Weskus: Mo Money Mo Problems!

Mo money mo problems — a phrase uttered to me after discussing my first week’s pay with my brother Dave. The money was streaming in and while this statement was made in jest, my new occupation was limiting my flexibility. Where I’d imagined weeklong work-free periods filled with surf exploration, reality saw me lucky to sneak a two-day strike mission up the West Coast. Having said that, the money was phenomenal (considering the occupation) and I was convinced that more experience and seniority would allow me greater control over my schedule.

A month later my prediction of greater work schedule autonomy had somewhat come to fruition, enabling a weekend trip up West with Tao and Troy. Troy, a PGDA student, hadn’t felt anything but a pen in those small hands of his for months and began to thirst for the sweet curvature of his 5’10 Pyzalien (a surfboard model made by the brand Pyzel). He’d been gifted a one-week holiday and planned on immersing himself in the pleasures of the external world. With this in mind, he’d messaged me a week prior, desperate to get out of town and score good surf. “Bru,” said Troy, “between graft and my chick, I literally haven’t had a second to pop on the wetty and get a wave.” All too familiar with the perils of this treacherous juggling act, I sensed Troy’s anguish and sprung into overdrive, determined to find us a spell of surf out of town. A brief look at the charts identified the following Saturday as a prime opportunity to head up to Elands Bay. A raging 15-foot swell was expected to greet the Cape of Good Hope on Friday evening, sending six- to ten-foot surf up the coast the following morning. Even more encouraging was the direction of the swell — well over 230 degrees. While not as much of a factor at other breaks, the shape of Elands Bay — which is perpendicular to the rest of the coastline — requires a swell able to bend around the headland and into the bay, benefitting from a more westerly angle. This allows the waves to march straight into the lineup instead of missing it entirely — something that often happens on very southerly swells.

The three of us (Taoza, Troy and I) had been invited to a party in town on Friday night. Emma, aka Troy’s chick, was hosting a shindig at her digs. While an exciting event in and of itself, it meant that we would all be in close proximity to each other the following morning. A rare occurrence, given that Taoza had opted to settle amongst the muesli-easters of Noordhoek. Luckily for us, he’d come down with writer's block, stemming the typically unrelenting flow of poetry and top-hat-wearing tiger paintings. He’d subsequently decided that a weekend of intoxication and harsh West Coast surf was a necessity, agreeing to join in on the action in spite of his limited surf experience. Perhaps even more alarming was the fact that he’d agreed to ditch several bare-footed, bare-chested Tinder matches for a weekend with us. I felt honoured! Anyway, enough about Taoza.

Friday afternoon was prep time. Boards were packed, coolies were iced, and sandwiches made. By this time I’d started to feel a little off, with a headache and a scratchy throat. “Nothing a couple of bruskis couldn’t sort out,” I said aloud, willing myself to believe it. The party was a blast and a blur. The night had started early and fast, ending in a similar fashion. Despite this, I woke late and slowly, with a raging headache, post-nasal drip, and aggressive sore throat. It was immediately apparent that I wasn’t well enough for a weekend of cold windy seas and uncomfortable sleeping arrangements but the plans were set and I felt I couldn’t pull out of the trip the morning of. I decided to suck it up and make the most of it. Taoza arrived at my house half an hour later, merrily humming “I Need My Girl” by The National as he sauntered into the living room. “Sick print,” he said, gesturing across to the “Make Art, Not War” poster framed on the wall. “Thanks,” I replied, chuckling, before gathering the last bits and bobs needed for the trip and heading down to the road where Troy was waiting with his brother’s 2000 model Toyota Prado.

We cruised into Elands Bay two and a half hours later — sometime after 1 o‘clock. It’s a sad little town, typically reflective of South Africa’s racially segregated past. Upon entering, you’re confronted by a sprawling, predominantly coloured township built on harsh dry land far from the sea. Moving through the town towards the ocean, you’re greeted by expansive seaside properties overflowing with balconies and well-watered gardens. Although nothing in comparison to the mansions of Clifton, the juxtaposition was stark and unnerving. As we all must do if we’re able to live in this country, I allowed myself only a few moments of reflection on the topic before forcing it from my mind, grasping at the thought of the waves to come. Troy parked the cabby and we made our way over the boardwalk towards the sea. Cranial pressure was quelling my usual pre-wave-check jitters but I was still nervous to see if the surf had delivered. Thankfully, it was pumping. Clean, big, and superlative with five-foot sets running down the point, groomed by a perfectly angled south-easterly wind blowing slightly down the face of the waves (much like the south-westerly at J-Bay). With a dropping swell, I knew this was my best opportunity to score, ignoring my symptoms and my mother’s advice in favour of a cold wetsuit and an even colder ocean.

Elands Bay is a difficult wave to surf. Unlike most point breaks, where the waves come in as even, orderly lines, this left-hander wedges as it enters the bay, creating A-frame teepees which then refract down the point. In order to paddle into waves, you have to position yourself directly underneath the A-frame, often taking off in foamy water. This makes it tricky to read, since the tasks of anticipating the wave’s breaking point and foamy takeoffs are challenging ones. Confident in my ability to do both of these things, I figured I’d have an advantage in the lineup.

(The setup at Elands (photo - Daniel Grebe))

I took the first few minutes to scan the talent pool, looking for any ill-equipped surfers I might be able to sneak a few waves off of. It doesn’t take much to get an idea; an uncoordinated paddle or wobbly takeoff is all I need to distinguish the experienced surfers from the newcomers. Thankfully, barring a couple of old-timers, the bay was void of any real talent and I got to work clocking waves. Left-hand point breaks are something of a rarity in South Africa, especially for someone from the East Coast, and I was loving the opportunity to link a series of arcing turns together on my forehand. I’d opted for my 5’11 shortboard — a board slightly longer than my everyday option. The extra rail line allowed me to draw out my turns, facilitating high-speed down-carves with newfound control. The feeling was intoxicating and I found myself in a frenzy, popping off the back of three-hundred-metre rides, sprinting back up the point only to paddle into the first wave I saw. I repeated this three or four times before remembering the state of my health and slowing down, anxious to keep my heart-rate under control. I’d completely forgotten about Troy and Taoza as a result of my wave-induced delirium. In truth, there’s no telling whether my adrenaline-filled mind mistook them for random surfers. As the brain fuzz subsided I remembered my friends, feeling a pang of guilt. I paddled over to Troy to see if he’d got any waves. Turned out he’d had an absolute screamer moments before, locking into one that ran the length of the point. Reassured by his contentment, I shifted my focus onto Taoza. Working my way back up the lineup, I found him up towards the takeoff zone, sitting twenty metres too far out. Certain that his board was as yet unridden, I opted to steer the conversation away from the topic, asking how he was getting on. Despite the apparent lack of wave-riding, Tao assured me that he was enjoying himself, reminding me that exposure to the raw elements was the elixir he’d come seeking. Confident that my companions were sufficiently satisfied, I got back to riding waves, grabbing a few more before calling it a day.

After reconvening at the car, we headed over to the Elands Bay Hotel, home to the only camp site (and Tafel Lagers) in the area. Intent on saving costs, we’d agreed to keep our sleeping arrangements flexible, opting for the camp site if and only if the price seemed reasonable. At R375 rand a night, it was decided that the campsite (which borders the hotel offering very little in the way of views and tranquillity) was overpriced. We’d half expected this, vaguely remembering the exorbitant price from our last journey. Troy, being the plan-maker that he is, had used the rare few moments between girlfriend and graft to develop a contingency plan. If you know the old Toyota Prados then you’ll remember the third row of seats: the leg jammers that clip onto hooks near the back windows when not in use. Troy figured that, if we were to drop the second row of seats, closing them so that the back of the chairs looked up at the roof, and unclip the third row, leaving them closed so that their backs also faced the roof, all we would need were some objects to fill the space between the two rows. This, he decided, would leave us with a perfect, level platform on which to place our camping mattresses. Troy laid this out for Tao and me over beers at the hotel. It seemed like a wonderful idea, and I hopped in the car excitedly, enchanted by the thought of serious, hardcore surf exploration.

(Sipping on premium lager)

Ten minutes later we arrived at our dinner spot on a secluded dirt road, halfway up the mountain, overlooking Elands Bay. Troy got to work on our ham and cheese rolls while Tao and I sat on camp chairs watching the sunset. A crisp Devils Peak Indian Pale Ale slipped into my hand while I watched the ocean — exquisitely textured by the slightest of offshore winds. The setting sun had begun to glow red hot as it sank beneath the horizon. The chatter shifted to the day’s events, filled with analysis of waves and wipeouts. It’s in these moments that I appreciate getting away the most, and I sank gleefully into my chair. Little did I know that I was in for a night from hell!

(evening views)

After finishing our meal in the dark, we made our way back into the town, finding a quiet street that seemed to be a suitable parking spot for the night. Troy had brought two see-through plastic camping containers filled with crockery, cutlery, and other camping necessities. It was decided that although they didn’t quite reach the height of the back two rows of seats, these would be the items used to create the ‘flat’ base on which to lay our mattresses. We placed them in between the rows and laid some clothes on top before positioning the camping mattresses. A quick acid test deemed this a suitable arrangement and we moved onto the task of storing our surfboards. Worried about leaving them outside of the car for fear of them getting nicked, we decided that the only option was to put them above our heads, suspended by a rope. The boards barely fit, hanging low and hindering our ability to sit up from our resting positions. I slid in, once again testing the viability of our enclosure. It was one hell of a squeeze but I figured we’d manage.

(Unsuspecting victims)

Turns out a thirty-second test doesn’t quite prepare you for eight hours of discomfort. I woke in the night. My lower back throbbed, aggravated by the uneven platform — the plastic boxes weren’t quite doing the trick and my bum sank below the rest of my body as the second row of seats dug into my back. My throat had turned to sandpaper, made worse by a mucus-induced metamorphosis from man to mouth-breather. What’s worse, we’d forgotten to leave the windows ajar, transforming the car into a hot box of warm beer breath. I wiped my sweaty brow before turning to Troy, hoping that the torture was nearing its end. To my horror, he informed me that it was ten o’clock, meaning we’d been asleep for just over two hours. The rest of the night followed in similar fashion, waking every hour or so, unable to get comfortable, ever hopeful that sunrise was near. Eventually I woke for the last time, relieved at the sight of light creeping over the mountain. We crawled out of the car in collective agreement that that was the worst night of our lives before returning to our sunset lookout. The view was even more glorious than its predecessor, imbued with a crisp sharpness that only mornings possess.

The previous night’s torture had clarified the state of my ill-health and I decided to opt out of the day’s surf activities. Luckily the swell had dropped considerably and I sat in my chair somewhat relieved, thankful to avoid the cold. The waves at Elands Bay tend to die off quickly on a dropping swell. Observing from our perch, we decided that the sets were too small and inconsistent to justify another surf here and agreed to head over to Yoyo’s. Being an exposed reef break, the jewel of Lambert's Bay catches considerably more swell than Elands, making it a reliable option on days like this. It’s also a more user-friendly wave, giving Tao a more realistic shot at picking up a few.

I sat on the beach, camera in hand, as the two of them paddled out. Taking the role of cameraman/coach for the day, I told them to go big or go home, hoping that a few memorable wipeouts would ensue. Thankfully, my wishes came true, making for a pleasant day on the beach.

(Taoza, tumbling)

We decided to call it a trip a few hours later, making our usual dunked-wing pitstop in Piketberg before completing the last hour of the journey. I arrived home and collapsed on my bed, emerging three days later.

On the surface, this seems like a pretty crappy trip; a horrible night’s sleep, worsening sickness, and limited surfing. And yet, I had a blast. So I guess I find myself in a familiar position: supremely satisfied at the end of a surf trip which hasn’t gone to plan, underdelivering on all accounts. This peculiar pattern leaves me ever more confident in the unwavering value of surf exploration, or exploration of any kind for that matter. And ever more excited for a trip that goes to plan!

(One wave from a more recent trip that went exactly according to plan)

GLOSSARY

A-frame

noun

1 A type of wave, typically created by offshore reefs that break up and refract the swell, that forms the shape of an ‘A’ with its tallest point in the centre, falling off on both sides. “Yoh bru, I froth for A-frame peaks!”

Wedge

noun

2 Similar to an A-frame, wedges are created by some wall or landmass perpendicular to the coastline. As the waves approach the beach, they rebound off of this wall, sending side-waves back into the lineup where they combine with the primary swell to create powerful, shifting peaks. "Llandudno has some crazy wedges."