Chile

This tricky little paddle is the quick way out at Punta de Lobos. That’s me almost to the island, John McMahon about to jump, and Yvon Chouinard hanging back, maybe wondering at the wisdom of this approach. Photo: Jeff Johnson

Life is like riding a wave. There is no way to know what the ride is going to be like from the vantage point of the takeoff, but inevitably there is always more ahead. Sometimes the ride is fun and wonderful. Other times it’s scary and dangerous. Anticipation gives rise to expectations, but more often than not there will be surprises along the way.

I had just started working for Patagonia, a company that I’ve admired and respected for a long time. It’s a company that isn’t just out there to make money, but one that is in business to be successful and do worthwhile things with that success. Preservation of our environment becomes more important every day, as the race goes on to save our planet before we destroy it with so many self-serving endeavors—most of them in the name of business and profit, of one sort or another.

Patagonia is a pioneer company in the relatively new lifestyle sportswear industry. They look for ways to give back instead of only taking. As the surfing industry continues to grow into land-based mass markets, Patagonia has become an industry leader in seeking ways to sustain civilization rather than contribute to its collapse.

My first week on the job was a dream gig. It was a surf trip to Chile with the charismatic and energetic owner of the company, Yvon Chouinard, and a group of surfers and photographers. We met at LAX, checked in to our LAN Chile flight to Santiago, boarded the plane, and all tried to get as comfortable as possible for the twelve-hour plane ride.

We had quite a crew. Yvon, John McMahon, Chris Carter, and I comprised the Silverback section. Keith Malloy, Jeff Johnson, Branden Aroyan, our still photographer, and Dave Homcy, the film photographer, made up the young buck contingent. Keith’s brother, Chris, and Jack Johnson would join us a few days later. Landing in Chile, we were met by Jorge Montaner and Max Mills, two old friends of Yvon.

Jorge led us through the red tape of renting the cars we would need. We got the huge pile of surfboards strapped on the roofs, and Max led our caravan through the maze of Santiago; we headed straight for the coast. Our destination was the surf town of Pichilemu, where a strong south swell was in the forecast.

Once out of the capital city of Santiago, we drove by seemingly endless farms, orchards, and the occasional fruit stand along the highway piled high with displays of avocados, oranges, grapefruits, pears, apples, and other late-season produce. The countryside reminded me a lot of old Southern California when the orchards lined the highways, before the landscape disappeared under subdivisions and housing tracts.

Eventually we got to Pichilemu, a small coastal town that is very popular during the summer months of January and February when the weather is warm and everyone wants to come to the beach. We were there in mid-May. The late fall season had turned cold and the place was deserted.

Pulling over at the overlook of the main surf spot in town, we planned to get our bearings, meet Yvon’s other friend Alex Soto, and decide what to do next. I immediately walked down the hill to the beach to stick my hands in the water to get a feel for its temperature. It felt like the midfifties, not bad compared to water temps where I surf in Oregon.

It was blustery and cold, but the sunset was spectacular. The dark, cloudy sky opened for a few stunning moments as the huge red ball of the sun slipped under the horizon.

I headed back to the guys to see what, if anything, had been decided. Decision-making by such a large group can be a slow process. When food was mentioned, however, everyone readily agreed that lunch was in order.

Alex and Max took us to a nearby restaurant. We were the only patrons on this off-season afternoon. A light lunch consisted of a big appetizer of fresh local locos, a Chilean abalone, and a main course of Chilean sea bass, lots of salad, and cooked vegetables. Obviously there was nothing light about this lunch.

I was fatigued from the long journey. While waiting for the fish course, I was already thinking about sleeping. However, after eating and paying what seemed to all of us very little for such a large amount of food, I regained some energy. We headed for the house Alex had rented for us. It wasn’t far from the ocean and had plenty of room for our whole group.

We unloaded our gear, separated what we would need for a surf session, and headed back to the beach. There was a surf spot just outside the town called Punta de Lobos where we were told the surf would be the biggest.

The expected swell had not arrived yet. The waves were only in the two- to three-foot range, but the sun was out and the conditions looked good. Everyone jumped into their wetsuits and headed down the steep cliff to paddle out. I took one of the empty board bags and found a nice spot on the cliff top above the surf to do some yoga first.

As I went into my first asana, I noticed another group of local surfers with a small entourage climbing down the cliff. Four of the surfers went into the water while the other guys climbed a big rock that appeared to have a nice vantage point to view the surfing. Back in town we had heard that there was some kind of local surf contest the day before and that they had a final heat to finish up.

The thought occurred to me that I might be watching that final heat. I saw four surfers paddle out to where our boys were getting a few waves. They conversed, then our guys paddled further in and away from the local boys. The waves were infrequent but nicely shaped, and the four surfers proceeded to rip it apart.

The guys on the rocks seemed to be the judges for the contest. It didn’t look like our guys were going to get any waves because the four hotshots were all over every wave that came. I saw our boys start to trickle in as the sun began to get closer to the horizon.

Keith paddled back out after a while assuming that the contest would soon be over, but he just sat there while the four Chilean surfers kept at it. It looked cold. Watching the sun sinking into the sea, I was certain Keith was shivering out there. Finally the sun set and Keith came in frozen. I was glad I had stayed dry.

An enormous and delicious sushi dinner, a night of trying to find sleep between the mosquito attacks, and the biting-cold wee hours of the morning in a house without central heating brought us to our second day in Chile. Unfortunately the bad wind from the north was there early. The anticipated swell had arrived but conditions were poor. We lounged around, ate another huge lunch, and idled some more until we felt the wind dying down.

It was still cold and cloudy, a gloomy afternoon by anyone’s standards. Alex told us there was another spot to surf around the front of the point at Punta de Lobos, so we went for the hike to check it out. Keith and Jeff brought their boards, and Yvon brought his fishing equipment, but the rest of us just went to watch.

It was quite a setup, a steep cliff down to the beach and a powerful-looking shorebreak with quite a bit more size than the waves on the point. Keith, Jeff, and Yvon climbed down a talus slope to the beach while we watched from the cliff top.

The surf was not friendly. The boys had to be very selective in their wave choices. Even when they chose well, every ride ended in a closed-out section. They made it look a lot better than it was, but to us it seemed like an awful lot of work with little reward.

Yvon rigged his fly-fishing gear. Trying to keep his shoes from getting wet, he fished from the sand and off some of the massive rocks that jutted out into the water. Neither the surf nor the fishing was very productive, but they came back satisfied to have done it.

It was blustery and cold, but the sunset was spectacular. The dark, cloudy sky opened for a few stunning moments as the huge red ball of the sun slipped under the horizon. That evening we went back to the sushi restaurant, where again we were the only ones there. The gracious couple who owned it served us another fabulous dinner. This second meal was a different local fish in a choice of elegant sauces, followed by a myriad of gourmet desserts. It was a sophisticated meal that would have impressed the most demanding gourmand.

Back home, however, we faced another night of battles with the mosquitoes. The contrast between sumptuous restaurant meals and the squalor of insect warfare grew ever more stark. With the aid of more blankets to fend off the cold, we slept in anticipation of a day of surf.

Sure enough, a favorable wind-switch brightened an otherwise cloudy and grey morning. After breakfast and gear organization, we headed for the beach. Our first look revealed offshore winds, lines stacked out to sea, and a long, peeling left. No one needed a second look as we got into our wetsuits as fast as we could. The sets were consistent and looked relentless to paddle out through, but Alex told us of an easier way to the lineup.

On the outside, the waves broke off an island that was separated by a small channel from the point. Alex told us to climb down the cliff, paddle across the channel to the island, walk around to the front of it, wait for a lull, jump in, and we would be right in the takeoff zone. That sounded pretty straightforward. Watching wave after wave peel down the point, which would have made paddling out a formidable task, we looked forward to this easy jump-off spot.

Getting into a wetsuit may be a simple process for some people; it’s a complete wrestling match for me. By the time I got my suit, booties, gloves, and hood on, everyone else was well on their way to the water. I wandered down the trail I had watched them take, followed it down the cliff face, and luckily found some guys just jumping in to paddle across to the island. I spotted the rock they were using.

The channel between the point and island must have been deep, because as big as the waves were outside, they didn’t break where we paddled across. I jumped in and paddled to the other side. I had also seen where the guys ahead had climbed up onto the island. The surge was tremendous even without breaking waves, but I timed it correctly and it carried me right up on the rock shelf. From there it was a short climb up to dry rock.

The island was in two sections of tall rock spires. I couldn’t see where the other guys had gone exactly, but following the upper dry sections I assumed this was the only way. There were a few tricky sections to negotiate that were slippery, and the surge was heavy; on the front side of the island the waves broke full force. I managed to get to where I could see the outside takeoff area where the guys were sitting. I figured I must be in the right spot.

The waves were a solid eight feet on the sets and consistent. Waiting for a lull, I inched my way toward the edge of the island. It was slippery and hard to see under the whitewater washing in. There was also thick, ropey kelp on the water’s edge that reminded me of snakes or the tentacles of some sea monster. I had trouble walking through this stuff.

As I got near the water, another set came. I scurried back to the safety of a dry area of the small island. I tried several more attempts, but they only led to more retreats from waves. This wasn’t getting me any closer to the great rides all the guys were having only a short distance away. During the whole time I had not found a good place where I could launch myself into the water. OK, I thought, I guess I just have to go for it quickly and decisively.

When the next lull came, I moved out determined to make it. The closer I got to the water the more it was like walking on a hedge, but I was going this time no matter what. Finally I got to where I could jump. Unfortunately, the tentacles of thick kelp not only were wrapped around my feet and legs, but I also saw that I would have to paddle out through an area where they were really dense.

Punta de Lobos is a long, long left slide that offers a long, long ride. Photo: Branden Aroyan

I had a brief vision of my leash tangled in them, being trapped in front of a set and slammed back on the island. I dove in and paddled hard, trying to keep my leashed foot high in the air so the loop wouldn’t hook up on anything. A large wave came right as I jumped out and I raced to get to it before it broke. Lucky for me, my leash didn’t catch, my adrenaline was pumping, and I managed to duck-dive under the wave just in time.

I came up clean on the other side and knew I had made it. The surge from the waves breaking over the exposed corner of the island carried me to the safety of the shoulder where Alex was sitting on his board with a shocked look on his face. As I sat up next to him, he was shaking his head from side to side.

“I have never seen anyone do that before in all the years I have been surfing here,” he said.

“What do you mean—isn’t that where you guys all came out?” I asked.

“Didn’t you hear me yelling at you, I was telling you to come off the side of the island. You went right off the front into the most dangerous part. I was thinking that you had come to Chile for the first time and were going to get killed right in front of me,” he explained.

Well, I didn’t hear anything because the waves were crashing so hard. A near disaster, but surfing is like that, one close call after another. I was out and I would know better the next time. The waves were beautiful. I caught my first one and it was perfect for a long ride. I thought, “Yeah, I could do this all day.”

I caught an edge on that first wave after riding what seemed like a long distance. I was surprised when I looked back to see how far I actually had traveled, even further than I thought. But looking down the point toward shore, I saw that I had only ridden about half the rideable length of the wave. I paddled back out determined to ride the next wave the whole way to its end.

That next wave took me for a ride. I was turning, cutting back, turning, over and over; it just keep lining up ahead of me. On and on I went until I started thinking about the paddle back. When I pulled out, there was still a lot of wave to ride. Looking back to sea, I was so far around the point that I couldn’t see the island where I started. I could see it was a long paddle, but it was only my second wave so I still had energy for the paddle back.

Fifteen minutes later, not a lot closer to where I was headed, I was beginning to have second thoughts about doing this all day long. It took me more than thirty minutes of steady paddling to get back to the takeoff spot. With the current running around and down the point, it had been a long, hard haul.

Keith and Jeff were back in the lineup, and I asked them about the paddle back out. They laughed and told me that riding all the way to the beach and walking back was much easier. I rode the next wave to shore, found a path up the cliff, and got on the road. It was definitely less effort than paddling, and it only took fifteen minutes. The jump off the island was better this time since I knew the right spot.

It was an interesting surf spot. The long rides kept the crowd, which wasn’t much anyway, circulating. A guy would be there for a moment, catch a wave, and be gone for the next half hour or so. Eventually the cold water began to take its toll, and after four hours, I noticed that none of our guys were coming back out anymore. I didn’t want them all waiting for me so I went in on the next one.

Alex and the local surfers all agreed that the surf would be much better at low tide. They thought we should take a break until then. So we went back to town for lunch. This time it was a little place Yvon had his eye on that served local sandwiches. Anyone who thinks a sandwich is a light lunch has not experienced the sandwiches in Chile. The others’ sandwiches were a pound of beef, mine a pound of fish. I wondered about surfing later with so much food in me.

The swell was still holding strong and the waves were a lot faster on the low tide. The jump off was also quite a bit less stressful, and we all got out with dry hair. The current coming around the point was fierce at low water: It was a battle to stay in the lineup. The inside section, if that’s a proper description of 300 yards of wave, was zippering and hollow. Keith and Jeff came back claiming tuberides, but all I found were long rides that just went and went. That was perfectly fine with me. We surfed until dark and everybody came in buzzed. It had been a hall-of-fame day of surf.

This time we called and ordered our epic sushi dinner ahead. Platters of fresh sushi arrived even as we were sitting down. The terrorist mosquitoes back at our rooms were still problematic, but fortunately in Yvon’s and my room I discovered their daytime lair in the closet. I had mashed them all in their sleep instead of allowing them to attack us during ours. Yvon questioned my small-animal hunting skills even when I showed him all the blood spots. He still lathered up with bug repellent, but I slept the untroubled sleep of the pure of heart that night without that dreaded buzzing of the blood-sucking mossies.

The next day the surf was the same, perfect and possibly even a little bigger. One of the day’s highlights was Keith Malloy bodysurfing perhaps the longest ride ever. I happened to have ridden the wave before to shore, and I was just getting out when I looked back and saw what looked like one of the sea lions the point was named after slipping in and out of the barrel. It was quite a ride.

The rides were so long that it was impossible to get a whole one on a roll of film. Dave had to be very selective about when and how long to shoot. Chris and Jack showed up after our morning session and were eager to hit the afternoon low tide, especially after we told them about the great waves we were having. The late session was another memorable one and everyone went to dinner that night lit up from it.

The next morning we awoke to a slight weather change. It looked like we might have some sun but the wind, although not strong, had shifted back to north. Even without the offshore winds combing the faces clean, the waves still looked good. The size was a little less and there was some bump on the face, but the waves were long and peeling. Yvon and John, who had paddled out from the beach the last couple days, wanted to attempt the island jump off since they had been worked trying to come out from the inside.

There’s probably nothing more fatiguing than getting caught inside. When it happens just getting out there, it saps one’s energy for the whole session. So my tales of getting out without getting my hair wet at the top of the lineup had them willing to chance it. I drilled them on the whole procedure and then led them down the proverbial garden path. The high tide was working against us and the surge was worse. I described the first jump and the short paddle across to the island and told them to watch exactly where I climbed up.

So I went, got up on the island, took my leash off, put my board up high, and climbed back down to help if they needed it. John came first, got washed around by the surge, handed me his board, and got right up. I handed him back his board and got ready for Yvon. He came right across but when he started to reach the shelf I was on, I could see he was between the crests of the surge.

Being down in the trough made it a much longer and more difficult climb up, but the surge wasn’t breaking so I thought there should be no problem. He was right there, the nose of his board no more than two inches from my outstretched hands. I glanced to my right to gauge the high point of the surge. When I turned my head back, Yvon was gone. It was the weirdest thing. One second he was there, and the next he had disappeared.

I stood up panicked. The area wasn’t that big but he was gone. Then I heard the sickening crunch of fiberglass and foam smashing on rock. I could see John climbing down just around the corner no more that ten feet away, when suddenly Yvon’s longboard washed out of a crack that I hadn’t noticed before. I ran, and while John got a hold of Yvon, I grabbed for his board by the leash, but the plug in the tail block had been crushed and the leash was no longer attached. The board washed away.

A local surfer who was coming right behind Yvon dove back in and went after the loose board. I stood there feeling like an idiot but grabbed the longboard from the other guy when he got close. The nose and tail were completely smashed, and there were quite a few scrapes and dings on the rails and on both sides. Yvon was pretty shaken. He had been slammed hard into that crack and smashed his upper leg on the rocks. We all climbed to higher ground where it was safe, but Yvon’s surfboard was not in good shape and his leash was finished.

We couldn’t go back the way we came. The only way was to paddle out and catch a wave to get back in. John and Yvon were probably wondering, “What has this moron gotten us into,” but I just told them what we had to do next. I was thinking, “Here I am, my first week on the job, and I’ve just about lost the boss: I really am a moron.”

The high tide was the real culprit, but there we were and the only way out was through the waves. Yvon’s leg was seizing up, but he realized we had to keep going out to get back in, and he was still game. I said I was sorry a hundred times, but Yvon just laughed, telling me it was his own fault, not mine. Still, I wondered if I was going to have a job the following week.

We got out without further incident and got some waves. Yvon got one and took it in, his leg so stiff already he could hardly stand up. I felt like an idiot. I just stayed out and surfed rather than go in and face the jury. The waves were not great, the conditions were deteriorating, but it was still a long ride even if rough and bumpy. Finally I went in, the last one out of the water.

Everyone else had left and, still in my wetsuit, I piled into the car with Chris, John, and Yvon. Yvon’s leg was badly bruised, and I apologized again for the rough treatment. John rubbed it in as much as he could, but soon we were all laughing about it. We were all old hands at this surfing game, which requires one to pay as often as he plays. This was just a case of the check coming before the meal.

Back at the house I wrestled out of my wetsuit, while Jack gave us a little impromptu concert. Everyone huddled around the single kerosene heater; it was noisy and stinky but gave out some warmth. John, Chris, and I were scheduled to leave the next day, while the rest were staying a few days longer; they planned to go up north to look at another surf spot that was supposed to be even better than the ones in town.

When I think about it, we didn’t even surf the other two spots in town, preferring the bigger waves on the point. Still, every time we checked, the other places looked perfect too. It’s hard to do it all, but I know I would go back again in a heartbeat. The three of us reluctantly headed out the next day, but with many memories of good times, good waves, good food, and great friends.

I think the next time Yvon suggests we go rock climbing, I’m going to say I can’t make it. I know what they say about paybacks.

Yvon Chouinard and me about to launch ourselves into the surf at Punta de Lobos. Photo: Jeff Johnson

A long bottom turn on the ‘Ski World Glacier’ in the Cariboo Mountains of British Columbia, Canada. Photo: John Schwirtlich