July 2006: Surf Trip to the Galapagos Islands

Page 4 - Chicken Hill & Las Palmas

Very well then, we repaired to Hotel Lobo del Mar to sleep.

The Lobo is very nice and the rooms are up on the second floor, complete with French doors and a balcony that overlooks the harbor.

Very nice.

Puerto Ayora, predawn, from our Lobo del Mar room

So we wake up early (and who wouldn’t be waking up early in a place like this, buzzing with anticipation of the day’s coming delights), and I walk out on the balcony in the predawn gloom, and take in the view and snap a few shots while I’m at it.

Jason is also up early, ahead of me.

Gather the things up and it’s down the stairs and out to the lobby for checkout.

Muchas gracias.

Dawn street scene, Puerto Ayora

We’re walking down the cobblestone streets of Puerto Ayora and the place is still asleep.

Locals just waking up, down at the harbor's edge

We saunter down to the quay for some desultory lounging around, just sucking in the smells, sights, sounds, and generalized ambience of the place. Traffic, aqueous and terrestrial, is beginning to stir.

Most very nautical, it is.

The finches flit here and there, oblivious to the large bipeds in their midst. The boobies are already at it with the high speed dive bombing for fish.

And, while I’m at it here, a word about boobies, ok?

The fuckers got a bad rap when it comes to a name.

The name implies supreme stupidity, and it was given by the goddamned humans, because the birds were so tame and unafraid that people could just walk right up to them and commit murder and mayhem upon them with impunity.

Now if you ask me, the business of going up to a kindly bird and killing it for no sensible reason is the stupid part of the story here, so as far as I’m concerned, it’s the HUMANS that should be called boobies and the birds should have been given some other name that communicates a bit of their flying grace and diving expertise maybe.

Ready to roll

If you’ve ever seen a gannet, then you have an idea of what a booby is like.

Feh.

Ok, where were we?

Oh yeah, waiting around for Christian and Andres and the rest of the crew.

They arrive in short order and it’s off we go.

No lugging about of boards and gear, ‘cause we left all of it on the boat yesterday.

Today I decide to forego the pleasures of staring at my surroundings on the trip out, and instead sit below with this laptop and bash away at it. During the course of the journey out to Chicken Hill, I manage to put a couple of thousand words in the bag, and if you’ve read the part that’s titled “Baltra and Santa Cruz,” then the first one third of that is what I laid down on this little leg of the trip.

Just about to round the corner, at Chicken Hill

Eventually we’re there, and I put down the stupid machine, and pick up a proper surfing attitude.

Hard to tell, even when you're looking right at it

We motor deep into the small bay, not so very far from the tuff cone at its head, and make ready to go surfing. I’m waxing my board while the crew puts the little inflatable boat into the water. Across the way, the overcast is giving it a leaden look, the crinkle is crinkling right along, and the size of the swell seems to have dropped off. But I’m smarter than that and in no way shall I write this deal off, ‘cause I’ve already had this place do this exact same thing to me once before, and I’ve learned not to trust what meets my eye.

I shall wait until the tactile and dynamic inputs have been received and digested, prior to deciding what I think of things on this day, just beginning.

Everybody else is over the side and paddling toward the point, and I take it into my head to go in the opposite direction.

But first I request permission from Andres if it’s ok to paddle over to the really neato sea cave that opens into the base of the tuff cone. This small volcanic feature was created when magma or lava encountered the water, just beneath the surface, resulting in some furious explosions on a bygone day. The debris was lofted into the sky, and then fell back to earth on the prevailing southerly wind. What resulted from this mini-cataclysm is an asymmetrical cone of debris, quite unlike it’s basaltic surroundings, one half of which was directly exposed to the pounding breakers that endlessly arrive from the stormy Southern Ocean, and was perforce eaten away in short order.

It’s beautiful and more than just a little enchanting.

That said, Andres, who works directly for the Charles Darwin Research Station, and who is also an environmental agent of the Ecuadorian government, has previously informed us in no uncertain terms with a look that will brook no special pleading to the contrary, that we will under NO CIRCUMSTANCES set foot ANYwhere upon the island of Santa Cruz while we are out here surfing Chicken Hill.

Which is why I ask permission to go and examine the sea cave up close and personal.

I don’t even want to get CLOSE to the thing without first making double damn sure it’s ok first.

I have no intention of setting foot on shore, and Andres seems to have decided that I am not a completely hopeless idiot, and so he affirms that it’s perfectly ok.

Note to future visitors: Do NOT attempt to go against the wishes of ANY of the Ecuadorians when it comes to their islands, ok? If they say don’t smoke, then you DON’T SMOKE and I don’t give a good goddamn HOW many cigarette butts you can count in the gutter. If they say do not set foot on the land, then goddamnit you DO NOT set foot on the land. If they say do not toss your gum wrapper on the ground, then you are forbidden to toss your gum wrapper on the ground no matter what else might be down there already. And they WILL send someone along shortly to pick that shit that you saw, up, and continue to keep their island heritage as clean as is humanly possible to do so. These guys are fiercely protective of their crown jewels, and the miracle is that they let us out here AT ALL.

DO NOT ABUSE THE PRIVILEGE.

If you are one of those sorts who have problems with this sort of thing, (spoiled children, sneery teenagers, middle-aged dorfs, elderly idiots, and misanthropes in general come to mind) then PLEASE STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM THE GALAPAGOS ISLANDS.

IS THAT CLEAR???

Ok. Now that that’s over, maybe we can return to the story?

Good.

And so, with a splash into the pleasantly cool, but in no wise cold, water, I’m on my way to get a close look at the sea cave.

Climb on top of the Strickland (and somewhere Bob is smiling broadly), attach the calf leash, and paddle shoreward.

From where the boat is parked, the closest dry land isn’t the tuff cone, but is instead the wave-eroded, naked black basalt rim of the island.

And I paddle right up to it.

The edge of the island plunges directly down into the sea, and the attenuated waves in here merely surge back and forth against it, without any kind of breaking going on. The cliff face is perhaps ten or twenty feet high, and the basalt is coming apart under the relentless pounding of the sea, breaking off into rounded blocks a foot or three across,

Beneath me, in the very clear water, the greens and blues of air and ocean are mixed with the blacks and browns of the basalt and what grows upon it underwater, and the result is an amazing display of natural beauty that’s really quite impossible to describe.

In addition to the visual aspects of things, you get that smell that only occurs at the seaward rims of mid-oceanic shield volcanoes.

It’s more than just a little bit intoxicating.

Toss in the sound of the swell working up and down across the sheer face of the rocks, along with the sensation of being personally carried along by titanic, globe-girdling forces, that for the present moment have very kindly chosen not to dash you to smithereens against the shore, and you’re drinking in a very heady brew.

And I’m not even over to the cave yet.

And so I paddle a bit, edge just as close as I possibly can to the edge of disaster against the basalt, and then just sit, furiously alert to all that surrounds me, and just sort of flow with it for a while.

And then paddle some more, stop, and do it again.

In this manner I work my way along the cliff face toward the cave.

Finally, the shore bends back upon itself, and I beeline directly toward the cave.

Arriving there, the first thing that jumps out at me is the change in the nature of the rock.

It’s now a coffee brown, and the large vesicular blocks of basalt have disappeared, only to be replaced by a sheer cliff of tuff, looming perhaps seventy-five to a hundred feet above me, composed of rock that has congealed from an ash fall, along with an admixture of larger fragments of other rock blown loose in the eruption, so very very long ago. The layering of this rock is completely different from the layering of the basalt. The sense of deep time is acute.

Again, I am enchanted.

My mind is taken hold of by my surroundings and I willingly cede possession for the time being.

I edge close to the edge of the cave, the better to get a look a things. Its mouth gapes open above and around me, about fifteen or twenty feet of yawn in size.

In here, the surge from the sea has room to move, and is working in and out of the gap in the cliff face like some giant pump, gone mad.

I ease myself just about into the mouth of the cave, surging back and forth on the swell, surrounded by unyielding rock that will bash me up a good one should I misjudge things by the slightest amount, nerves once again atingle with an alertness that you do not get just anywhere.

I’m dicing around with things here, and it’s fun in a demented sort of way.

To get banged up inside this cave might not be such a good idea, and I do not wish to do so.

But the cave opens up into a slot that dives deep into the tuff.

What’s back in there? What feet have trod those inky depths?

The slot appears to be about ten or twelve feet high, six or eight across, and tilts to the left, listing a bit, as I peer into its depths.

But it’s dark as hell in there and I can only see a short ways, until the gloom renders my eyes of no further use.

The opening of the cave is certainly wave-worked, but the straightness of the line the cave takes back into the rock, along with its angular outline deep inside, causes me to suspicion that its true origin lies in faulting of this rock. I’m sure I’ll never know full truth of this.

I want VERY much to paddle fully inside of this cave and see what’s going on back there.

But the force of the surge working across the shallowness of the rocks below me, along with Andres’ admonition to NOT set foot on land ANYwhere here on Santa Cruz, stops me from going further.

Jimbo at the sea cave

And so I sit up on my board, arms up for balance and feet out beneath me to fend off any too-close approach to solid rock, and simply take it in.

I am alone on a strange planet, and it feels mightily good.

But the spell is soon broken.

I hear the splutting of the outboard on the inflatable, and turn to see Christian motoring over in my direction.

I do not know if he is concerned for me, for his island, or is just curious, but over he comes.

I turn and acknowledge him with a great grin, and then turn back to squint into the blackness a bit longer.

And then it’s time to go, and I go.

Very nice. One of those kinds of deals that translates poorly to other people using words alone. It must be felt to be understood.

And now one of the supreme benefits of surfing in the manner in which we are surfing comes to the fore.

Christian throws me a rope with a grin, and I latch on and am motored all the way outside to the head of the point.

If I’d had to paddle that distance, on top of the paddling I’ve already had to do just to get to the cave, I’d be one tired puppy and wouldn’t be quite so ready to launch myself into the swell.

And, speaking of swell, it appears that my first impression was wrong, just as I suspected.

It seems no smaller than it was yesterday, and is perhaps even a trifle larger and more consistent at times. Hard to say.

What’s easy to say is that I now hurl myself into what turns out to be one of the most enjoyable surf sessions of my life.

Once again, Andres, Andresito, and Jason are my companions in the lineup, and once again they, for inscrutable reasons of their own, refuse to come outside and sit with me and wait for the fatties.

So ok guys, if that’s the way you want to play, then that’s the way we’ll play.

Andresito works one down the point at Chicken Hill

Fine as fuck with me.

And so it begins.

Fat sets show themselves low and rough-edged on the horizon.

I watch them coming and gauge the shift.

Will they spend most of their energy up point?

Or will they swing wide and head for the mouth of the bay?

I adjust my position to suit, and with my passage over the top of each successive wave prior to the arrival of the main energy packet, I concentrate fully on the visual cues I am presented with, and further refine and tweak my position.

I’m attempting to set things up so that I’m as far up point as I can possibly be, as well as far enough away from the point to keep from being smothered in a wall of whitewater after making the initial drop.

And as things turn out, it would appear as if my strategy is a good one.

Kind of a shame the pictures here didn't come out any better than they did. But nobody had any high-end cameras, or long lenses, so I've cropped in as best I can, and take full responsibility for any and all flaws in these images.

Again and again, I find myself out past my fellows, stroking out and away from the point, as the ocean gathers itself up before me, basaltic blue-gray and heaving in my direction.

Again and again, I swing my Strickland A1A around and make my takeoff run, watching what the wave is doing behind me out of the corners of my eyes.

And again and again, I find myself experiencing that delicious moment of truth, throwing my feet beneath me in sole possession of the wave, perched high above the watery aspect all before me, in giddy anticipation of the drop that I am now fully committed to taking.

Wheeeee!

Down and down and down I go!

The wall hisses and rumbles behind me as I come to full speed, racing directly toward the rocky headland, down to the flat water ahead of the wave.

Judge the moment with care, in an instant, and then lay the left rail of the board over on its side, heels digging down into the board as I twist and lean to the left.

The wall goes white and angry just at my left shoulder and out ahead of me, and I'm not altogether sure I'm going to make it around the corner.

Squeaking around the soup, after the drop and turn

But it leaves just a hair of space and I race for it, flying on the wings of a bird.

Me, the tiny bit of space at the very bottom, and the rumbling whitewater, all come together at the same time and same place.

And I lean the other way a little bit, dig my toes into the deck and bend low at the knees as the nose comes around, and I’m hit from behind by the whitewater.

BANG!

But this wave has a grace, and it gives it to you when you ask for it properly.

A jolt from behind by the whitewater, and a low no-nonsense stance heading straight for the rocks in the distance ahead, and suddenly more open face appears beneath me and I accelerate into it.

The wave has thrown its first section and will now gather for the second.

Another paddle-in...

I can now run down the line, continue straight on, or begin sweeping the board back and forth fading and working my way along as the wave continues to gather speed and power beneath me.

And then fade for real, right back at the churning soup.

Bank off of it, or run low just ahead and below it.

And once again I’m charged with an imbalance of energy, and once again the energy is exchanged for acceleration, and once again I find myself down at the bottom, setting it up again.

...another bottom turn

Judge the moment with care, in an instant, and then lay the left rail down, push with the heels hard, and give it a good twist.

But this time it’s different.

Here in the midbreak, the wall is not fooling around, and it’s a run for my money I’ve gotten myself into.

The section goes vertical and the face is smooth, and I’m bulleting along, working my inside and outside rails to maintain position in the speed zone, as I whistle along, just a whisker beneath the zippering violence that's racing me down the point, once again flying on the wings of a bird.

And then I’m through it and out onto a delightfully workable face.

And I work it. In, out, near and far, dancing along with the white water, able to give a piece of my focus to the magical environment that I’ve somehow managed to get myself dropped into from out of the sky . I’m flying across the water, and before me it’s all laid out plain to see. The tuff cone, the cave, the black basaltic blocks that rim the shoreline. The scrub and cactus trees above the basalt. Lofting frigate birds. A wild, desolate world, of wind, wave, rock, and life, all exchanging energy with one another at frequencies and amplitudes that extend far beyond the boundaries of my ability to absorb them.

The wave dances and I play with my turns until I can see the angry boils in the water up ahead that tell me I’ve reached the end of this ride, where the rocks will no longer relent and instead take their rightful possession of this space.

The wave gives one final speed run and then swing the nose up and over the shoulder of the wall, skimming to a halt in water so clean it makes your skin feel as if you’ve just taken thorough bath. Squeaky clean.

OH HELL FUCKING YEAH!

Tow-rope back outside

And then, as I dip and swing my arms toward the distant head of the point, here comes Christian, burbling with glee, throwing me a rope, and giving my old, aching muscles yet another grace as he pulls me all the way back outside where I give him back his rope, toss him a hearty “Gracias” and he smiles away from me in his little air-filled craft.

Jason, Andres, and Andresito all ride, and all smile.

The world is our oyster, and it contains a bright pearl.

I must have caught thirty waves during this session, and I have trouble believing my fantastic good luck with each and every one of them. Christian motors me back outside with a grin, over and over.

Andres powers his moves, and Andresito quivers with the stoke of a butterfly, knocking off moves and then shouting and laughing about it every time. His live-wire energy is impossible to ignore. These are Good People.

Jason rides, but seems to be having some trouble, and a small piece of me is unhappy for him.

Later, he tells me the reason why, and a larger piece of me is unhappy for him.

But this is truly a magical day for the four of us, and nothing can quench that flame.

Finally, it is time to return to the boat, and go farther out along the coast. We will encounter yet another magical place where the sea dances arm-in-arm with the land, under a vaulted blue sky and blazing equatorial sun, where the eyes of no man watch.

This trip of a lifetime has not finished with the gifts it will bring.

So we fire up the diesels, the crew raises the anchor, and we swing away toward the west, once again.

We motor along for a goodly while and finally we’re nearing the next destination, Las Palmas.

Along the way, other islands in the archipelago come in to view, and ones that had already been visible become large and well-defined. The cloud deck that had been blocking the sun earlier has now lifted and the sea is a rich deep blue, with sun sparkles bouncing across it.

We can see the backs of waves, looping left around a basalt spit that protrudes well away from the coast, disconnected from the coast along its shoreward end.

Andres takes the measure of it at Las Palmas

Lonesome countryside

Andres had been saying that this spot needs more size, but even with what we’re getting, the sense of the setup is loud and clear.

And it’s a good one.

The waves approach the end of the rock spit, and wheel around it forming a hooking left with a distinct horseshoeing bowl. The southerly wind has followed the contours of Santa Cruz around over here and at the end of the spit it’s a bit sideshore. Beyond that, where the wave loops around back against itself, the basalt finger blocks the wind nicely, and it’s clean.

Winging around the point, bowling as it does so

Splendid isolation

Andresito is agog with the look of things, and wants to enter the water immediately, but Andres is against this, saying that it’s too weak and small for proper riding.

I’m surfed out, and am equivocal on the matter. The place is amazing, but I can see that the wave is a bit soft today. I snap away with the camera as decisions are muttered into amongst the others.

Eventually, the decision is made to depart, much to Andresito’s dismay. The look on his face says it all, and, truth be told, I wouldn’t have minded sampling a few of these waves myself.

Las Palmas scene

Exposed basalt slowly losing its battle with the sea

The desolate nature of the area, with a couple of wind-torn trees growing up out of the rock, gives the whole place a spectacularly lonesome look.

I just LOVE places like this.

We are the only humans around for as far as the eye can see in all directions. The isolation is profound and intoxicating.

No house, no antenna, no road, no nothing intrudes into this pristine wonder.

Very very nice, just to have been here. I consider myself a very lucky man, to have done so.

Andresito took a couple of very short .mpg's and if you'd like, you can see them, here, and here.

Unfortunately, the day is getting on, and we have yet another destination to check on our way back, so we make it short and motor away from this hidden jewel.

We retrace our steps homeward bound, and eventually pass by Chicken Hill, once again. I look out upon the vista with a heavy heart, knowing that I’ll probably never see this place again.

Last chance, farewell session at Chicken Hill

Andres, with power, driving off the bottom and down the line at Chicken Hill

No like-a that.

We’re past the point now, chugging eastward, and I can see the line disappearing around the headland.

And then, as if by magic, I’m informed we’ll ride it once again!

But only for a single hour, and then we really MUST go.

Hell, I’d have gladly taken just a single wave!

And the elements seem to agree with us in this, because the cloud deck remains elsewhere and the sun blasts down from the clear sky.

Andresito bounces back into it

Andresito pulls it hard off the top

Blue water, white soup, black lava.

We’re anchored and in the water in no time.

And so we begin again.

Whoops and shouts tell the tale.

And the hour, miraculously, seems to linger.

I’m checking my watch periodically, timing sets, and marvel how this hour seems to stretch on and on. And I was so worried it would slip between my fingers before I could properly catch hold of it.

Myself, with a wall to work

Through the inside speedrun

But, alas, the time comes and we depart again, this time for real and forever.

But if you ever come this way, there will be a bit of me still here. Perhaps if you listen close, you’ll hear a distant shout against the roar of the surf. Who knows?

The ride back is a somber one for me.

We have one more spot to examine, and it’s called Tortuga Bay.

It’s an area with a wide white sandy beach. You can walk to it in a half hour, overland from Puerto Aroya on one of the few paths that are legal to take around here.

Volcanic features in the distance at Tortuga Bay

The beach is dotted with people.

I suppose it’s a fine place, but after what I’ve seen and ridden, perhaps you can forgive me for not going over the side and paddling to the sandy shore.

Jason, Andres, and Andresito have different ideas and over the side they go.

For myself, I’ll just sit here on the boat, rocking on the small swell, enjoying the color of the water with the pale sand beneath us instead of black basalt, and just hang out and do some serious nothing.

A few desultory waves get ridden, but it’s beachbreak, and the line is long.

No shoulders are to be found, and no waves are properly made.

Inbound at Puerto Ayora for the last time

Session over, our intrepid adventurers scramble back into the boat, and we’re only a short way from Puerto Aroya. The sun is setting and the gloom of evening is settling down as we drop anchor, gather our belongings, and say goodbye to the Maverick.

It’s been a damn fine boat for me.

This evening we’re booked into a different place, the Hotel Palmeras. We were supposed to overnight on San Cristobal, but that went aglimmering with the change in plan. Galapagos Surf Tours handled the change with alacrity, getting us a room in a town that was essentially running at one hundred percent occupancy. The Palmeras is not as nice as the Lobo del Mar, but quite serviceable with the lone exception of the hot water. There ain’t none. Despite a handle in the shower emblazoned with an overoptimistic ‘H.’

But this is a VERY minor point, and I’ve already rinsed myself off with fresh water on the Maverick, so there’s no real need for a shower.

Tomorrow we depart and I’m not looking forward to that in the slightest.

When we first arrived, Andres insisted that we allow him to show us the Charles Darwin Research Station, where he works.

He’ll be by in the morning to take us there, and then to the airport on Baltra.

Charles Darwin, I’m looking forward to.

The airport, I’m not.

But that’s all under the light of tomorrow’s sun.

For now: A marathon bout of writing, followed by the deep slumber that only follows a well-surfed day.