“You better hurry or you’ll miss the boat.”
The kid at the surfboard loaner shop pointed toward the beach, where a white panga floated just off the wave line. I hurried down the gravely path, an ugly, beat-up replacement board under my arm. After making the switch from the intermediate track at the surf camp to the advanced, there was no way I was going to blow it by not making the boat to Witches Rock, the famed surf spot in Guanacaste, Costa Rica.
There was no dock, just wade out and throw a leg over. I tossed up my backpack, tilted the board up, and who grabbed it? None other than the guy I’d surfed with the day before.
“Charger!” he said with a grin.
He’d called me that after I’d taken off on a particularly large wave at Playa Grande and crashed and burned. He also yelled that I should angle sooner. Good advice.
He pulled my board onto the boat and offered me a hand. He was early 40s, with a round face and kind eyes. I remembered his blue-striped rash guard.
“Chip,” he said.
“Catharine.”
Three other guys were already on the boat. The Mark-Trio, as I named them, appeared to be 40ish, and were surprised to see me.
“How’d you get on the boat?” Mark asked, a sharp edge in his tone.
“I signed up,” I said, squelching a return barb.
“Hey, she just goes for it,” Chip said.
I appreciated his defense, but it was clear the other three were not happy to see me, a petite, silver-haired, 60-plus-year-old female, butting into their boys’ club.
“Heard it’s been small,” Chip changed the subject.
“Rumor is 6-to-8,” Mark said. He was talking feet, as in the size of waves.
I bit my lower lip. Witches Rock was said to be best ridden for the first time on a smaller day. It was a heavy wave and could easily overwhelm surfers by shifting currents and strong winds.
These guys had signed up for this trip months in advance, and I’d managed to talk my way onto their boat. I pressed the tips of my fingernails deep into my palms to release tension. I wondered if I was out of my league. I’d never surfed from a boat. I knew how to scout waves from the land. But from the backside, how was that possible?
Chip and I chatted on the two-hour trip about kids, other surf trips. He was a seascape painter from the East Coast. The Mark-Trio talked among themselves.
When the Mani, our captain, slowed the engine, I sat up in a new world. Sea turtles surrounded the boat. One pair was tangled in a mating ritual. A gray humpback whale breached and crashed back into the water, the sound rolling across the sea surface. On the horizon, the famed Witches Rock, a mammoth vertically striated rock rose 40 feet in the air, about a quarter mile off the beach, the top of its craggy surface covered in bird guano.
“La Roca Bruja,” Mani pointed.
“Witches?” I asked.
Chip answered. “Locals believe that an old witch created the rock. The sounds of the waves crashing off the walls on a big swell are her thunderous cries.”
~~
I surfed as a teen growing up in Laguna Beach, gave it up in my 20s to raise a family, and came back to it when my life fell apart after divorce. When I picked up a surfboard after a 40-year hiatus, I had almost forgotten what joy surfing could add to my life.
Costa Rica hit my radar when I was looking for new places to explore. A friend recommended a surf camp in Tamarindo. She said it was a good place for a solo woman traveler beyond the age of 50.
I signed up for a week-long intermediate package. My muscled coach Gabriel sported a white shark’s tooth around his neck and an armful of tattoos. He was younger than either of my sons but didn’t blink at my silver hair, nor make mention of my age in the midst of the other 30-ish females. He was a good coach, but after two days of watching the other gals learn the basics of how to read a wave, I needed more challenge.
“No problem,” said the camp director, and with a chalk stroke on the activities board, added my name to the advanced group boat trip to Witches Rock and Ollies Point. In the meantime, I’d surf one more day with the intermediates.
Playa Grande was an expansive horseshoe bay, with waves of different sizes and shapes spread along the coast. I’d lugged my own board all the way from home, not wanting to deal with an unfamiliar loaner board. My “Yappa” had been built specifically for me. She was 6-feet, 7-inches long, white with purple rails, three fins, and super fun to ride.
Gabriel guided the other women to a gentle beach break while I paddled to a solo peak I’d eyed from the beach. Forty or so surfers bobbed in the water, with a different surf school congregated on the inside.
I dangled my feet in the bathtub-warm water, floated beyond the break, watching and learning the wave. Deep turquoise water shimmered in the morning sun, and puffy cotton ball clouds punctuated clear blue skies. Terns squawked overhead, tiny silver fish darted beneath the surface, and velvet green hills spread across the coastline. How could I not feel embraced by the world?
I let the first two waves slide underneath me, and when the third rose up, I leaned back, spiraled the board around, and paddled to match the speed of the wave. I pushed to my feet, but the wave was steeper than I had calculated. I lost my balance, caught an edge, buried the board’s nose and hurtled face-first down, the board flying behind me attached by my leash. I tumbled over in the white-water wash. When I surfaced, sputtering salt, my bathing suit was askew, my rash guard tangled around my neck.
From the next group of surfers over, I heard, “Hey Charger!”
A clean-cut guy in a blue-striped top waved his arms, grinning.
I worked my way back outside, determined to make a clean entry. A 4-foot wave rose behind me, I drove forward, crouched low on my feet, and grabbed the outer rail. Blue green spread in front of me like a forest path. I raced down the face, climbed back up and flew over the crest. Redeemed!
The other surf school group had populated the inside, and on my next ride, I had to weave my way around and through them. I thought I was clear when a nameless, faceless guy dropped in on top of me, drove his board into mine and we fell, head first, over the falls.
Our leashes tangled, one mess of boards and bodies tumbling over and over, being driven toward the beach in the foam. I was sputtering water, eyes wide, trying to halt the rush of my body. I finally undid the leash from my ankle and disconnected our two boards.
“What the h–?” I screamed. “You always take off on people?”
“Sorry,” he said.
That’s when I saw my board. My precious Yappa had a huge gouge in the rail, two feet from the fin box. White chipped foam oozed from the gash, mixed with slivered and torn edges of purple fragments and fiberglass. I was so angry I wanted to pound walls — or the guy’s head.
“What the —! My board!”
The gouge was far beyond anything that duct tape could fix. My board was unrideable; exposed foam is like a sponge. That’s when it hit me. The next day was the boat trip, and my precious board was out of commission.
The guy in the repair shop said, “Ouch.”
“Can you fix her by tomorrow?”
He rolled his eyes. “Friday morning.”
First light, I hoofed it to the board shop to borrow a board before the boat left at 8 a.m. The loaner room, full of treasures when I arrived, had been raided by guests earlier in the week. Nothing was left that I wanted to ride. I picked the beat-up tri-fin with a rubber foot pad that covered half the board. It would have to do.
~~
The male energy on the boat was electric. Their dream swell had arrived. The longer I looked at the spray streaming off the back of the wave, the more my hands shook. What if I got caught inside and couldn’t paddle back out to the boat? The guys seemed unfazed. Mark and crew peeled off the deck, while Chip lingered, adding more sunscreen to his already peeling nose, and another coat of wax to his board. When he jumped overboard, I watched as he grew smaller, paddling toward the break.
Mani looked at me like, Lady, are you going or not? I nodded, checked that the leash was secure to the ugly board, tossed it over the side and dove in after it. I grabbed the leash, attached it to my ankle, and paddled toward Chip.
“These are awesome,” he said, all smiles, sitting in the lineup. He turned toward the incoming set. “This one’s yours.” He pointed to the next wave.
With no time to think, I laid down, put my arms in gear and raced down the face of a 6-foot powerhouse. Deep blue water curled over on itself, creating a short tubular tunnel around me. I ran my fingers along the face, slowing my speed, holding myself inside the magic.
When I popped out the other end, I shifted my weight to carve up the face, but the board was heavier than my missing Yappa. I caught an edge and tumbled down, board and body in a washing machine that ended up in the whitewater soup, but I came up okay. I’d never ridden anything like it. The surface glassy, the perfectly formed face, the hollow aqua tube. I was pumped and proud.
For nearly an hour, I traded waves with the guys and four from another boat, wind-swept spray showering all of us. I was the only female in the water, as well as the oldest person.
After countless waves, my arms felt like noodles. The tops of my knees and feet were raw from scraping against the rubber foot pad, and I made my way back to the boat. The captain poured hydrogen peroxide on the red slits. It stung like the devil, but I was grateful for the antiseptic.
The guys eventually returned, non-stop boasting about their great rides, high-fiving each other, ignoring me, as if I were not sitting in front of them.
“Those were the best waves I’ve ever ridden,” I said, hoping to join their conversation.
Mark looked at me like “Oh right she’s still here.”
“Why’d you quit so soon?” he asked.
The guys all exchanged knowing glances.
“Quit?” His words were like a bee sting.
Suddenly I felt too old, too female, too intermediate, too not-part-of-their-club. I kept to myself during the short ride up the coast, wondering how Mark’s statement could squash the joy I’d felt in the waves.
***
Ollie’s Point was just south of the Nicaraguan border, accessible only by boat, and had been made famous by Robert August’s film, “The Endless Summer.” The spot had earned its name in 1985, when Lt. Col. Oliver North used the location to smuggle arms to the Contras during their insurgencies against the socialist government of Nicaragua. It was a “must-surf” destination.
As the point came into view, my heart blipped. Barren and windswept, a curling right-hand wave broke over a rocky reef and rolled parallel to the shore. A big dark slab of stone protruded smack dab in the take-off zone. I didn’t hesitate and was in the water before anyone else. I quickly reached the point as waves rolled across the rocky prominence.
Mark and crew were right behind me. They talked over me, around me, but not to me. I let each of them all have a wave before I paddled for anything.
When I took my turn, the rock and gravel wall rose up in front of me, and it all felt wrong.
I got scared, pulled out, and lost my turn. Nervous tingling sensations radiated through me. On my next wave, the rubber pad dug into my knees like razor blades. My timing was off, my body weight shifted. I pearled the nose of my board and tumbled down the wave. I didn’t dare look at the guys.
The critic in my head screamed, You’re a fake! An imposter! The longer I didn’t catch a wave, the louder the voice got. My knees were bleeding. My arms ached. The guys no longer waited on my turn, but paddled for every wave. I fought back tears.
I made my way back to the boat, choking down defeat. While I sulked, I watched them. Chip was a big guy riding a super-short board that didn’t float him well and he struggled to catch three waves. When Mark fell, and fell again, a tiny smile turned up the corners of my mouth.
***
First light the next morning, I raced to the shaping room, hoping to pick up the Yappa. She had an odd patch job and her purple striped rail was now mixed with white, but otherwise, it was great to have her back. I glanced at the activity board, and my name had been erased for the boat trip. Was it a mistake? The girl at the desk explained that the guys had asked to have the boat to themselves. They paid extra.
“Where does that leave me?”
“You’ll be in the van with Juan.”
I’d been dumped. Both hurt and angry, I wanted to pound something, but decided that I was not going to let their selfishness ruin my last day.
Juan was waiting in the van. He wore a toothy grin, an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and radiated happy energy. A heavy silver ring surrounded his middle finger, right hand.
“Avellanas,” he said. “Good surf today.”
“Where’s everybody else?”
“Nobody. Just you and me.”
Was he kidding? I had the van and a coach all to myself? Forget the boat trip!
On the drive, we picked up two of his surfer friends. When Juan pulled over at a bus stop, an older woman climbed in. She was fancied up in a pretty mid-calf flowered dress, a red beaded necklace, and her dark hair was swept back and held with a silver comb. Her face was beaming.
“Mi mama,” Juan said.
“Con mucho gusto!” I said, reaching to touch her hand. Pleased to meet you.
It was clear Juan’s friends were already well known to his mom, and I was in the embrace of an extended Tican family. I chatted with his mom in my broken Spanish, asking her questions about Juan, her other kids, family stuff. We dropped her off in a small village to visit a friend.
The surf at Playa Avellanas was popping. Spread out along a broad stretch of sandy coast, I counted five different breaks of different shapes and sizes. Gabriel was already in the water with the gals.
It’s been frequently said that the best surfer is the one who is having the most fun. That day at Avellanas, I qualified. Every part of my body was smiling. Juan and his friends decided to surf with me. For over two hours, we traded waves, shared waves, and had water fights.
I was surprised when I saw a boat pull up and Mark and crew jump off. The trio paddled toward a closing out tube. Chip stopped next to me.
“Thought you were going to Marbella?”
“Skunked,” he said.
“What?”
“Long boat ride, wrong swell angle, wrong tide. Nada.”
“Too bad,” I said in a “whatever” tone. “It’s been great here all day, but now the tide’s dropping.”
I acted like I knew it all, but the only reason I had info was because Juan had told me that by 2 p.m., the shape was going to change.
Chip frowned, and Juan signaled it was time to quit.
***
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The trip back to the camp was giggles and smiling faces, the Ticans telling jokes that I couldn’t understand but it didn’t matter. The van was filled with sandy sun-kissed happiness. When Juan picked up his mom, I moved to the back seat to share another conversation. I told her what a good coach and surfer her son was. Easy and true.
I’d started the morning disappointed that I’d been dumped from the boat and excluded from the boy’s club, but that disappointment had turned into my biggest blessing of the trip.
In this moment, I had what I had sought: a surf session with new friends, a van ride filled with happy Ticans, stereo cranked up, everyone singing. Green Costa Rican jungles streamed past the windows. I felt as if I were in a movie.
My heart was so full, I thought it might break free of my chest.
___________________________
Catharine Cooper is an avid surfer, swimmer and adventurer who lives in Baja California with her sidekick Cobberdog, Loki. This is an excerpt from her memoir-in-progress, “Surfing into Sixty.”