Misadventures In Point Hunting

We stood in silence, gazing up at a muddy chute that led to the top of a headland. It had been raining heavily for the last 48 hours and our feet were beginning to sink into the wet sand along the shoreline. A little trail that may have once been manageable looked like it would have given even a goat a challenge. I succumbed to mental defeat and began thinking about paddling around the rocks, against the current for the entirety of the point—and how much it was going to suck.

Chile may be home to the Atacama Desert, the driest place in the world, but you would have never guessed it on that evening. I burped and recalled our lunch—salmon topped with an exorbitant amount of french fries. In a land that housed more than three million cattle, it felt blasphemous that we’d decided to eat fish steaks rather than ribeye. It was equally perplexing that our group of regularfooters were traveling along a coast of endless lefthand pointbreaks.

It was likely photographer Mark McInnis’ doing. A year earlier, he visited this region and instantly fell in love with it. He stayed with Australian expat and surfer Jesse Faen at Jesse’s beautiful hilltop cabin overlooking one of the many sandy lefthanders. Now he’d dragged Peter Devries and myself back here to satisfy his undying affinity for backhand surfing. 

Although Jesse was not able to accompany us this time, we’d commandeered his house anyway. Along with it came two canine companions, Topanga and Panchito. Cinematographer Nate Laverty rounded out our group.

Standing in the rain, we were hoping for a change in fortune. We’d only been in the country for a week but we’d already nearly torched our host’s lovely wooden home. The ignition point was a towel that someone hung too close to the wood stove in the living room, which combusted as if it were a rag soaked in gasoline. I was sprawled on the couch with my head in a book when I heard Mark’s voice suddenly ring out with expletives. I followed him with my eyes as he sprinted over to the stove in the corner, grabbed the metal shovel for the coals, and managed to wrestle the fireball outside onto the veranda and stomp out the flames.

“I think we’ve got this,” he said now at the bottom of the cliff, the eternal optimist. He gestured to a ledge just large enough to support a sapling about halfway to the top of the headland. “If we can get to that flat spot there, we should be able to go up one-by-one and pass things to each other.” 

It didn’t seem like the wisest idea. But we’d stolen a glimpse of a grinding left tube from the highway and it had driven us into a frenetic state. The prospect of not paddling out here was a dismal one. “Alright, I guess it’s on,” Nate said, even though he seemed the most reluctant member of our group when we first ran into the headland. 

We’d stolen a glimpse of a grinding left tube from the highway and it had driven us into a frenetic state.

Peter and I worked our way up, already in our wetsuits, passing boards to and from each other whenever the route required the use of both hands. Even when my foot firmly gripped the surface, it seemed like the muddy rock underneath would break away.

After a handful of panic-stricken moments, we reached the crest and our eyes were greeted with the fruits of our labor. A wider-than-it-was-tall tube ran across the sandbar, just out of reach from the seaweed that clung to the base of the rocks. Another one followed immediately behind the first, warping along the point and unloading in a cloud of mist.

The sun even came out for a moment. 

*

We bounced along yet another muddy dirt road a few days later, Nate at the helm, swerving to and fro in a vain attempt to avoid the shin-deep potholes. A group of horses stood fixated on our vehicle just beyond a wooden fence, their breath hanging in the air as we reached the first gate in the road, which was thankfully unlocked. 

Mark hopped out of the front seat and swung the gate quietly out of the way. We passed sporadic farmhouses, their windows dark despite the smoke emanating from their chimneys—a signal that they were occupied. There was a collective feeling of uncertainty between us, an underlying sentiment that we were trespassing. There were no “Privado” signs along the road but, with the gates and the fences, it felt implied. 

We’d settled into a routine of looking for surf on the desperate whims of rumor and hearsay, pointing at maps, and making big plans in the evenings. It was only when it came time to execute our visions that a little voice in our heads warned us of the details—the possibility of a locked gate or being shot for trespassing.

We pressed on through a second unlocked entrance, our minds fixated on the idea of sandy lefthand tubes. The dirt road led us through another mile or so of grassy farmland, dotted with cow patties and the occasional thistle bush. We climbed up and over one last ridge and the grassland gave way to a cliff face that fell to a black-sand beach.

The setup was reminiscent of other waves we’d surfed in the area, beginning mere feet behind a cluster of rocks, but with a tricky backwash thrown in to distract us just enough to forget about the boulders. And unlike the others, this wave hit the sandbar much harder and would grind and grow, picking up speed as it made its way down the bank toward the end of the bay. 

The pitfall of having so many quality setups in one area is the constant urge to know which one is best at all times.

Most of the waves we paddled for were too fast to make, running away before we could find an exit. Still, they left a view burned in our minds that kept us motivated enough to battle the current. When we eventually did manage to conjure an exit, the frustration of dealing with the conveyor belt beyond the rocks ceased and gave way to a euphoric state. Afterward, we ate more salmon and french fries for dinner to celebrate.

*

The swell forecast showed no signs of things slowing down and we got back on the road again. Chile is one of the longest (and narrowest) countries in the world, with more than 2,000 miles of coastline. While this may not provide an abundance of real estate for agriculture or natural resources, it does offer seemingly endless opportunity for local and traveling surfers alike. 

The only pitfall of having so many quality setups in one area is the constant urge to know which one is best at all times—and covering the distance between them. This led to a lot of time in the truck. Bumpy wet tracks, spilled coffee, and Mark’s deep library of southern trap music were our road staples. Whenever we stopped to check the surf, dogs from nearby farmhouses would spring out to greet us, even when we felt like we were miles from the nearest outpost. 

At a village along a dark beach, we came upon a glassy lagoon with a slab unloading just offshore. The takeoff looked dry and nearly impossible, but it was still a welcome alternative to hopping back in the truck for another five hours.

As Peter and I scrambled off the beach in a mad dash between sets, we quickly realized our estimate of the wave size had been askew. The semi-inviting walls turned out to be giant, foam-balling freight trains. Maybe this is why Chile remains devoid of the masses that frequent every other nook on this planet with surfable waves. Its currents are strong, the swells march in with immense power, and waves that often appear to be dreamy points turn out to be aquatic treadmills of frustration and exhaustion. The effort can easily be perceived as not worthy of the payoff. 

Our estimate of size was askew. The waves turned out to be giant, foam-balling freight trains.

After bouncing around on my shortboard and getting mowed down by most of the bigger sets, I made a less than graceful exit on the end section, wearing a half-dozen waves on the head, pinballing off the kelp-covered rocks at the end of the beach. Back on shore, we all reconvened and laughed at how wildly we had misread the conditions. Then we were back in the truck and hunched over the map again, chewing coastline in the rain.

[Feature image: Pete Devries off the road, with plenty of track to cover ahead.]