Watching me miss yet another wave, Mark the Scot tells me to put a little more oomph into my positioning. "Yoo've gawt t' paddle like there's a shahrk chasing yoo," he says.
The harder stroking helps me catch more waves; now I just need to work on my push-up, pop-up, stance, drop-in and balance. Simple.
Students at an island surf camp get their feet wet in Panama waves.
(John Briley)
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Hours later, as sunset approaches, I see my wave coming a long way off, rising from the Pacific and readying to pitch, a graceful swell with a gently sloping face. I paddle for position, swing my surfboard toward shore and stroke for dear life.
The wave surges beneath me, and in one motion I press the sides of the board and spring to my feet. Surfing feels as natural as riding a bike. I crouch in my stance, drive the board down the glassy face, turn and hold a line along the smooth green ramp, white water nipping at my tail.
It is, for the week, my peak glory moment, but repeating it proves as elusive as a jaguar in the jungle. This is the thing about surfing: Unlike skiing, tennis, yoga or volleyball, in which a teacher can be at your side to suggest technique adjustments, the surfer must squeeze every element of instruction into a 10-second window when a wave approaches and the scramble to perform begins -- on a moving medium. Blow one element of the sequence, and the attempt is over. And if you pick the wrong wave -- a quick closeout, for example, in which the wave folds over all at once, vs. peeling steadily down the line -- you're hosed anyway, no matter how good your mechanics.
Progress in the Water
The Morro Negrito Web site mentions fishing, horseback riding, scuba diving, snorkeling and hiking as alternative activities and, while the fishing is spectacular (Mark and my buddy Dave spend a half-day hauling in a variety of pescados off a cluster of protected islands a few miles from La Ensenada), the other pastimes are not. Sure, we snorkel a murky, patchy rock garden one morning while Healion, Mark and Roy surf an advanced-only break off yet another stunning isle, and Healion swears that four horses live somewhere on La Ensenada, but I see little evidence that Morro Negrito guests do much besides surf.
One night as we sit around playing poker, draining beers and watching surfing videos, Mark asks if we are pleased with our progress in the water. "I guess," I mutter.
"Well, yoo ought t' be. Yoo've only been at it three days."
It is both a strong show of encouragement and, more meaningfully to me, a level of acceptance that I've never felt as a body boarder -- an acknowledgment that, while we are still rank amateurs, we are surfers nonetheless.
You won't see me in any thrasher surfing videos or screaming through a tube on an outer reef at Pipeline. In fact, after a long winter in D.C., miles from the nearest wave, you might find me this summer in the Delmarva shore break, floundering back at the bottom of that learning curve. But wherever you find me, let me know if you're looking for a used boogie board. I'll give you a good deal.
