The Last Wave

The morning’s beauty is so stunning that halfway to the point, I put my camera away and stop trying in vain to capture the sunrise on the volcano or the sloping beach with the tracks of giant sea turtles who’ve laid eggs overnight before dragging themselves back to the water. Some scenes the lens diminishes and only disappoint me later. I’ll let this one flash upon my cornea without any effort to preserve it.

The boat pulls up to the point as the barely cresting sun turns the spray off a curling wave to a kind of liquid confetti.

Fred is already securing a leash to his ankle.

As predicted, the waves are the biggest we’ve seen all week. But they are no secret. Other surf camps have also shown up in their boats full of surfers.

Fred sits on the boat’s rail.

Let’s go make a few friends, he says as he jumps in and paddles toward the break. Then Rob is over the edge and paddling in Fred’s wake. It’s my turn, but I’m rooted to the seat. Assuming I’m going, Victor rubs a wax puck over Big Mama, then turns to me with a warning look.

If you lose your leash, don’t go get it, he says. Swim to the boat. We will go and get it.

I nod, looking closer at the break to better understand what he’s talking about. My eyes follow a breaking wave all the way to the shallows where it meets a phalanx of dark volcanic boulders. Now I get it: if your leash breaks and you lose your board in a fall, it will be taken into those rocks. Swim in to get it and you’re liable to get slammed too.

So there’s that. Fun.

Also, the notion that Victor’s preparing me to have the leash ripped from my ankle tells me that these waves are more powerful than any we’ve surfed.

Am I’m ready? I ask Victor.

He looks up from where he’s waxing Big Mama.

A hundred percent, he says. You can do it today.

A hundred percent, I repeat. I can do it today.

Go to the left, Victor says. You stand up, and then turn around.

I know that he means turn down the line, but the way he says it sticks in my head. Maybe because he’s yelled it every time I get up on a wave. Turn around!

As I’m thinking about this, I find myself standing on the rail, leash attached to my ankle, and diving in. Sometimes it’s best not to think. Victor may have confidence in my nascent surfing transformation, but I’m going on faith.

He catches up to me as I get to the break and sit up. I’ve stopped well outside the shoulder to watch the waves and the assembled throng. There’s a guy with shoulder-length dreds who looks lean and tanned and accomplished. Then there are two middle-aged men in matching pale green Florence hoodies, which are pulled up over their helmets.

Helmets?

One of them takes off deep, hitting his feet as he drops down the face, his board seeming to leave the wave as it falls. When his feet re-meet the board, it’s already in a hard carve. The lip of the wave bends over his head, and I have a perfect view of him inside the barrel. Now I know that I shouldn’t be out here. As if reading my mind, Victor slaps my board, and paddles toward a spot far away from where Helmet just got tubed.

As we’re stroking toward the shoulder, Rob drops in on his first wave of the day. It’s steep, and he freefalls for a split second before rocking back on the tail and pivoting down the line. He comes out with speed in a coiled crouch, turns up toward the top of the smooth face, then ramps back down. I’m stunned, grateful to see my friend catch such an incredible ride, and angry at myself for not being in the boat to capture it with the long lens. Fred is next, and he catches a similar ride off the shoulder of the wave. Fred is all daring aggression, carving backside up the wave, and cutting back toward the churning white curl. And then he’s down. Another amazing ride.

I hear Victor cheering loudly in Spanish, in words I don’t understand. And then I see Fred pop up, already swimming for the outside, toward the boat. It takes me a moment to understand why his swimming looks different: he’s not pulling in his leash to reclaim his board. He’s stroking through an insistent Australian crawl.

On the boat, the captain pulls in the anchor.

Fred has lost his board.

He reaches the boat as the captain affixes a metal ladder to the gunwale. Then Fred is in the boat, and it’s moving toward the shore and his lost board.

Turn around, Victor says in a low tone that catches my attention.

Then the wave heaves up under me, and with barely a paddle, I slide down it with more speed than I thought possible.

Victor’s words catch me: Go left.

I paddle hard with my right arm, dragging my left as I’d seen others do. As Big Mama pivots to the left, I find myself on my feet. And flying. The speed and the ease are stunning. I freeze into a crouch, leaning on my toes, goofy-footing out the side of the biggest and fastest wave I’ve ever been on.

Stop thinking, an inner voice screams. Relax!

I don’t relax. I’m stiff as a statue. But the line is good, and the fin holds as I sail down the line, toward smooth water on the outside. And then the wave is behind me, and I dive into calm water as it plows toward the rocks on the shore. This first wave will be my final ride at Amaru. It will also mark the fastest I’ve gone on a surfboard, the biggest wave I’ve ridden, and by far the easiest pop-up I’ve had. All on one wave.

It’s amazing, and I want more.

I paddle out to rejoin Victor, who steers me into the takeoff zone of half a dozen other rideable waves, none of which I can ride. Now there are twenty other surfers in the water, and although I do stand up on a couple more waves, I lose my balance when I try to steer through them. After a near-collision with a woman from another surf camp, I decide that the dream is over and head back to the boat to hear the stories and drink greedily from little boxes of iced tea.

From the boat I watch Rob’s last ride of the day. It’s a big wave and he rides it up high. Fred, who’s regained his board, is paddling hard for the shoulder of the wave Rob’s riding. Just before they meet, Rob kicks out the back of the wave. His board shoots forward. Fred ducks, his board following.

Only later, when they get back in the boat, do we find the neat, inch-deep slice that the fin on Rob’s board cut into the rail of Fred’s. I wish I’d filmed it, but I wouldn’t trade having his wave in the can for the thrill of my own that’s captured only in memory.

I’m new to this surfing thing, but it seems that so much of the magic is ephemeral, fleeting, meant to be experienced fully and then released. And when it’s gone, there’s only the gratitude. Which is what I’m feeling now.