Lunes, 21 de Marzo, 2005
I am within a thousand miles of the Crossing and I want on. There are a few problems: 1) Money. 2) The boat is full. 3) I wasn’t invited. After prayers, pleas, emails, and the phone calls, I wait. Cell phones are funny, mine doesn’t work worth a damn on the North Shore but it is loud and clear in the middle of Mexico when Martin Daly calls. I’ve met him but once, years ago in transit through Jakarta. He hears my predicament and responds, “No worries mate, there is no cost ‘cause you’re my guest. I just invited you and someone can sleep on the floor.” He’s no Captain Hook; he’s my savior! My hoot of stoke spills a few cocktails on the assembled sunset watchers. I’m off to meet up with the crew – Dave Kalama, Guy Pere, Hans Hagen, Shayne McIntyre, Quiksilveredition team manager Barrett Tester, lensman Jeff Hornbaker, videographer Pat Myers and the Indies Trader’s new cook, Justin Miller.

Martes, 22 de Marzo, 2005
Our port of departure is one of the busiest in the world. The Trader is dwarfed by massive cargo and container ships in battleship gray, rust red or outta my way black. They’re ships; we’re a boat. The Trader’s trademark orange and blue Polynesian graffiti don’t mean squat in this working man’s harbor, yet it sticks out like an aloha shirt on Wall Street. Shuttled out to our home for the next two weeks, Kalama unpacks and is preparing his board before the rest of us know where to drop our bags. Miller the Rookie Cookie is a quick study and has lunch ready before we pull anchor. We’re soon heading straight into the wind and the chop. Glad I had bonine for breakfast.

Miercoles, 23 de Marzo, 2005

We pounded all night into a near perfect storm. The rain was sideways, the seas an angry mess, and thunder and lightning constant. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. I’m a firm believer in better living via pharmaceuticals, so I slept all night with my friend Ambien. Dawn finds us at a calm anchorage with not a lotta whitewater in sight. Im happy to fall overboard to wash the road off. The morning quiet is shattered as Captain Frank fires up the engine and the crew tends to the mechanical, anchor-eating monster. This landlubber had no idea how much racket and vibration this converted salvager would make while under way. Even at the rest there is a constant white noise rattle and hum of generators keeping the juice flowing for lights, AC, navigational gear, refrigeration and the desalinization and pumping of water. This aint no Christopher Cross sailing. It’s full motorhead motoring. We chug up the coast (or down, depending on how you hold the chart or how much you believe Captain Frank). The tinny is at our side like a faithful little remora. Waves ho! Yonder point! Fun glassy rights with the late morning haze and passing showers evaporating into tropical blue-sky beauty.

There’s a foredeck scramble of securing skegs, legropes, Lycra, wax and waxcombs, and a slathering of sunscreen. Every man is over board. With the drop of an anchor, the crowd zooms 0 to 60 at this nameless, perhaps never-surfed point. Never surfed on foam and fiberglass, at least. Soon enough, the locals are shoulder hopping on dugout canoes. Next to walking, it’s the most common form of transportation. One of the rippers immediately calls Kalama out by riding stand-up style ala Hawaiian beach boy or Italian gondolier. Dave vanishes and returns with his 12-footer and carbon fiber paddle. The two trade waves, laughs, technique, and eventually gear. Several hours later we’re sunburned, satiated, and stoked. But we want more and it’s anchors away.

With the gorgeous golden sunset approaching, we claim anchorage inside from a small left/right reef. The Ski is lowered and Kalama and Pere annihilate it with tow-ins and at’s. The amount of oceanic real estate covered by the Ski is phenomenal, as are Kalama’a aerial antics. I gotta believe Dave is the world’s most experienced tow-in Ski operator. Hello, who do you think has put Laird into most of those mind-bending Maui beasts? If Laird is the Michael Jordan of tow, does that make Kalama Scottie Pippen? Glad he’s on our team this trip. So is Han’s, who has the master sling him into some of his first tow action. Not a bad first day. Not bad at all.

Sabado Marzo de 22, 2005
No swell, bad wind, no brainer….day of rest. We go sightseeing in town, cruising the main drag and checking out the classic Caribbean architecture – two-story bungalows, lots of doors and windows for circulation, bright colors and corrugated tin roofs. I make the mistake of picking up the Miami Herald International Edition. Five days removed from the “real world”, the typical sordid assortment of bad news hits hard. We surfers are so fortunate to be, for the most part, removed from much of the worlds suffering and chaos. Back on the Trader, it’s Cheeseburgers in Paradise for all.

We give Cookie the night off and shuttle into port for dinner. South of the border, the restaurants are all much the same – indoor/outdoor, local woods, patio style, thatched palapa roof, soft lighting, wear whatever, surrounded by the garden. Caribbean casual is definitely in the same time zone as Hawaii. Several hours later we’re finally pau.

Ay, Caramba! What do you know, the bikini contest is on, and thanks to Captain Frank we’re enlisted as judges. Thousands of partygoers crowd the huge outdoor stage to the bombastic bass. It’s equal parts World Cup soccer match, bachelor party and rave. This is not a local or even a regional event, but the crème de la crème of Latin America. Miss Peru, Miss Chile, Miss Guatemala, Miss Behaving, GAAAR! Did Miss Costa Rica really say, “If selected, I’ll work my ass off for world peace.” Who won? Who knows? Who cares? We have work to do in the morning.

Domingo, 27 de Marzo 2005
Where were we? Oh yes, surf exploration. After some aerial reconnaissance, we’re locked on our target. The beach is a couple miles long and there’s no one in sight. The dense vegetation meeting the edge of the wide beach reminds me of what the North Shore might have looked like at one time. An ex-Pat, noveau local joins us on a 20-foot dugout. It could hold three men and their boards and was carved from a single log. He’s stoked to be sharing his sandbox with new friends. We head ashore to roll in the sand, relax, count our blessings and do a little Robinson Crusoe patrol. Kalama takes it to another level with an hour-long Rob Rowland-Smith sand warrior routine – jogging, sprinting, leg dips. He is drenched in tropical sweat and makes us look like full-blown wimps.

The Jet Ski wails on the shore break with utter abandon. Tow-ins, tow-ats and team-work. Back home Jet Skis are relegated to offshore reefs, so for me it’s a new treat. From Kalama’s ski, I dive off the rescue sled as he slingshots me into the G-spot. I pass on being towed in the traditional way figuring my arms are long enough already. We are reluctant to head back to the boat; we’re having too good a time.

Miercoles, 30 de Marco, 2005
In the middle of the night, Captain Frank cranks up the monster. We’re heading back to the port city as some are abandoning ship. Kalama has been a caged panther this whole trip. To do what he does at Jaws, you know he’s wired a little differently. There’s still opportunity for Peahi this time of year and Dave has to be there. I’m sure his new fiancé is part of the equation. Tester is jonesing for marketing meetings, SoCal traffic, Huntington slop, quarterly budget reports and starbucks. Go figure, I’m trying to figure out how to get a full time job on board. Thank God the fish are ready to play today cause the surf isn’t. Everyone reels one in due to the abundance of hookups. I pass. I have great time swimming with fish and a hard time killing them. I’m weird like that. Dave presents the Skipper with his 12-footer as a token of appreciation, having earlier toasted Frank and Cookie as “Without doubt the best cook and captain combo I’ve ever surfed under.” We hater to see Kalama and Tester bail…sort of. The Cookie and I don’t have to alternate sleeping on the floor anymore.

Jueves 31 de Marzo, 2005
We find a huge supermarket and stock up on fresh food and produce. Shopping to a salsa beat under fluorescent lights is a little strange after being cooped up on the Trader. We’re all sort of swaying, hanging onto our shopping carts from the residual effect of boat living. As we taxi back to the boat, we pass an intersection with a classic demonstration underway, streets and sidewalks mobbed with chanting protesters along with burning tires. Seems they aren’t happy with the new gas prices.

Viernes 1 de Abril, 2005
Absolutely epic surf today – double overhead, hollow, offshore and…April Fools. Frankie puts pedal to the metal and were bobbing, weaving, tilting, staggering, pounding, leaning, adjusting, balancing and shifting out towards an archipelago. Time spent surfing is minuscule compared to time spent seeking and commuting. It’s a very long rainbow ride to the pot of gold. Later afternoon, Frankie tosses anchor between two small islands on a calm leeward lagoon. I climb to the roof of the wheelhouse for a look. It’s about the only place I can stand and not worry about hitting my head. I had to count three times to make sure I was really surrounded by twenty islands.

Sabado 2 de Abril 2005
You knew it was coming, your last full day aboard the Trader. Forget surfing, but at least its sunny. A cayuco with a native Indian in all her traditional finery approaches the boat. She’s wearing her everyday get up – a long, bright multicolored skirt, hand stitched appliquéd blouse, red and yellow headdress, gold rings on fingers and through her nose, and beads and more gold ornaments on neck, arms and ankles. Her husband, who paddles the single log dugout, wears a Bulls #23 jersey and baseball cap. They invite us to their home to purchase some of the areas renowned artwork. Their tiny village just above the high tide line is basic palm thatch and native tree branch huts. Driftwood helps prop things up. Running water and electricity are unfathomable luxuries. Subsistence living involves fishing, coconuts and trading. Some commute to the mainland to cultivate corn, yucca, bananas, and the like. These stocky villagers, whose ancestors came long before Columbus, are virtually autonomous. They deal with their own problems and guard their rights and territory passionately. The couple’s intricate colorful beaded necklaces, anklets and bracelets are an incredible bargain.

Sadly, around mid-day, its time to head out. I go to the roof of the wheelhouse as we’re underway and in the mid-day brightness count 39 landforms around us. No postcard could ever do justice to this 360-degree platter of paradise. One last tinny mission finds less than ideal onshore wavelets, but a couple of the boys go for it anyway.

How stoked am I to have experienced the incredible beauty of this country, its people, the waves and friends, both old and new. I have great appreciation for all of it as well as the watchdog efforts of Reef Check. Adios.