The Atomic Atolls

The ever rythmic Tom Curren, quick to strike a chord both in and out of the water.

Soon after, the boat was alive with chatter, and as the morning coffee kicked in, the talk turned to surf. As the first of the islands drew closer and we could see the reef, it was obvious the waves were small. We motored by the first island, deciding to head to the next one, which appeared more open to more swell. The break was dubbed “Amnesia” because our skipper’s the only one who seems to remember how to get there. Unfortunately, it was small, the high tide dragging one- to two-foot waves across the reef. Just the same, after all the traveling we’d done to get there, the water was too enticing, and we were lured over the side for a swim and a snorkel through the aqua waters to the beach. The clarity of the water was incredible, the bottom clearly visible even though it was 100 feet down. The reef surrounding the island was alive, tropical fish darting in and out of the colorful coral while two small reef sharks cruised along the fringe in deeper water.

On the beach a couple of young kids sat under a tree, watching as we made our way to shore. As we approached, they shyly moved a little farther back toward the jungle. They don’t get many visitors here, and, up until a few weeks ago, they’d never seen surfers or surfing. Soon the boys’ father joined us and explained how they were the only family living on the island. It was just he and his wife, two sons, and toddler daughter. He asked for smokes, telling me he’d almost run out. I couldn’t help him with that one. And even after our lengthy conversation, I never did figure out what they did all day, every day.

Out in the water, Tom Curren was paddling to the lineup on an 8'6" longboard. Did I mention Curren was with us? Well, he was, in true Curren form, somehow making it from California to the middle of the Pacific without hardly speaking a word. He took off on a wave, stood, and turned straight into a drop-knee cutback, before setting his trim and lightly walking toward the nose, his timeless style perfectly suited to the wave and the surfboard. It was the perfect way to clear the cobwebs. Tom and Stephanie Gilmore had joined the boat for a week, and when we eventually did find waves, watching them surf was certainly a highlight.

About an hour before dark, we pulled anchor, Doris telling us there was a good overnight anchorage a few miles to the south, which was to be our nightly base for a week as we checked out the surf potential in the area. The lures were cast and the fishing competition began. It wasn’t long until the first rod started spinning and Big Noel, one of the crew, put down his beer and leapt into action. We could see the silver shape darting in and out of the boat’s wake a hundred yards off the stern. Noel was putting in a solid effort on the rod, beads of sweat bubbling on his ample girth as he worked the fish closer to the boat. It was good size, and as he brought it to the side of the boat we could see it was a bigeye tuna. This was the tricky bit; we didn’t want to lose the first catch of the trip. Fortunately, a deckhand was ready with the gaff, and, to cheers all around, effortlessly hooked the fish onto the deck.

Andre, the boat’s Australian chef, was on the spot to quickly put the fish out of its misery, filleting knife at the ready.

“Fresh sashimi at sunset tonight, boys,” he called with a gleam in his eye.

Cold beer, freshly caught tuna, and a multi-colored tropical sunset without another boat in sight: That’s what a surf trip is supposed to be about. All we needed were waves, and things would be perfect.

We anchored inside the lagoon, protected from the swells by a large island where we could tell fires were burning at dawn. A village of around 60 people had established itself there, living a subsistence lifestyle of which fish, coconuts, and some trade in copra were the staples. It was a beautiful place, and in the dawn light, with the smoking fires, kids on the beach, and canoes being paddled through the calm waters, it was reminiscent of an idyllic scene from one of van Gogh’s Tahitian paintings. As we sailed off, the conversation turned to the people, and we couldn’t help but wonder about their lives. Were they happy with the simplicity of it, or did they crave the materialism, entertainment, and bustle of the modern world? I suppose that if they surfed, it would be paradise.

The wind, which had been blowing incessantly since we left the main island two days earlier, had eased a little overnight. A call was soon made to check out a reef pass a little farther south. When we arrived at the pass, an unnamed but very workable right was peaking on the outside. The left on the other side of the pass was getting more swell, but was wind affected and shutting down.