THE RYTHM THAT FINDS US
Written by Brad Melekian
Longboard Magazine

Day 5. A Gravel Street. Afternoon. 

The plane lands as smoothly as it had taking off, only this time the low rumbling din of the gathering throng turns quickly to an excited roar. Wheels touch firmly to ground and roll to a gradual stop as the pilot taxis the vehicle on the gravel runway. Smiling graciously, as though he too had been unsure of the outcome from the onset, the pilot accepts incoming compliments for his exceptional flight. He wears a teal collared shirt, blue mid-thigh jogging shorts and a pair of surf booties. Sweat streams from his forehead with the relief of a completed job.

 Day 5. A Darkened Harbor. Night.

The tangerine hue of the harbors silver street lamp bends and straightens in the calm water as it rolls serenely off the dock, working the light into a shaft of white on the otherwise dark surface. The Indies Trader's blue and orange Polynesian tattoo reflects weakly, barely lightening the waters blackness. Guy Pere lilts the uke, while Nick Aitkin's, an Australian cameraman, follows on guitar, and the two manage an island-infused version of Rod Stewart's Maggie May, deafened only by the shriek of tires buffering the boat from the dock, and the occasional cackle of a drunken patron at a nearby waterside café. The boats deck is cool in the night air as we sit on the hard plaster flooring of the bow. The light of the street lamp staves off complete darkness.

I imagine momentarily that the craft carries its own sense of optimism and comfort. The optimism is likely our own, and the comfort is undoubtedly a derivative. Days later, both will still be prevalent, despite the fact that we haven't surfed once, despite the fact that the novelty of being on the boat is beginning to wear.

 The brainchild of a few wanderlust seafarers, the roots of The Crossing reach back to Indonesia and the Captain of the M.V. Indies Trader, Martin Daly, credited with discovering a good many of the surf breaks in the now-coveted Mentawai Island chain. Working formerly as a salvage and oil rig diver, Daly began running surf charters in the early 90's, earning a reputation as knowledgeable captain, and gaining the patronage of the worlds greatest surfers. In 1999, Quiksilver gave Daly the green light for an ambiguous project to "find waves", and The Crossing set sail from Cairns, Australia, with the original intention of exploring the South Pacific for one year. The experiences and discoveries of that year so excited The Crossings founders and participants that the goal of the endeavor is now the completer circumnavigation of the globe, with the projected return to Indonesia slated for 2005.

Day 3. A Hotel. Morning

Were up at 4:30 in the morning, shuffling board bags madly in the marble-floored lobby of the Continental hotel. The open-aired confines are opulent, and surprisingly busy for the hour, with many of the hotels patrons just now making their way back from the previous nights drinking in the back alley bars of Panama City. To the soggy mind, we are quite a sight.

The caravan of taxis pulls to a stop at the hotel's entrance. Though the group has been told to pack light, there are at least two boards for every surfer, and a heap of cases carrying camera equipment.
Cars are stuffed and the group works feverishly to strap the boards securely to the roof. The hotel bellboys attempt to be helpful but are politely shooed aside, as at least one board has already snapped from shoddy handling. After no more that 10 minutes of diligent work, the cars are packed and ready to go, and the caravan winds its way through the traffic less early morning streets of Panama City.

Day 4. A Wooden Landing. Noon

As our rented panga docks on the small landing in front of the hotel, a local man is wading in knee high water, spearing fish with a crude instrument. Pangas and canoes are typical form of transport on this tiny island, and with such a vast ocean and series of bays available for fishing, it's curious that the man is focusing his search in this relatively unimpressive stretch of water between two waterfront hotels. But, to our surprise, he's already landed a sizable catch. When Guy realizes that there is a small school of fish swimming around the dock, he quickly unveils his own rig, a roughly made handling that he uses to catch dinner off of his canoe on Oahu. Its nothing more than a spool of fishing line wrapped around an old sandal, with a lure attached at the end. Guy rapidly works the little school, dancing the lure across the small landing. Nothing bites.

Looking in the direction of the local spear fisherman, Guy notices a rotting, dust-covered canoe. He has no Spanish, so I ask the hotel manager if Guy can borrow the boat. The manager gives me a sideways look and tells me that if he really wants to, he can use it free of charge. Caked with mud and dirt, the canoe is remarkably solid and heavy as I help Guy launch it into the water. Crawling under the building, the hotel manager emerges with a solid wood paddle and a simple bailing bucket.

Looking in the direction of the local spear fisherman, Guy notices a rotting, dust-covered canoe. He has no Spanish, so I ask the hotel manager if Guy can borrow the boat. The manager gives me a sideways look and tells me that if he really wants to, he can use it free of charge. Caked with mud and dirt, the canoe is remarkably solid and heavy as I help Guy launch it into the water. Crawling under the building, the hotel manager emerges with a solid wood paddle and a simple bailing bucket.

I watch as Guy paddles out into the bay, standing and stroking the vessel into deeper waters. His ostensible purpose is to train for the upcoming Molokai to Oahu paddleboard race, a 32 mile channel crossing in which he is always a viable contender, but it seems more likely that Guy simply wanted to get away from the group, to explore the area by himself, to troll his hand line and to have some peace on the water. He turns back, smiles, and assures me that he'll be home with dinner. Three hours later, a dot on the horizon turns into Guy, still standing, still paddling, though seating in the equatorial heat, and with the notable absence of any fish. He doesn't seem to care, looking convincingly happy with his endeavor.

Lodging the canoe on shore, Guy hops back in the panga with the rest of the group, and we ride further into a bay that has no chance for surf. It is sure rounded on all sides by islands, and it is inconceivable that the area would ever see so much as a trickle of swell wrapping on its shores. But beyond the tree line there exists a culture that is said to house a more authentic version of the regions history. One of The Crossing's stated goals is "to have empathy for local cultures and customs." It is a poorly stated directive that connotes condescension and patronization, and would be more aptly characterized by simply saying: " To be genuine in our attempts to understand the people we encounter," but the underlying concern is valid. Rather than gathering what we want from the area's resources and leaving, the goal is to give back, as surfers, in the simplest of ways - by caring about what takes place beyond the surf.

Day 6. A Boat. Morning

The diesel engines of the Trader cough and spit with jolting force of an explosion at 5:30am, jarring me out of my half-sleep, forcing me to jump in my rack, nearly cracking my head on the low ceiling. Sliding my way off of the top bunk, I slip out of my berth to stand on the deck and watch our departure from the cloudy early morning of Panama City. Within an hour, were deep into the ocean, beyond sight of the mainland. Within two hours, the boat has assimilated an oceanic rhythm, forcing its passengers to make a similar adjustment.

Our goal is to reach a small island by mid-afternoon, which will give us enough time to assess any wave prospects and have a surf. As it turns out, there are no waves, and we wont surf. But for the time being, were on the ocean and the boat is a rocking. The morning is quiet, and everyone keeps to themselves, hiding in their bunks, reading quietly, eyeing the water for dolphins swimming off the bow, taking turns tossing two conspicuously named lures - Mr. Juicy and Sparkler - off the back deck in hopes of bringing in a big fish. Sporadically, the engine stops, the boat loses its momentum and we sway silently in the middle of the ocean to reel in a small skipjack. Surfers emerge from the cabins, only to slide quietly back after the excitement, after the small fish has been thrown back.

Reef Check was begun in 1997 as a program to train ocean-minded people to gather data about marine life in reefs throughout the world. Since Reef Check and Quiksilver teamed up, the boat has played host to more that a dozen volunteer scientists who come on board to train surfers to evaluate ocean life. With a simple clipboard and an underwater writing implement, free diving surfers perform fish counts and coral reef studies that are then sent to Reef Check to update their data.

With the underlying goal of finding new surf, patience proves to be a key factor for The Crossing passengers, particularly when they don't know the terrain of new locales. After getting caught inside on this set. Dave Kalama waited patiently out on the back for another like it, but was ultimately disappointed. When the surf goes flat, however, it's up to individuals to entertain themselves. Hawaiian waterman Guy Pere had no problem keeping busy. Getting to know locals of all ages is perhaps the most interesting and fulfilling aspect of the entire project.

What they've found sadly is that the world's reefs are dying at a rapid pace, but the data is helping them to shift that trend by educating indigenous people about the importance of caring for the ecosystems. It's just another example of The Crossings multifaceted goal to produce conscientious surfers willing to give back to the world that they scour for waves.

There is no denying, however, that The Crossings main impetus is: "to manifest every surfer's dream of finding a new spot," as stated by Dave Kalama, who has played witness to every aspect of boat travel in his six trips aboard the Indies Trader. " We all want to believe that around the next point is a great new wave. There are lots of boat trips, but this one is the most adventurous, because were not settling for waves, were going to find our own."

More than anything, Dave enjoys the act of exploring and of experiencing no matter what the cost. The pay off, he says, is finally finding the right setup, and that's the desire that keeps him, and us, moving.

Day 10. A Wheelhouse. Morning

Captain Mark Coleman smiles a cigarette-tinted grin, lights another B&H, and continues nodding his head to the music blaring from the speakers of the bridge. "Tim Buckley, mate, 1968", he says with an Australian English that turns nineteen into "nyedeen." I listen to the Captain's reminiscing about days spent in California, about surf travels throughout the world, and about the pride he takes in skippering the Trader around Central America. We both look toward the shore in the distance, at the high mountains and dense jungle, the land that Spanish conquerors first explored five centuries ago. From a distance it's all thick green and black rock, and after days on board the gray cloud cover seems to match the veil of impenetrable forestry, creating an almost indistinguishable stretch of coast that makes picking a landmark difficult. We haven't found our waves yet, and the passengers on board are getting itchy to log some water time. A sense of eagerness pervades the boat, and the once-quiet vessel is now adrift on the ocean with rock-music blaring and passengers on almost every corner, bringing the boat to life, and giving it a vitality that suits both its appearance and its nature. From the hull, Guy gives a yell, and we all jump to the bow to take a look at what he's spotted/ Off the bulb of the boat, twelve dolphins vie for position directly in front, surfing the pressure given off by the boat's progress. For more that 30 minutes, the dolphins twist and turn, spin and slip under each other, dancing in front of the boat, a beauty that makes patience possible for yet another day.

Sitting at the back of the "tinnie", with a white knuckle grip on the railing, I hang on for more than an hour as Dave speeds around the island, jumping and lurching the boat through oncoming chop, riding open ocean swells on the way back. Dave occasionally looks back and laughs, taking pleasure in each jolting landing of the small boat.

We didn't find a wave that afternoon, and returned to a boat of disappointed surfers, but the act of looking for the wave was what mattered.

Day 12. A Stretch of Coast. Afternoon

"We've got 90miles of Panamanian coast ahead of us," grins Hornbaker as he drives the tin boat calmly up the Pacific. Looking out across the ocean, the Indies Trader is making the same route north in deeper waters, but three of us have jumped in the 18-foot aluminum skiff to get a closer look at the shoreline. It's raining sporadically, and from the Trader we could tell that there was little in the way of surf in this area, but the experience of looking is itself worthwhile. With a 30-hour trek to our next port, and instructions from the Panamanian government to head out of the country without delay (a result of having outstayed our Panamanian visas), a little exploration seemed a welcome reprieve from the Third incarnation of Austin Powers playing in the wheelhouse.

For the next few hours, we worked the coastline, motoring inside and outside a series of inlets, seeing nothing in the way of waves or even potential, but plenty in the way of natural charm. Tidal surges moving out of deep water exploded on jutting brown rock reef, forcing amazing blowholes to life, and J began to realize that the essence of The Crossing is an exercise in experiencing, not just surfing. It is a simple lesson in what happens when you think outside the parameters of surf travel and simply refuses to drop anchor at locales that are known to be wave-rich.

Looking back toward the Trader, I could see dark gray clouds and what looked like rain, and through the mist, I recognized a small chain of islands that were blocking whatever swell was in the water. We had accepted that we wouldn't find waves, at least not today, not on this stretch of coast, so we let out a hand line and trolled slowly, inviting the fish, eyes on the shoreline.

In its purest form, The Crossing's most important function is to serve as a reminder for those of us who surf our overcrowded parking lot waves and make annual surf forays to predictable locations that the world is still breathing, still changing and still possible. It is proof that surfers needn't be one dimensional in their quest for waves, that the act of looking is invaluable itself, and that our actions have resonating impacts. But perhaps most importantly, The Crossing is working actively to break down the image of the prototypical surfer - one backpack, one board, searching for waves. In its place, the image of the surfer who is looking to give back, to evaluate the environment, to make efforts toward understanding the cultures of the peoples whose lives move steadily on along the shores.

Day 13. A group of people. Afternoon.

Tomorrow, when we get into port at a lavish, westernized Costa Rican harbor, there will be autographs and magazine giveaways, and a slew of people waiting on the docks to see the boat and its passengers sit on the back deck, restless from eight days with almost no surf. The sun is out for the first time in a week, and the sea is smooth. A light wind carries on it refreshing warmth, and we joke about the intangible benefits of our trip with limited waves. When the boat rests at the dock and we step off, high-profile surfers will again be high-profile surfers but for right now, we are all just people. Talking, laughing, enjoying each other's company, a group of humans humbled by the enormity of the ocean.