Surfing Swell

After another long and tedious night bus journey - I'm starting to think that after so many terrible night buses that it might just be better to go through the day when possible - we crossed the border into Ecuador and arrived in Guayaquil at Silly O'clock in the morning. Rather than wasting a day of potentially good weather we jumped straight onto the coastal bus to Montañita, a reputed haven for partying, sunning and waves big enough for surfing.

Finding accommodation was like the proverbial tale of 'Goldilocks and the three bears', with our first hostel being out in the middle of nowhere and run by a strange man who hardly made us want to spend any more time than necessary. We left the very next day to a place that didn't have holes in the roof. In fact the second place that we moved into was on the other end of the scale. Consisting of a pretty room with a sea view and a hammock outside it, it seemed idyllic. However that night we realised our mistake of staying on the main street: Emily was sick that night and we attempted to go to sleep early. This was not exactly possible due to the bars bellow playing their music so loud that it shook our whole room until 2am. The search continued. Finally we tried a place which had, at first impression, seemed too expensive, however after haggling our socks off we got it down to £7 a night for the room. The place was brilliant! Our room had wonderful sea views, a jacuzzi that we never ended up using and hot showers. This is where we would stay for the next eleven days.

Montañita held two specific attractions for Emily and myself: Em being a suntan tootin' Texan (although at this point I have to mention that she is actually an Austin girl and not a stereotypical redneck) was very keen to spend some time lying on the beach, while I was more interested in the massive waves that crashed in at high tide. The problem was that after learning in South Africa and getting reasonably good, I seemed to have forgotten by the time I got the chance to try again. This was confirmed when I grabbed a board, went out onto the waves and could barely catch one. It was time to go back to basics.

The very next day I was out on the board with a rather lacklustre instructor and a hellbent determination to have myself surfing again. The instructor kindly changed the stance that I was used to, bringing what little knowledge I did have down to 'scratch' again. Consequently for that reason, and the fact that my big toenail was virtually hanging off after snake hunting in small boots in Bolivia (a sight which has made many a person shudder to my own personal amusement), the lesson was an overall failure. I did get some fundamental principles under my belt but actually surfing would require many more hours practice. In spite of fatigue, I was out on the water the very next morning with a board, and a big toe clad in gaffa (duct) tape, ready to dominate some waves. In spite of regular failures I managed to catch a couple of waves and returned pleased. The following day would prove to be a much larger test when the pacific swell was rumoured to be bringing in 10ft waves. The 10ft predictions turned out to be a vast understatement and I stood on the beach, board in hand, timidly watching 15ft waves smash down onto the shore. This was well beyond my capacity as a budding surfer and in all honesty I was more than reserved about going out. A couple of fellow surfers in their learning stages trotted past (surfers appear to trot without it looking too mince-esque) and invited me to stick with them for safety. That was that; I was convinced to go out there and make those thundering tubes my bitch! We found somewhere to the left of the channel that was a little more forgiving and paddled out. It would be incorrect for me to say that I managed anything more than a meagre crouch on the board that day, and at one point I found myself riding on top of a tube before the front collapsed, taking me down with it. The dumped wave threw me around for what seemed like an eternity before launching my board into my shoulder, leaving my to paddle limply to the shore to thow up a litre or so of salt water and take a well deserved rest. It had been a dogged fight, but after three hours the ocean had beaten me; temporarily.

In the following days I continued to go out before some young local surf scamp launched his board into my ribs hard enough to keep me out of the water in Montañita, but definitely not for good. Fortunately the town that we were both so apprehensive to leave offered so much more than great waves: there were people, parties and amazing food to fill our idle hours. In spite of only having two real clubs (and that's pretty debateable) the party scene was relentless and the routine of eating well, chilling at someone's hostel drinking local spirits, and then sitting outside the cocktail stands run by the local surf boys until 'Silly AM' became quickly adopted. It also seemed that Montañita was a place that the young gap year students skipped, leaving the mid-to-late twenties travellers to enjoy great company and conversation.

In our two week stay there two groups of friends had come and gone, and after stretching out our time as long as possible. It was time to say our goodbyes to the friendly, accommodating locals and carry on up the coast. Our next destination was Canoa which hopefully promised more of the same in a much more relaxed environment.