Enchanted Secrets

But just who, exactly, are the destroyers? The surfers who find the break, the magazines who run the photos, or the surfers who come after? The answer is usually revealed in degrees of privilege. A few privileged surfers get to experience the thrill of discovering a brand-new spot. Even fewer surfers attain the level of privilege-and the wherewithal-to keep looking, one step ahead of the ravening hordes that are sure to come swarming after.

The ultimate privilege lay waiting for me at the end of this jungle track. Our arrival could not have come as more of a surprise. After what seemed like hours in the bush Dylan Graves spoke up for the very first time.

"I can smell the ocean," he declared.

We rolled down the Toyota's windows, the damp heat pouring into the cab. And something else: the smell of saltwater and muddy, bare mangrove roots. Rounding a corner the trees ahead were suffused in a halogen halo-bright lights illuminating a black iron gate that stood out in sharp contrast from the thatched-roof palapas that lined the trail. Through the gate, across a cobblestone-paved driveway and suddenly there was our destination, as if it had been plopped down in its entirety on this forgotten coast by some alien hand, completely formed: an exclusive yacht basin, complete with yacht club and restaurant. And there at the dock, moored next to several well-appointed ocean-going sloops and what looked like some millionaires' motor yacht (a millionaire developer who, in fact, had carved out this little slice of Miami Beach in the middle of nowhere), floated the Indies Trader, resplendent in her red-and-black Polynesian print, wheel-house and deck lights blazing, the smiling Indonesian deck hands standing ready to load and store boardbags.

And here was Martin Daly, sweating in trunks and a t-shirt, looking a thousand times more comfortable than he did back in the SURFER office, smiling broadly at our incredulity.

"Welcome to The Crossing." he said.

Three days later, on a warm, brassy Central American morning, I found myself flying a few feet above the Pacific along the inshore coast of Nicaragua, balancing myself in the Indies Trader's aluminum tender skiff, Daly at the helm. Surfboards and anchor line were piled carelessly in the bow, the bright sunlight and sea spray blowing back from the bow streaming into the open boat. Next to Daly on the steering console was a walkie-talkie; several miles out into the deeper blue, paralleling our course, was the Trader. It occurred to me that this was exactly how an early explorer like Captain James Cook might have charted this coastline over two centuries ago, working his way along the shoreline in the skiff, taking soundings and marking reefs, while his ship the Endeavor cruised safely offshore. But here today was Martin Daly, completely in his element, eager to talk about The Crossing's mission; its essence.

"This is what it's all about, mate," he beamed, one eye on approaching swells, the other always cocked toward shore, looking for any vagary in form that, from our outside vantage point, might indicate a rideable wave. And it was easy to believe. As conceived by Captain Daly and project director Bruce Raymond, this really was what it was all about: a chartered exploration of the world's coastlines, looking for new surf spots. A barefoot exploration, face wet with spray and stoke. The photos and movies, the Explorations specialty magazine devoted entirely to the project, the websites and media tie-ins, the stickers and t-shirts: all secondary to this feeling, this moment, and the vision of this man and his motivation.