Four surfers, two dogs, and 2,000 miles of Chilean coastline. What could misfire?
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 goat trail that may have once been manageable looked like it would have given even a goat a challenge. I had already succumbed to mental defeat and began thinking about paddling around the rocks, against the current for the entirety of the sand 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 this 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 seemed a blasphemous wonder that we chose to eat fish steaks rather than ribeye. It was equally perplexing how our group of regular footers had come to be along a coast of endless left hand pointbreaks.
It was likely photographer Mark McInnis’ doing. A year earlier, he had visited this region and instantly fallen in love with it. He’d stayed with surfer and American ex-pat Jesse Faen at Jesse’s beautiful hilltop cabin, overlooking a sandy left-hander. Now he’d dragged Peter Devries and I along to satisfy his undying affinity for backhand surfing.
Although Jesse was not able to accompany us this time around, we had 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 cabin. The ignition point was a towel that someone had hung too close to the woodstove in the living room, which had combusted as if it were a rag soaked in gasoline. I was sprawled on the couch at the time, 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 woodstove in the corner and grabbed the metal shovel for the coals, then managed to wrestle the fireball outside onto the veranda and stomp out the flames.
“I think we’ve got this,” he said now, the eternal optimist, gesturing to a ledge about halfway to the top of the headland, just large enough to support the sapling that protruded from its surface. “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,” he added.
It did not seem like the wisest idea. But we’d stolen a glimpse of a grinding left tube from back on 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’d seemed like the most reluctant when we first ran into headland.
Peter and I worked our way to the aforementioned ledge, already in our wetsuits, passing boards to and from each other whenever the route required the usage of both hands. Even when my foot firmly gripped the surface, it seemed like the mud itself would give way, then part from the rock underneath, and cause me to lose my footing.
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 freight-trained 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 a cloud of mist.
The sun actually came out the next morning.
We bounced along yet another muddy dirt road with Nate at the helm, swerving to and fro in a vain attempt to avoid the shin-deep potholes. A group of horses stood just beyond a wooden fence, fixated on our vehicle, their breath hanging in the air as we reached the first gate in the road, which was thankfully unlocked and only needed to be opened.
Mark hopped out of the front seat and swung it out of the way quietly. We passed sporadic farmhouses, their windows dark despite the smoke emanating from their chimneys, signals 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, between the gates and the fences, it definitely felt implied.
Looking for surf on the desperate whims of rumor and hearsay, pointing at maps, and making big plans in the evenings was a routine we’d settled into. It was only when it came time to execute 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 left-hand 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, falling 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, just to distract you enough to forget about the boulders and focus on getting down the face. Unlike the others, this wave hit the sandbar much harder than the rest and would grind and grow, picking up speed as it made its way down the bank toward the end of the bay.
Most of the waves we paddled for were too fast to make, running away before we could find an exit. Still, they left a vision burned in our minds, which kept us motivated enough to battle the current. When you eventually did manage to conjure an exit, the frustration of dealing with the conveyor belt beyond the rocks evaporated and gave way to a euphoric state. To celebrate, we ate more salmon and french fries for dinner.
The swell forecast showed no signs of slowing and we were back on the road again the next morning. 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 for the development of natural resources, it does benefit local and traveling surfers alike, offering endless opportunity. 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 the distances between them.
This led to a lot of time in the truck. Bumpy mud 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 black sand beach, we came to a glassy lagoon with a slab unloading just offshore. The takeoff looked dry and nearly impossible but it was 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 wave size had been askew.
The semi-inviting walls turned out to be giant, foam-balling freight trains. Maybe this is part of the reason why Chile remains devoid of the masses that frequent every other nook of this world with surf-able waves. The 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.
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, pin-balling off the kelp-covered rocks at the end of the beach. We all reconvened and laughed at how wildly we had misread the conditions. Then there we were, hunkered back down in the truck as the sky darkened once again, and Mark doing his best to point us in the right direction.
Word by Noah Cohen for The Surfer’s Journal, Misadventures in Point Hunting.
Surfers: Noah Cohen and Pete Devries.
Motion: Nate Laverty for Transition II
Assets from this trip were used editorially by The Surfer’s Journal and commercially by Hurley, Rip Curl and Hydroflask.
Special thanks to my friend Jesse Faen.
This page is dedicated to the lovely lives of Alvaro and Topanga, two Chilean friends I will dearly miss.
