Saharan Echoes

We arrived in Africa the day before the swell. Kyle Thiermann and I landed first, Greg Long a few hours later. The boards arrived damaged, but at least they were there. Nothing a little resin couldn’t fix. Greg managed to find a car and we went to recon the area, a task that involved a considerable amount of off-roading. 

At one point, Greg was convinced he saw Spanish surfer Natxo Gonzalez in one of the few vehicles that passed us. We were following his trail, playing a hunch based on a clip he’d posted recently on the Internet. His alleged appearance convinced us that we were in the right zone for the wave we were hunting. 

Sunrise revealed seemingly infinite dunes, gilded silica hummocks emanating from the Saharan dawn. The waves themselves were invisible at first. Then, as we approached the shore, we saw rooster tails—a hint of the below-sea-level tubes careening down the point. We followed one particularly filthy specimen with our eyes as it ground down the bar. In the distance, another group of people were atop a dune, also checking the surf. 

They were clearly Westerners. Surfers, no doubt. What other reason would a person have for being out in the middle of nowhere at the crack of dawn? We wandered down to say hello and, as we approached, we recognized Natxo’s ebullient grin. He’d brought some friends with him, excellent surfers and the best of characters—Aritz Aranburu, David Bustamante, Aritza Saratxaga, Jon Aspuru, Adrian Fernandez, Alex Gironi, and Marcos Azpiroz. As coincidence would have it, Grant “Twiggy” Baker was also in the region, traveling independently on “business.” Little time was wasted in suiting up: it was clear a vintage day in fine company awaited.

Soft light gave way to intense sun. The inland desert was a uniform khaki. Even the green leaves on the sparse Acacia trees were heavily dusted. Save for the occasional flash of a grasshopper’s vermillion wings, the landscape was monochrome. Past the sand and dust, and beyond the copious thorns, a salt flat stretched to the waterline, layered with damp clay—a respite, particularly for one’s feet.   

The seawater surged over the sand berm to mix with the dust. Out to sea, I watched the shimmering mirage of ultramarine barrels, sand blooming in their innards. There was barely a breath of wind. A rip moved at jogging speed. Once a ride was completed, a long walk back to the head of the point commenced. I did have to chuckle at how, after the first couple of circuits, the pace started to drop.

By the end of the day, sun-beaten, physically and mentally exhausted, dehydrated and famished, everyone’s shoulders had fallen noticeably and their gait had become increasingly labored. Spurred by the ephemeral nature of perfection, or simply on autopilot, they continued until they were nearly crawling, staring unfocused at the ground, as they returned to the jump-off spot. As evening fell, the landscape appeared softened once again. The sound of the fidgeting grasshoppers echoed along with the roar of the surf.

Day two began much like the first—the sea still alive with tubes, albeit without quite the same unrelenting ferocity. Again, all were surfed out by sundown. It was clear the point would be smaller and less consistent the following day. 

On our plane in, I’d caught a glimpse of a windswept bombora down the coast and pointed it out to Kyle. We’d agreed there was potential, but it was clear that being so far out to sea, and with the angle of swell and wind, the wave would be mercurial at best. Additionally, we weren’t entirely sure where it was relative to our location. 

Again, we woke early. Kyle and Greg nipped off in the gray light to check an exposed beachbreak. I snapped a couple of pictures of the cheddar moon while I waited. On the horizon, I noticed a strange, semi-makeable wave on an offshore reef with a bit of size and the odd barrel. It seemed too unpredictable to be rideable. But, zooming in with my telephoto lens, I realized it was the bommie Kyle and I had seen from the air. A solid line rolled in, folding into a slabbing pit—first one, then another, and another. The lads had seen it too and we reconvened. All we had to do was get a couple of miles out to sea.

It was the sort of thing that would not have been possible without the crew we’d assembled. Just to get out there, much less tackle a wave like that, required resources, nerve, and a taste for heavy water. Aritz and Twiggy did a good job of negotiating with a local fisherman and we managed to launch from a beach in the lee of the harbor. Overladen with coffin bags and human resources—a little unstable, its rails suspiciously low—the boat chugged toward the horizon.

As the setup loomed into view, we made out a tongue of spit blowing from the tube. The assemblage erupted with hoots and whistles while our captain, less enthused, gave the reef a wide berth before finally idling a couple of hundred yards from the shallows. “Tiger shark teal,” Twig said, noting the color of the water with a hint of trepidation and the gallows humor of a seasoned operator. 

Of course, he was the first one over the rail and was unquestionably the standout that session. I’ve never met anyone more zealous in waves of consequence. Aritz’s wave count was high, too, and Kyle definitely pressed the “send it” button, smashing two boards in the process, while managing to snag a solid, stand-up keg for his troubles. 

The capricious nature of the bommie ensured everyone took a beating. Greg has always been a calculator, analytical and in tune with his surroundings. It’s hard to imagine remaining that patient and calm under the circumstances. For most of the session he sat beyond the rest of the pack, clearly waiting for the biggest sets while the others picked off waves on the inside. Finally, a sizeable lump appeared, ugly in its dimensions. Greg put his head down, digging in, even as the face grew hideously contorted. A moment of disconnect and weightlessness followed. Even the captain was transfixed as he watched Greg fall into space, then undergo a ferocious beating.

Mercifully, given the spot’s severity, nobody was injured. We puttered back to port in high spirits. Twig sat grinning while he and Greg poked fun at each other, as old friends will. Kyle was content after his beauty, and the Basque contingent locked into their usual friendly cacophony on the stern. 

As we approached the pier, a little set began to hit the inshore reef just as we were motoring across it. With a split second of warning, we grabbed whatever was at hand and braced as our little boat was broadsided. The first wave was the most violent, throwing our gear into the air and nearly pitching one or two of us overboard. 

I managed to grab my camera bag just as it was about to sail over the gunwale. Crucially, the boat, all personnel, and my cameras were unscathed. I’d have been devastated to lose the record of our time in the Sahara.

[Feature image: All-world and astonishingly empty. California surfer Greg Long puts in the work and then executes, no matter how many plane or boat legs it takes. “Everything plays a critical role when trying to uncover a new, perfect wave,” he says. “Countless hours spent scouring global maps and bathymetric charts, investigating local geology and geography, monitoring seasonal wind patterns and potential sand movement, dissecting optimum swell angles, mapping access routes, etcetera. But maybe the hardest work of all is the waiting.”]