Oil rigs and waves
“Que es?”
clang…clang..clang
It had an uneven rhythm to it.
We were walking back from the desert surf break and took the a path through the neighborhood home. It was getting hot and the sand blew across our feet. There was a constant wind here, strong enough that you needed a tight grip on your board or the board would either be blown out of your hands and down the beach or it would knock into the person with whom you were walking. Being slightly south of the equator, it was “winter” here, but the sun was intense. We were almost back to the apartment and our wetsuits were nearly dry.
Lobitos, Peru was an old military outpost that shared residency with the petroleum sector, then, upon discovery of two long left-handed waves, Lobitos became a surf town. Both of its now famous breaks have the consistency of Kelly’s Slater’s surf farm. It was a surf town with an active oil rig in the middle of the path that took you from the homes and restaurants to the popular break about a mile down.
clang. clang…clang
The land oil rig came into view. It wasn’t loud enough to disturb the entire neighborhood, but if you were close, the sound was more constant and disturbing than an hourly train passing by.
“See that casita?” Toni pointed to a small house next to the rig, “that’s where wild Eddy lives!” he said. “He’s so wild, I wonder if he is kind of crazy because he hears that sound in his head all the time,” Toni thought out loud.
We landed in Lobitos after an 8 hour bus trip south from Ecuador, then a hectic passenger van ride from Tumbes, Peru’s border town, and finally a nice taxi ride with an old man and his son through the Texas-like desert to the surf/oil oasis. The passenger van through us both off, we were stuck in the back row and the driver packed everyone in so that they could drive the maximum number of people and make the most money for their haul. With our bags on our laps and battling exhaustion from the previous leg, there was a slight relief when the crowd thinned and passengers got off at their destinations along the way. The relief was temporary because soon the driver was filling the van with people again at the popular stops.
“Can I just pay him to not pick up anyone else?!” I whispered to Toni. I was at the end of my rope.
“That would not be a good idea,” he replied, not wanting to draw anymore attention to the gringa in the backseat.
The old man who was driving was not pleasant. He tried to charge me and the German guy more money for our bags up top, even though we had the same as everyone else. I said I didn’t understand what he wanted and let Toni handle it.
“He tried to charge me extra too!” Toni said, disgusted that a fellow local was trying to take advantage of him too. Toni had been traveling with me and was also helping the German get to his next destination. The driver must have assumed he wasn’t from here
Throughout the trip into the evening darkness, the driver was unable to do two things at once and didn’t seem to notice. He would pick up his phone to talk to a friend and end up slowing down below the speed limit, so slow that as soon as they could, every car behind us flew past on our left. Then our driver would put his phone down and go back to his jolty driving. He would pass a car or two that already dealt with our slowness and those drivers would roll their eyes at his erratic driving, then keep a distance from his unpredictability.
I gritted my teeth and looked up at the ceiling. The van ride would be over eventually. My mind was trying to keep my annoyed body in check. After a pee stop on the side of the road that offered a brief respite from the tension I was feeling in the back of the van, we finally arrived to our one night stop in Mancora, a surf and hostel town on the way to Lobitos. We carried our bags down the street to our hostel, whose big wooden doors were closed. I rang the bell twice. It was dark and we were late to check in.
“Caroline?” a woman said as she began unlocking the doors for us.
“Si,” I said, thank God. Everything was ready and our late arrival was no problem. I am such a gringa.
The morning came too soon, but we were not in a rush. We left our bags with the front desk and walked into town. The waves were small so we decided we’d wait to surf until we arrived to our next destination. The decision eased the morning pressure of how quickly to eat breakfast as well as the logistics of where we would shower before our next car ride.
After breakfast, it was time to flag down a taxi. “Toni, please not another van,” I said, and he assured me we’d take a different option. An tan colored and unfamiliar model Toyota SUV pulled up with an old man and his son. They agreed on a good price and drove us back to our hostel to pick up our bags an head to the next spot.
“How does anyone find this place?” All around us was sand and hills of sand. The road was sand and dirt and their weren’t even oil rigs or infrastructure in sight.
“In other seasons, you can’t drive here, this is all under water.”
“Crazy.”
Our days in Lobitos were too peaceful to be interesting. The desert was quiet, the nights were silent. The wifi wasn’t strong enough to do any work or scroll through any apps. The waves were an easy 2–4 feet…easy enough once the crew of eight year olds for whom those waves were “overhead” cleared out. I rented a bright pink board and the owner of the surf shop either stopping by to check in or was making sure we weren’t going to take it when we left. Or maybe both.
One morning, we walked all the way to the break, but the waves seemed too small to surf. A bit frustrated with our luck, we put our boards down and got in the water to swim around and body surf. The kids surfing the point were off the long wave by the time it got to the inside area. A wave was coming and I swam with the small swell, expecting to paddle and fall off the back of the wave as it went past.
Whoosh…
I paddled and quickly, the wave took me. Realizing I had caught it, I put my arm out, like I had seen the experienced body surfers do, and leaned in to the left where it was going to break. I was moving, no longer kicking or paddling. Out to the left, I saw the turquoise water rolling above me and in the clear space I could see through the tube to the desert hills. Enserio, a barrel?
It was totally unexpected and so fun. I stood up after in the shallow water and looked at Toni. “Tenia un barrel!” I said and grinned. I just got a little barrel. How cool. We grabbed our boards, dusted off our disappointed funk, and went to play more in the waves.
After our morning walks to “the pool” surf break, we had an evening session nearby. The sun was setting, but the clouds that came in that evening were too heavy to get much of the light. The wind was strong and it made the surface choppy instead of smooth, but the perfect waves kept coming. We paddled out with only a few others braving the wind and chill. One was an old man with a young boy, who reminder me of my nephew. The boy was a cute skinny kid and wore a green and black patterned wetsuit and a surf helmet. I had seen him at “the pool” and one time he gave me a wave he definitely could have taken. The old man was a character. He had long hair and he talked out loud, but I’m not sure it was to anyone in particular. The old man paddled for a few waves, somewhat unsuccessfully, then he paddled and stopped at a rock near the point where you could catch the wave. He stood up on the rock, his toes gripping the slippery surface. He had his board in his hands and held it to one side of his hip. When the wave came, the old man launched himself off the rock, into the wave, and placed the board below him, first laying on his stomach. He then pushed himself up onto the board to surf the wave in as usual. I guess his arms were too tired to paddle.
A few more days of waves, desert energy, and ceviche and it was time to head north again, slowly back to Ecuador, but first to Zorritos, famous for its giant barrels in shallow water of which I wanted no part, despite Toni telling me it was “easy.”
Caroline is a PhD student in the University of San Diego’s Leadership Studies program. She is a Coast Guard and CIA veteran who serves as a mentor in the Armed Service Arts Partnership’s comedy bootcamp courses. Her book, Fairly Smooth Operator, is now available.
Zorritos…to be continued…