Duke Storm presents stories of stoke from around the globe.

From Centro – with Ryan and Paul

Montanitas – Ecuador

I’m not exactly sure how we ended up in Montanitas. The original plan was to bus to Quito, then head to Colombia, but we could only get buses to Guayacil, where a quick glance at the map had us headed for the coast. It seems like the ghost of Carnival has been following us our entire trip. Hordes of people passed out in the streets and on the beach heralded our arrival to Montnitas. The day-after-Carnival carnage was evident. After stepping over dozens of hung-over hippies we got our first view of the surf and were immediately pleased with our decision. The waves were slightly overhead and super fun. This particular town boasts a reef point and a fairly decent beach break, both of which were doing their thing for the duration of our stay.

Montanitas didn’t really feel like South America. It was more of a hodge-podge hippie commune. Perhaps the strangest thing about this particular town was the glut of handmade balsa boards. What might be considered a $2,000 wall-hanger back home is the standard rental board in Montanitas, putting these balsa-beauties, locally speaking, on the same level as a BIC. I didn’t pick up a balsa board in Montanitas (though in hindsight I should have). Unfortunately, I did pick up a gnarly jungle parasite that left me incapacitated for several days. I don’t think I missed much. The swell dropped off and Ecuador got slammed by a massive rain system that managed to flood half the country without producing much surf.

Once I regained the ability to move, we pressed on. We bussed through inland Ecuador, through the banana plantations and flooded lowland towns, through Quito, through jungle highlands and into Colombia. Our journey from Ecuador to Colombia was a 48 hour epic of bus transfers. We finally figured the system out. An indirect bus means you stop every 5 minutes to stuff the bus with livestock and gypsies, a direct bus means you only stop a handful of times, usually so the driver can pick up a 6-pack.

Colombia

Since this isn’t a skiing site, I’ll keep the Colombia section short. Poor puns aside, post-Pablo Escobar Colombia is a far-cry from everything you think you know about the country. Colombia is safer than you think, and you won’t find violent drug cartels unless you go looking for them. For most Colombians, the cocaine reputation is a sordid stain on an otherwise beautiful country, and many Colombians will go out of their way to reverse these negative misconceptions.

Granted, the drug-cartels are still very much in operation - consumption necessitates production - however these operations are all confined to rural areas. As such, cocaine production dominates most of the Pacific coast, making access to most of the country’s best waves a death mission. Carlos don’t surf, but Carlos has an AK-47, so we didn’t surf either.

We spent most of our time in Medellin, which was one of the coolest cities I have ever visited. Medellin is awesome: beautiful city, friendly people, and the highest concentration of stunningly gorgeous women I have ever seen. I think I fell in love seven times per city block. Additionally, the exchange rate was very much in our favor, so we didn’t have to take girls to McPatos.

If Medellin had waves, I might have never left. Alas, it’s an inland city and this trip is first and foremost a surf mission. When we saw the swell models for the Caribbean we knew it was time to leave. We hopped a flight to Panama City, bussed to the NW corner of the country, and with our last dollar we hopped a water taxi to Isla Colon, straight into the mouth of the bull.

Panama – Caribbean

Swell in Bocas means rain. We didn’t see the sun for days- not a problem- we were interested in the surf, which, as it turns out, was firing. The first spot we surfed was a left-hand reef point called Caraneros. This reef happened to be the closest surfable wave to the main town in Bocas, as such it was crowded, and the crowd was hostile. Considering the amount of ganja Rastafarians smoke, one would think they would be a peaceful people. This is not the case. I once asked a Jamaican fisherman/plantation worker named Mr. IceCream why Jamaica has no standing army. His response was telling: “we don’t need an army, every Rastafarian is born a soldier.” After witnessing a knife-wielding rasta in a cut-off flannel chase a gringo out of the water at Carranero, we knew it was time to find a new wave. Carranero was a zoo, and it certainly wasn’t worth the hassle.We hit the bar. Put out feelers. Met people. Got information. For this swell, the call was Punch Reef, and the next morning, we were on it. Or so we thought.

Every spot in Bocas is boat-access only. We hired a boat at 6 am, waited the requisite ’however-long-it-takes’ to fill with other passengers (boat drivers love to insta-crowd) and shipped off. The boatman got us half-way through channel before pointing at some random ankle slapper reef he claimed to be Punch. This was not Punch. We knew it. He knew it. We tried arguing in Spanish, English, and body language, all to no avail. Most of the boatmen in Bocas don’t surf, in fact most can’t swim, so most boatmen are scared of any swell over 6 ft, Our driver knew we weren’t at Punch; he took one look at the 10 ft sets cresting in the inlet and decided he’d gone far enough. Back to Carranero. If Purgatory has a left, it looks like Carranero.

“Punch Is Not A Game...” so said the rasta, unwilling to paddle out. We made friends and found a boat. Game on.

Horizontal rain and 10 foot sets cresting in the channel made the ride out to Punch rather sketch. (Horizontal rain also prevents any chance of photos). Our adrenaline was pumping before we even saw the surf. This was a good thing. Punch was on fire. Double overhead and heavy. Thick, gaping, frothing, wide-open barrels. Paul’s first wave was a backless heaving beast. He tucked in from the takeoff and was covered until he squirted out in the channel. His expression was a dumbstruck smile for the next few hours. There was only about 6 guys out and the vibe was great. Barrel after barrel. Good wave, good crowd, good session. About 3 hours after we paddled out, our boat driver decided to join us. He took one wave and snapped his board. Our session was over.

The next day we had more boat troubles. Our first boatman got halfway through the channel before suffering some sort of nervous breakdown. His eyes glassed over, he turned the engine off, and our boat drifted sideways so the starboard side was parallel to the incoming waves. We all saw the incoming set, but for a while no one said anything, finally Paul casually mouths ’senor’ and points toward the now cresting wave. The driver snaps out of it, starts the engine, and in his best Perfect Storm impression, barely squirts over the shoulder. He returned to port with his tail between his legs. Our second boatman meant business; he donned a life-jacket and set out to earn his fee.

The swell peaked the next day and once again Punch was on fire. The reef is pretty deep, so it isn’t overtly dangerous, but it is still a wave of consequence. All told, during the 2 day peak of the swell, Punch claimed about 8 boards and sent 2 people to the hospital. We took our share of beatings as well, but the suture kits stayed in the boardbags.

The swell lingered for days and days and so did we. As the swell slowly dropped, the reefs turned off and the beachbreaks came to life. The hike to the beachies was a gruelling trek through cow pastures and dense jungle, but we were rewarded with perfect overhead barrels. Boat-trips by day and bars by night turned out to be a major cash drain. With the swell slowly dying, and the Pacific coming to life, we packed up and headed across Panama to the Pacific coast.

Bonus Nachos:

I wont go into the exact details surrounding the following circumstance, but somehow we ended up getting interrogated by Colombian police at 2 am. This was probably a routine extortion stop (by this time we were used to the machine guns) but after five minutes of interrogation, the officers started going for the full search. As one of the officers frisked Paul’s legs, Paul unleashed one of the most unholy feats of human flatulence I have ever witnessed. As the first officer struggled to breathe, the second officer keeled over in a fit of laughter. Suddenly, I was speaking perfect Spanish. The mood went from tense to jovial, the cops forgot why they stopped us in the first place, and after shooting the breeze for 20 odd minutes we were free to go.