Gregg Drude's Dream Surfing / Sailing Trip: Van Dieman Dispatch

FEB 6th

A healthy debate could be had on the effectiveness of surf exploration by boat. A real dilemma exists in this endeavor. The problem lies in the standards of what is considered a safe anchorage. By definition, an anchorage is free from surf. How then, can one expect to spend any time in the vicinity of solid surf? Exceptions to this rule exist and have been made famous throughout Indonesia and some South Pacific islands, but these are not so easily found along other coastlines. It would be quite rare to score pumping beachbreaks with a quiet or safe anchorage nearby. Because of this, we opted to spend the entire past week on land surfing along with other visiting surfers.

We encountered a number of different reactions upon informing our fellow travelers of our means of transportation. Some responded with quiet indifference, others refusing to believe that a bunch of rookies like us had made it this far. One night while eating at a roadside taco stand, we made conversation with a couple guys from Sweden, and another from the States. Turned out that the two Swedes had ridden a bus some 48 hours nonstop to arrive at our present location. We were all empathizing with them over the suffering they must have endured to get here when I was asked how long it took us to get here. The American looked at me as if I were completely full of crap when I answered truthfully...two months.

So now here we are, a bunch of “sailors,” feeling a little out of place here on the beach among your standard surf adventurers. Our senses were overloaded with all of the sounds and smells that we had been deprived of during our time at sea. Some of these were enjoyable, while others made me want to get right back to the boat. We also had to deal with large groups of people again, and become social beings once more. Things that pleased us on land included large meals prepared by someone else, lots of room to stretch our legs, sleeping on large beds, the smell of fresh vegetation, and access to all kinds of sweet snacks.

The list of things we could have done without is a bit longer. Among these were mosquito and other insect bites, dogs barking all night long outside our windows, annoying people and vendors, scorpions in our rooms, dirt on our feet, and the sight of mounds of trash along the beaches. Sure, we don’t get to take long walks on the deck of the boat, but at least we have never had to step over a dirty diaper or a tampon in our path! The displeasure of having to carry all of our gear around on our backs was something I had forgotten all about. We had become used to having the boat lug around our hundreds of pounds of gear for these past two months. Dragging all of our junk from place to place just about wore us all out. Funny that in my previous travels, this was just a minor inconvenience, but the other day I was tempted to drop my things in the road and just walk away from it all.

I was also surprised by my own aversion to other people. I have always been a talkative and friendly guy around town, but it seems like all of the time spent with just my crew has turned me a bit antisocial. I assumed that by the time I got back into a civilized area, I would be starved for interaction, but the exact opposite seems true. As a group, we hardly made any effort at all to meet new people or hang out with others. I have made a vow not to be so rude at our next stop.

The surf did its part to keep us all sane. The swell was never huge this week, but it was definitely lots of fun. Head-high peaks greeted us every morning for the entire week, and the wind remained calm almost every day, allowing us to surf from sunup to sunset. Paddling out from shore each session was a change from what we have become accustomed to, and in some way lessened the feeling of adventure. The dinghy parked in the channel during a surf is a constant reminder of the type of adventure of which we are a part.

After a few more days, we will get back onboard and continue our sail south. Obviously, we will miss the luxuries that we so quickly got used to on land, but I’m sure we will all learn to do without them just as quickly.

February 20th

Our luck finally ran out at the yacht club today after three days of living the high life. Freshly laundered towels, poolside lounging, free laundry facilities, and hot shower after hot shower were the order of the day until we got pinched today. Each day as we pulled our dinghy up to the little dock in front of the yacht club, we would agree on the name of one of the luxurious boats tied up within the club to be used as our alibi. Unfortunately, tonight when we threw out the name Temptation, the zealous guard asked us a few more questions: Who is the captain? How long have you been here? Why is your name not on the crew list? Well, after playing dumb, and trying to claim one boat after another, we were eventually proclaimed persona non grata. Fortunately we plan to leave tomorrow anyways, and we all took full advantage of the facilities while we had the chance.

We have been sitting in this harbor for the past few days taking care of a few odds and ends on the boat, and awaiting the return of one of our crewmembers, Josie. She had flown home a week and a half ago to buy and transport a new watermaker back to the boat. She pulled it off even though the thing weighed over one hundred pounds. We got to work quickly on the installation, and after half a day spent slaving away in the tropical heat, the thing wouldn’t spit out a single drop of drinkable water. We’ve got no choice now but to move on and get back into the surf, and just deal with this problem along the way.

It has been four days since our last surf, which we have found to be the limit any of us can tolerate. Everyone starts getting pretty cranky and the harmony usually found onboard begins to fade. I imagine it would be similar to a detox center where all the drunks start to sober up and realize that they are stuck in this little space with a bunch of others all craving the same thing, which is unobtainable. As the captain, I sometimes feel responsible for depriving the crew of their addiction, but the difference between the drunk-tank guard and me is that I suffer along with the detainees.

Prior to arriving in our present location, we had been scoring some sick little beachbreak waves in a pretty out of the way area. We had to anchor close to 10 miles away from our spot each night, so every day began and ended with an hour-long wet ride in the dinghy. Nowhere else along our journey had we found ourselves so sunburned after a day’s surfing. Surfing in hats and T-shirts was no match for the blistering hot rays bearing down upon us for eight to 10 hours straight.

The wave broke in crystal clear water, and had much more power than I would have expected from a shoulder-high wave. It is rare that my lanky frame will fit into a barrel on anything less than a wave two feet over my head, but somehow these little gems were hollow enough that I managed to drive through a bunch of them. Trent and our new temporary crewmate Angelo were launching airs and smashing the heck out of each and every lip.

Possibly as exciting as the surf was the strange scenario found on the beach just across from our nightly anchorage. Apparently, the local crocodile farm was having some difficulty with fence maintenance. A lagoon located just 20 yards from the beach was full of crocs ranging from 10 to 20 feet in length. Problem was, the fence was on the other side of this lagoon, and the monstrous reptiles were free to roam the beach at their leisure. We spent hours lurking along the edge of the lagoon daring one another to make the swim from one end to the other. The bounty put on the dare reached up to $5,000, but there were no takers.

After standing around long enough, a local self-proclaimed “hustler” approached us and proceeded to impress us with his prowess in dealing with the local dinosaurs. He found a cement block laying nearby which must have weighed 30 pounds and threw it at the largest croc of the bunch, nailing it squarely on top of its head. The thing didn’t even budge. We, on the other hand, took off running like a bunch of scared little schoolgirls. He went on to brag about the number of belts, wallets and jackets he would be able to make from just this one crocodile. His plan was to come back during the night, when the crocs don’t see so well, and make his capture.

Seventeen-year-old Charley yarned on and on about his skill in wooing not only the local crocodiles, but also any tourist girl lucky enough to stumble across his beach. As the sun set, he offered us a ride into town to pick up some tacos. He introduced us to his pregnant 13-year-old girlfriend, and then left her sitting on the dark corner as we drove off in search of dinner. We returned an hour later with our hands full of food, and found the mother-to-be was sitting in the same place, stone-faced.

We are ready to weigh anchor again, and continue our search. We will all be on strict water rations until we get the stupid watermaker up and running. Fortunately, I found my secret stash of Dr. Pepper under one of the couches, so I will be fine.