatly arranged on the brown desk, that I remembered an even bigger problem — I was without a credit card. Losing it some weeks earlier, I’d shifted to using apple pay. With tap payment pervasive throughout South Africa, life had continued as normal until now… 

In a stroke of cruel misfortune, Chris was also without a card. To make things worse, the card machines, with sufficient technology to accept tap payments, had recently started acting up and were no longer able to process them. “Juss we mared it, what are we gonna do?” I asked. For the umpteenths time, we put our heads together scrambling to conjure up a creative solution to this easily avoidable issue. After some pleading, we convinced the office clerk to allow us to go searching for cash at the nearest petrol station, three kilometres into Namibia. We sat there for twenty minutes waiting for someone to come by. The plan was set; wait for someone to fill up with gas, catch them on their way to the teller, and ask them if we could pay a portion of their bill in exchange for cold, hard cash. With the fear akin to asking a girl on a date, I finally plucked up the courage to ask for help, making my proposal. All that for nothing, I thought, as the shop keeper held up his ancient card machine. To my relief, he directed us to a larger fuel station another five kilometres up the road. There we charmed the teller into accepting a tap payment in return for cash before speeding back to the border, paying our fee and hitting the road. 

We drove straight for hours, watching kilometres of desert come and go, hypnotised by the magnificent monotony. At 4 pm, we rejoiced at the sight of a fuel station and the chance to grab a coffee. “You okes are driving through tonight?!” “It’s a gnarly drive hey, you’re in for one hell of a journey,” said Jacque, a Skeleton Bay veteran. He warned us of the freight trucks and their reckless drivers, suggesting we take the long, winding dirt track in order to avoid them.

(The longest, straightest road I've ever seen)

We’d been driving on the heavily corrugated dirt road for two hours when I started to question our decision, and Jacque’s ‘sage’ advice. We’d turned off the highway just as the sun was setting, allowing us a moment to assess our surroundings. Now, some hours later, it was pitch black — no street lights, no towns in the distance, no nothing. This made it impossible to anticipate the roads’ endless hills and bends, forcing us to strain our eyes as we scanned for oncoming impediment. Instead of the usual, let-your-mind-drift-while-you-drive scenario, high-level focus was required, and we were wearing thin. I could feel myself growing tired when I decided to pray, asking God for supernatural protection should shit hit the fan. Ten minutes later, disaster struck. I’d switched off for a second, misjudging the oncoming bend – a near right-angle turn. Instead of the gentle meander we’d become accustom to, the road swung aggressively to the left and I, unable to change direction at that speed, was careening towards a cliff. Startled, I slammed on the breaks, sending the car into a drift. Our speed, and the loose gravel beneath us, prevented the car from regaining any traction and we sped on unencumbered. As we drifted towards our demise, our headlights illuminated our approach. I stared on in bewilderment as the sharp bend I’d imagined revealed itself to be a one lane cattle-bridge, bordered by thick concrete posts. What had looked like turning signs were in fact warning signs — indicating the road’s convergence into one lane. We were twenty metres out when the car started to float of course – the back wheels swinging out to the left as the car drifted perpendicular to the road. Our speed, the lack of traction, and our new trajectory — everything was pointing towards a collision. With no one in sight, no signal, two dead cellphones, and no spare tyre, things were looking dire. We were no more than five meters from the concrete post when, in an act of instinct, I tweaked the steering wheel. Miraculously, the car caught and engaged, swinging the back-wheels around and righting our course. We skidded another ten meters, perfectly bisecting the concrete posts in the process and settling safely on the other side of the bridge. We sat there in disbelief, unable to comprehend our safe passage. We were fifty meters from the bridge when we’d lost traction, and somehow, instead of drifting this way or that, we’d headed straight for it. Moreover, when a serious crash looked certain, the car mysteriously regained enough control to deliver us from danger. It may sound like make-believe — an over exaggeration intended to liven up the story — but it sure as hell wasn’t. We took the last three hours slow, cautious as we contemplated our newfound perspective on the gift of life. It wasn’t until we saw the glimmer of Walvis Bay in the distance that we relaxed, noticing just how tired we’d become.

Early the next morning, we dropped the tires and headed for Skeleton Bay. It’s a strange drive, and one that sets the tone for the otherworldliness of the wave itself. After a short stint on the main road, you turn onto a gravel track created by the salt miners. Desert gives way to water — endless salt pans lining the road. The harsh, yellow of the sand now an opaque pink. A typically desolate land now brimming with life as flamingoes fill the water in search of sustenance. Up ahead lie cranes, eerily out of place on the barren land. They filter salt, forming giant mounds. As you continue on, salt gives way to sand once again. Ahead of you lies a twenty kilometre finger of submerged sand — the nemesis of any vehicle masquerading as a master of the off-road. The finger, which developed miraculously over the past several decades, presents a perilous challenge to any surfer wanting to access Skeleton Bay. In order to avoid getting stuck, two things are essential; maintain your speed, and avoid submerged sand. This is made difficult by the ever-changing conditions. Everyday, as the tides change, different sections of the finger are submerged. You’re never able to take the same route twice. Beyond this, there are virtually no markers guiding your passage, making it impossible for a first timer to know where he’s going. Nervous of getting lost or stuck, we waited for another car to come past, pulling in behind them. We arrived to see fifty cars lining the shore as 6-8 foot bombs detonated on the bank, running into the distance. The wave was unlike anything we’d seen, breaking with unparalleled precision and ferocity. Created by a kink in the long finger of sand, the wave runs all but parallel to the land. Rising from deep water, swell lines explode in extremely shallow water near the shore. As swells move down the bay, they are continually confronted by the shallow shoreline, forcing them to break with uninterrupted intensity for hundreds of meters. 

(The salt mine)

My heart was in my mouth as I suited up. It looked big, cold and heavy — a deadly combination. I’ve always feared big surf more in cold water — there’s something about the frigid water that tightens your chest and induces panic. I took things slow, buying time to gather myself. When the time came, Chris and I made the long walk up the point. It was heavier than I expected and we were lucky to make it out — sneaking through the breakers between the sets.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/96457e_43831129d3ed46669ad51663714b81df/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

(What we arrived to)

Two hours, and numerous runarounds had passed and I was still ‘bombless’ In truth, I’d done more walking than surfing. After my third, two kilometre trudge from the bottom of the point back up to the takeoff spot, I found myself in a great position, with only a few guys on my inside. I waited anxiously, hoping a set would arrive before the current dragged me out of position. ‘Be careful what you wish for’ — a strange idiom, and one that I had never understood. Everything changed when I saw those meaty mounds of water making a rapid approach.

I’d spent months salivating over a Skeleton Bay sledgehammer and now, as the set came marching in, I wanted out. Anywhere else would do. Watching the first wave arrive, I was startled by the amount of water it carried. I turned for the horizon, relieved to see someone take it off my hands. Wave two came in taller and thicker than its predecessor — almost impossible to paddle into. Harry Bryant — a hard-charging Ozzie pro — didn’t think so, stroking in with the grace of someone who’s mastered their craft. Cheers erupted down the point just as the final wave of the set approached — a surefire sign that Harry’s was a screamer. And then there were two. The lineup had been cleaned out, leaving me, and Koa Smith, a pipeline specialist and Skelton bay legend, in position. He’s gonna take it, I thought — his pedigree and position on my inside making it a foregone conclusion. I assumed that he would snag it, and I’d secretly started to hope that he would...

 That’s when he did it — something so rarely seen in the surf, that I couldn’t quite believe it. Just as it was time to paddle into the wave of the day, he turned to me and said “go!” Shocked and honoured by the gesture, I forgot my fear and paddled with everything I had. I clawed at the water, fighting to get down the face. I could feel the wave rising without me, threatening to lurch with me stuck in the lip. While a dangerous act at your regular, falling with the lip can have fatal consequences at Skeleton Bay. This was top of mind as I felt the momentum of the wave grabbing me, indicating my last opportunity to opt out. I was about to pull back when I remembered Koa’s generosity. “I can’t pull out, I’ll look like such an idiot,” I thought, changing tack and throwing myself over the ledge. The next moment of weightlessness was unnerving. I curled my toes, trying to stay connected to my board as I felt it drift away beneath me.Then, just as I was losing hope of a successful airdrop, I felt the force of the landing — my board reconnecting with the wave face. The late drop had thrown me into the flats and into the firing line of the guillotine. I yanked on my inside rail, praying I’d have time to dart under the lip before it landed on my head. As I swung towards the wall, light went to dark and I sensed the wave surround me. Floating up the face, I gaining speed as the barrel forged ahead. I was desperate to pump — sensing that I was too deep — but the wave wouldn’t allow it. With more speed than I knew what to do with, in a barrel hollower than I knew how to handle, there was nothing to do but hold still. Resigned to the fact that I was at the waves mercy, I steadied myself. My board chattered on the wave face as I sped forward, propelled by immense power. As the lip continued to reach further and further into the distance, so the wave pushed me towards it. I felt the wave breathe behind me — a firehose blasting my back as it spat. And with that, I excited the tube. I Glided along the face, trying to play it cool as I suppressed a claim, but it wasn’t possible. I couldn’t contain myself. While I might’ve been pretending that this was an every day affair — the kind of wave I get often — it was in fact the ride of my life, and it deserved a celebration.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/96457e_7063d9dc5c674c5687acfbd0c07aba0d/480p/mp4/file.mp4

(The wave of my life)

It’s hard to believe that one ride makes forty hours of travel, significant expense, and days spent lounging around in a one-horse town worthwhile, but it does, and any surfer will agree. Relationships are ended, savings squandered, and jobs jeopardised, in pursuit of the illusive 'wave of a lifetime’. Surfers drop everything for a swell, reneging on responsibility to go on the hunt. Knowing this, you’ll understand why the trip became an overwhelming success as I exited that frightful tube. The gruelling road trip, the harsh conditions, the next six days of surf, none of it mattered. 

Four days later, as we watched jumbled twenty-foot faces roll angrily down the point, I thought at length about that trip-defining wave, and how lucky I’d been to ride it. The last few days had been tough — If it wasn’t slow and crowded, it was enormous and onshore. There’d been precious few opportunities to get a good one, and I’d squandered whatever came my way. The last two days had been particularly disappointing — onshore winds combined with ginormous swell, creating unruly conditions. Thankfully, the coming days looked promising. The swell was tapering off, the winds were improving and the crowd was thinning as people made their way back home. Despite this, our crew had grown — Bryce and Mitch Du Preez’ lift home had left early, and they, like us, fancied a crack at what was to come. 

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/96457e_624f3684cb55477687151bbf8a2a580f/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

(Giant, ugly waves on a day I wanted no part of)

The following morning, with a heavier car, and a higher tower of boards, we made the same, perilous journey to the wave. As the car swung around, lining the shore as we turned to face the wave, we saw Skeleton Bay as it is meant to be. The cold brown water formed exquisite spirals as waves ran, perfectly paced down the point. We realised that our first day, which had seemingly bordered on perfection, was an average day at Skeleton bay — the odd diamond in the rough but nothing compared to the consistency we now witnessed. There were no bad waves. In contrast to days gone by, when expert wave-choice and supreme tube-riding-ability was required to snag a bomb, all that was required was to make the drop. Slide in, slow down and ready yourself for multiple barrels. Picking off my first few waves, I felt the benefit of spending the last five days out there. I was in rhythm with the wave, knowing which ones to pick and how to match and control the speed of the waves. Identifying the end section as the money zone, I hung down the bottom, escaping the crowd and picking off waves that swung wide. It was one of those rare days when you feel invincible — as if there was no drop I couldn’t make, and no barrel I couldn’t exit. 

One ride is still burned in my memory. Taking off I looked ahead at the wall stretching in front of me, sure that I was on a goody. The wave let me in easy, and I swung off the bottom straight into the tube. After sitting cozy for a few seconds, I came out clean, drifting into the flats to slow down for another section. The wave threw again, and I tucked under the lip for a second tube. This one was longer and more stretched out. With a few big pumps, I came from deep, bursting from the barrel. Surely there can’t be more, I thought, as I continued down the line, tube drunk. A drunkard seldom says no to another, and my eyes lit up as the lip threw for the third time. Gulp after gulp, and still it wasn’t finished — after my fourth pump, I looked around, shocked that I was still in the tube. Continuing to race down the line, I grew more nervous, and more excited the longer it went on. It was only after my fifth pump, when I’d come to accept life in an endless tube, that the wave slowed down, gifting me an easy exit. 

With a mesmerised mind and a body breaking at the seams, I stumbled up the point, reflecting on the tube-filled day. That’s when I caught sight of a familiar style stalling for the tube. Sinking his leg deep in the wave, this mystery surfer slowed down with exquisite control, stopping in his tracks, allowing the barrel to engulf him. The wave was about to swallow him when I realised, with excitement, that it was Chris. He disappeared far behind the curtain — a worrying sign suggesting that he might’ve wiped off too much speed. With every second I grew more certain that he’d blown it. I was convinced he’d been taken down, about to avert my gaze when I saw the nose of his board emerge, peeping from the tube. I screamed as he reappeared, knowing that the perfect day of surf was complete. 

We returned the following morning for one last bite of the cherry. With a considerable drop in swell  overnight, most of the remaining surfers cut their losses, avoiding the bumpy forty minute drive. Despite diminished odds of scoring, we made the trek one last time — enthused by the thought of one last endless barrel. To our surprise, the waves were pumping — something to do with the swell direction. We enjoyed a morning of three foot tubes before packing up and heading home. One thing was decided, we’d be taking the main road. 

(Snaps from the trip)

At the beginning of 2022, I started this blog with the hope of documenting a series of surf trips that took me from Mozambique to Namibia. 2022 saw none of that. Where I’d seen Mozambique, reality delivered months working at a restaurant in Cape Town; Where I’d envisioned a uniquely African experience, an Indonesian adventure; instead of a jaunt down to J bay, a Sri Lankan Soiree. You move forward and life, or God, or both, alters your path. Despite this drastic divergence from my intended plan, I never gave up on my Southern African surf trip. Now that’s it’s complete, I look back in amazement at the way things have unfolded. It took a leap of faith, and a journey in the opposite direction. It was cross continental travel to a remote collection of islands off the coast of West Sumatra that introduced me to a group of adventurous Americans intrigued by Africa and its wave-rich coast. It was my love for home and its waves that inspired them to make the trip to surfing's final frontier. And it was God's hand in proceedings, so fuzzy and unfocused at the time and yet so obvious and unavoidably apparent now, that resulted in the trip of a lifetime. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JiQgQiAtYVE