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Soul
surfing is what you do
when you are thoroughly in the moment
enjoying and expressing yourself
on the wave and being one with the ocean.
—Tom
Carrol, former surfing
world
champion and pipe master
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| Witch's Rock beckons
all surfers to ride her wicked waves. All photos by Brie Iatarola |
Sometimes when I close
my eyes, I remember how it feels to soul surf. In fact, I even remember
the first time my spirit found freedom in the balmy waters of Costa
Rica. It happened July 17, 2002, about 45 miles north of Tamarindo,
a coastal town in the province of Guanacaste that has exploded into
a mecca of yachts, tourists, and pricey condos.
That particular morning, the shrieks
of cara blanca monkeys replaced my alarm clock. As I showered outside
in my ratty bikini with my surfboard, Midge, I drank the view of the
Pacific’s waves faster than a cup of coffee. A slight offshore
wind, no clouds…another gorgeous day.
The clock read 5 a.m.; right on
time. With Midge under my arm and a backpack stocked with sunscreen,
a towel, and snacks, I hustled down the dirt road to meet up with the
crew. The crew included Chrystian and Carlos—two skilled surfers
from Canada—and Dan, a light-skinned British chap who seldom talked.
We each shelled
out $50 for breakfast, lunch, and a boat ride to Costa Rica’s
famous treasure: Roca Bruja (Witch’s Rock). The mythical spot
has appeared in Surfer magazine’s South of the Border video, the
famous wave flick Endless Summer II and just about every major surfing
magazine on the planet.
Parker, our Californian
driver, ambled out of the bathroom, dazed from last night’s fiesta.
“Here,” he said, pushing a piece of paper toward me. “You
need to sign your life away. We can’t be held responsible if anything
happens to you.” I signed the sheet and grinned. “I’d
rather die surfing anyway.”
As we passed the pueblos of Huacas,
Belén, and Fíladelfia, occasional stretches of the jungle
steamed with morning mist. Two hours later, we pulled up to a ramshackle
house facing Playa del Coco and unloaded our gear.
“OK guys, we’re gonna
get some food first, and then we’ll get El Capitán to take
us out to the spot,” instructed another surfer named Pat, who
pointed to a young tico—the nickname for Costa Ricans—with
a slight beer belly.
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El Capitán |
I gave El Capitán a quick smile and greeted him
with the slang I learned while living with a tico host family for six
months. He told me his real name, but I quickly forgot it.
After scarfing a plate of gallo pinto with huevos—the
ticos' breakfast of champions—my body shivered with excitement.
“I can’t believe this is really happening,” I marveled.
“A whole day of perfect waves.”
I looked around before wading through
the water to hop on the boat. A baby wailed from a stroller outside
the house next door; no one was there to comfort her. Down the bay,
two kids wrestled in the marina’s polluted waters despite the
early hour. I said a quick prayer, thanked the higher spirit, and leapt
into the boat.
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The crew gets set
for the Roca Bruja adventure. |
Off we go
As we sped across the water, I searched for dolphins, sharks, and whales
but didn’t see any. Rock castles that had weathered eons of tropical
storms stared at me. Several kilometers north of Playa del Coco, the
distant shoreline of Playa Naranjo emerged. Forty-five minutes later,
stretches of the protected Santa Rosa National Park appeared to my right.
Then, I noticed it: the menacing mountain of jagged rocks that stabbed
out of the ocean. John, a cute American surfer with a degree in French
literature, announced our arrival. “This is it,” he said,
grinning. “Welcome to Witch’s Rock.”
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A silly John shows us what's
for lunch. |
El Capitán cut the boat’s engine, and we
all sat for a few moments, assessing the conditions. No sunbathers peppered
the beach; boogie boarders competed for waves elsewhere. Any signs of
life hid inside the lush rain forest that shielded Playa Naranjo.
“God, look at that,”
John suddenly whispered to me, pointing to the way the swell bundled
its energy, reached the cusp and then released its fury to the left
and right sides, forming a beautiful, liquefied letter ‘A.’
It was more stunning than any picture in my collection of surfing magazines.
Before we hit the water, John gave
us a brief geology lesson: When a small estuary from Playa Naranjo merged
with Witch’s Rock centuries ago, a sandbar formed and the three-mile
stretch of its hollow bottom created the ideal beach break. The waves
weren’t boasting 20-foot faces as they did during the winter;
but they weren’t small, either—just enough to tube us if
luck prevailed.
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Curious, I asked El Capitán about the legend
of Witch’s Rock. "Long ago, a married couple decided to camp
on the shore of Playa Naranjo," he said solemnly. "One morning,
the wife wanted to see if she and her husband could swim to the rock.
They made it out, but she never made it back. Got stuck in the current
and drowned. Now her spirit beckons all young men to join her at the
rock."
The fable made my heart rate quicken,
and I stopped listening. Death—the mere possibility. Maybe I wasn't
ready to leave Earth this way. The fact that I’m a female somewhat
comforted me, but was this spirit really gender specific? I glanced
at Chrystian; he just smiled. He didn't understand a lick of what El
Capitán had just said. In the distance, I spotted three surfers.
Aside from us, they were the only people out there.
Before the anxiety could fester,
Pat tapped me on the leg. “You ready?” he asked, sliding
Midge’s 6-foot-9-inch body across my lap. “Yep,” I
replied as I pulled out my Sex wax and began to rub swift circles across
the my board's surface.
Minutes later, I tossed Midge overboard
and jumped in the water—a pleasant 76 degrees, with hues of sapphire
mixed with turquoise. I strapped the leash to my right ankle, hoisted
my body onto his, and paddled over to the action. The ocean’s
immensity made me feel like a lonely checker on a gigantic board.
The wave connection
Three hours elapsed before I finally scored
a great ride. The swells were larger than what I usually surfed, and
a miserable onshore wind seemed to spawn from nowhere. Set after set,
the waves swiftly closed out, leaving no room for barrels. Each nasty
wipeout shoved death down my lungs and out of my coughing mouth.
By noon, both the conditions and
my surfing had improved. I spied a new set forming afar, and El Capitán’s
whistle signaled its pending arrival. I glided over to the sweet spot.
With Midge angled slightly to the left, I paddled until I could feel
the wave begin to inhale me. Though my arms ached, I kept paddling until
the timing seemed right; and then I popped up.
Finally. That
was it: the moment to enjoy and express myself. For the first time all
day, my soul connected with the ocean. I shifted my weight onto my back
foot and cut more to the left. Midge’s fins sliced the water until
the wave dissolved in the sandbar. Although the moment lasted less than
a minute, I remembered why I never smashed my board out of frustration.
Pat hollered, and I raised my fists before somersaulting off Midge into
the water. Like a kid, I giggled all the way back to the boat.
“You’re lookin’
good out there,” Pat said during lunch. "You definitely have
it. It's there. Just stay relaxed." Good enough for a tenderfoot,
I guessed, so I thanked him before listing all the ways to improve:
faster paddling, more weight shifting and less thinking. The last ride
reminded me that I possess an athletic soul, and only my mind could
defeat me. The wisdom unleashed another grin, and a peaceful silence
followed. After the break, I realized something else: It was just past
noon, and I still had the rest of the day to surf with the souls of
Witch’s Rock.
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Nothing beats a great day of
surfing. |
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