The Colossus in the Garden

Impossible angles abound on this island in the mid Atlantic, topography confounding to eye and mind. A volcano reaches some 20,000 feet from the ocean floor, its emerald tip breaking the surface. No significant landmass appears for hundreds of miles, even thousands in some directions. The mist and low clouds of the jagged interior mask cool valleys harboring ancient species, a garden accessed by caves and a web of narrow paths lined with dense vegetation. The colossal scale of this place, and the sensory overload it creates, also extends to the coasts. 

Surrounded by deep water, swells arrive unimpeded, like locomotives coming to a violent end on a remote buttress. The oft welcoming, silky-smooth texture of the island’s big-wave pointbreaks is juxtaposed against the ferocious open ocean power and vertiginous drops—not to mention the perilous entries and exits. Thumping shore-dumps claw at large, slippery boulders. Timing and luck are absolutely key.

My first visit was alongside Rusty Long some years ago. We scored lovely conditions with Russ firmly in his element: no crowds, large powerful waves, welcoming people, and a diet consisting of local fruit and fish. The balmy weather, fine points, and mild water temperatures provided a welcome respite from the seemingly interminable ravages of the North Atlantic winter. 

The island has called me back ever since. It gets under one’s skin. There’s something about the amalgam of its wild and gentle nature that grabs the traveler. For me, there has also always persisted the tantalizing possibility that, on its day, the jewel in the island’s surfing crown could hold waves as big as anywhere in the world—yet uncrowded and more perfect than most imaginations would allow.

•

Last year, toward the latter part of the Atlantic big-wave season, the charts started to show signals. Most of the big-wave world had their sights set on Nazaré, which was due to be huge, but with awful winds. The guys towing wouldn’t care, of course. It wasn’t about aesthetics. They just wanted massive waves—and the “100 footer” might be out there.

A handful of us were thinking of somewhere else. With each update to the synoptic charts it became clearer: that elusive confluence of a spring low tide, light offshore winds, precisely the right swell angle, and the potential of size was lining up for the island.

Calls were made. The plan was kept fairly low key. I would be joined by my friend, Dr. Tony Butt, a charger and world-renowned surf oceanographer who had been working with Patagonia on an environmental initiative on the island. In addition to Tony and his protégé, Pablo Suarez from northern Spain, a small contingent of Basque chargers, including Imanol Yeregi, was keen to join us. The rest of the crew would consist of current WSL Big Wave World Tour champ, Twiggy Baker, and Northern California charger Wil Banks. Alas, much to Rusty’s chagrin, a new job precluded him from attending. 

All we needed were the waves. Rooms were booked at the usual lodgings—a boardinghouse owned by the effervescent Cecilia, a woman whose village has been arranged as a consequence of topography. Houses sit stacked like an M. C. Escher drawing with tight, winding walkways between them, steep stairs leading in and out. There are no roads among them. One must park at the top of the cliff and walk. Each step is accompanied by the soothing sound of water, omnipresent as it rushes through gullies, running parallel to the alleys.

The buildings are clustered on a promontory striking out into the mid Atlantic, backed by a hive of terraces, which support groves of fruit trees irrigated by water channels that lead down from the peaks above. As if that weren’t idyllic enough, the village presides over a deep bay lined with boulders, a world-class pointbreak sitting at each tip. Waterfalls, wispy tendrils, plunge a thousand feet or more, past cliffs comprised of an amalgam of black, volcanic rocks and coral soil, which glow in the evening light. If one is situated on the outskirts of town—as Cecilia’s boardinghouse is—the exhilarating crump of long-traveled groundswells can be heard as they dash themselves on the shore far below. 

Strangely, on the day we arrived, there was an almost soporific quiet. The ocean slumbered. In fact, it was probably the calmest I’ve ever seen it on the island, too small for any sort of rideable wave.

An affable northern Californian named Zac was staying in the house with us, and we sat with him for a few hours that evening, sharing anecdotes in broken Portuguese, Spanish, and Spanglish. Cecilia served a tuna feast for dinner and, with our stomachs full, and the wine having flowed liberally, it was soon time for bed.

I should’ve been off to sleep straight away but I lay, staring at the ceiling, occasionally getting up to check if there was any sign of swell. Nothing. Darkness. Silence. 

Then, at about three o’clock in the morning, in my insomnia, I started to hear something. Initially, it was very intermittent. If I’m perfectly honest, it was unconvincing. It wasn’t long, however, before the sporadic sound of breaking waves started to contain a rhythm. They were coming in sets. 

Instead of counting sheep, I amused myself by using the stopwatch on my phone to time the period between each wave. It was huge, possibly the biggest interval I’ve encountered, starting at 25 seconds-plus and then, by about five o’clock, settling to a consistent 20 seconds. 

I sat on the balcony. I could just barely make out the white rooster tails in the void far below. But I could tell that each set was bigger than the last. By the time I finally fell asleep, the windowpanes were rattling with each detonation. The boom reverberated around my spartan room, its tiles and bare walls seeming to provide the perfect acoustics. 

I remember being amused as I touched the curtains, the sheets, the door. They shivered with the thunder of each lip. I’d heard the old “ground shaking” clichés in Hawaii and, dare I say, I had taken them with a pinch of salt. But it was happening here, before my very eyes, and within my own ears.

About an hour later, the alarm went off, and Wil and I ran down through the half-light to have a better look. What greeted us will remain in my mind forever. The Atlantic was heaving, its surface undulating in orderly fashion on an almost incomprehensible scale. The surface wasn’t quite glass. Instead, the gentlest of offshore winds brushed the lines, the kind of puffing breeze that puts an almost-imperceptible dimple on the water’s surface.  

I spotted longtime local surfer, and all around gentleman, André “Gato” Rodrigues, standing amongst the throngs of locals lining the cliffs. “I’m nearly 40 and I’ve never seen anything like this,” he observed.

I couldn’t help but think of how rare it is to be at a big-wave break for the best day in living memory. Aside from us, there were hardly any takers—no other professional photographers, no hype. With the way things are these days, significant swell events tend to be oversubscribed. 

Allergic to any more than a handful of surfers in the lineup, Tony and Pablo decided they’d have a crack at the point on the other side of the bay. Unfortunately, Tony was cleaned up before even catching a wave, his 9’6″ snapping in two places. I found the front half (I hesitate to call it the nose, because it was almost four feet long) nearly 100 feet up a cliff the following day. He and Pablo were instantly put into a survival situation. It’s a miracle they both got out of it without a scratch. Tony’s paddle in was the stuff of nightmares. Pablo’s was not much better. 

During the next five hours, Wil found a spellbinding barrel and took the biggest wave I’ve seen ridden on a 7’6″, made possible only by the sublime conditions. Twig’s positioning, and Imanol’s bomb—the whitewater shooting a hundred feet in the air—provided moments of ecstasy and terror. The handful of waves that came through across two extraordinary sets, which detonated without surfers, will always remain in my mind’s eye. On a day like that, one gives thanks for the spoils. And, for everyone making it to shore alive.

[Feature image: Imanol Yeregi, outrunning Poseidon’s trident. If the heavy paddle out and the raw power don’t serve as crowd control, the island’s entries and exits do a good job of making one pause and assess.]