Cliffhanger

Chasing waves and risking it for clicks down the Pan-American Highway.

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“You are pretty stupid,” I said to myself as I dug a hole with my bare hands behind the front tires of my 2000 Toyota Sienna, which was stuck in the sand and slowly sliding toward the edge of a Chilean cliff with a 1,500-foot drop. 

I’d bought the minivan for $1,800 from an impound lot in Huntington Beach a few months prior, and it had been my faithful companion and home during the 10,000 miles we’d traveled down the Pan-American Highway, following a path through North, Central, and South America similar to the one I had ridden in 1987 on a Honda XL 600R motorcycle with a surfboard rack. 

Now, with 5,000 miles left until I reached my home in Brazil, I’d suddenly become stranded on this cliff somewhere between the Atacama Desert and the Pacific Ocean. It seemed like both my van and my trip were about to come to an early end.

The day before, I’d met a Chilean photographer in Arica. He was generous enough to give me directions to a wave less violent than the town’s most famous offering, El Gringo, known for its cold and merciless guillotines over a shallow rock bed encrusted with barnacles. Having just turned 60, I wanted something a little more user-friendly. His coordinates could have been more accurate: “When you pass a village with a handful of fishing boats anchored in a small, protected cove, pay attention to an exit on the right. It will be a narrow dirt road leading to a thatched-roof shack, with a huge pile of urchin shells next to it.” 

I spied an overlook on my way to the wave. Eager to get some photos, I didn’t correctly assess the risk. Yes, the curse of social media had a hold on me. I got the shot, but was it worth it? 

Hoping to engage traction, I dug holes behind the tires and filled them with rocks. But when I put the van in reverse up the slope, the tires spun and expelled the stones, digging an even deeper hole and causing my van to slide closer to the edge. 

At that point, I broke into a cold sweat at the realization that I was stranded behind a massive rock grouping that hid me from the view of anyone passing by. Unless that “anyone” happened to be a bandit looking for stuck drivers to rob, which the news and roadside conversations revealed was a common danger in the area, I was in a bad spot.

I gave up on getting the van out of the sand alone. But who would stop for a tall, sweaty, bearded man with messy hair gesturing in desperation on the side of the road? Several cars and trucks passed by, ignoring me. Finally, a 4×4 SUV slowed down. From a safe distance, the driver asked what had happened. His wife was next to him, and two small children were in the backseat. I explained the situation.

The husband parked his car as close to my van as possible while still on packed dirt. We tied a strap from his front bumper to mine. He activated the 4×4. I took my seat behind the wheel of the van. On the first attempt, more rocks flew, and neither of us moved. On the second, we slowly managed to inch the van out of the loose dirt. I thanked them profusely. Now free, I descended the winding road toward the coast. My van and my trip were back on track. 

That afternoon, I found the spot recommended by the photographer. I surfed beautiful 6-foot point waves alone. I exited the water through jagged rocks. After my earlier experience, I danced across them with ease. 

Later that night, by the campfire and under a starry sky, I checked the photos from the cliff’s edge. They were good, but not even close to conveying what I’d felt. How could they? 

That moment of quiet reflection was the closest I came to feeling like I did 35 years earlier on my motorcycle trip. Sitting by the burning driftwood, the ocean nearby, I let everything soak in, my thoughts quieted by the sound of the waves.

[Feature image by Adrian Kojin]

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