Enchanted Secrets
Our itinerary was delightfully loose. We had quickly abandoned the alleged perfect point, which, in Martin's opinion, didn't live up to its early promise, and set a course down the coast, pointing the Trader's bow toward an area of coastline that, due to the large surface area of Lake Nicaragua and its proximity to the coast enjoys a pressure gradient that provides almost constant offshore wind. Taking to the "tinny" as Daly refers to his tender, we began to examine the coast in earnest, Martin actually rubbing his hands together at the prospect. And for the opportunity to show me, a representative of what he seems to regard as The Great Exploiter, why the Indies Trader has logged almost 80,000 miles in this pursuit-and why both Bruce Raymond and he have insisted in the non-disclosure cause.
"It all about this, right here, this!" Daly said emphatically, as we skipped and planed our way over a sizeable south swell. "We want to inspire surfers to get out there and look for themselves. If we drew a f-kin' map, where would the challenge be?"
Yesterday I may have argued with the skipper. Yesterday I might have answered that plenty of surfers have explored Central America, for example, and in much more difficult circumstances. Not as a chartered privateer, some modern Sir Francis Drake, provided with a royal decree from the sovereignty-in this case the almighty Quiksilver Company-to plunder these water as he pleased. And who didn't have teams of photographers, videographers, web-designers and pro surfers tagging along. And who, simply because all they wanted to do was experience the thrill and not commodify it never had to wrestle with ethical distinction between telling the world what they found, but not telling where. The paradox that colors every SURFRR "travel issue"; the paradox that follows in the wake of the Indies Trader wherever she may sail.
Yesterday I might have. Yesterday morning, maybe. Because late yesterday afternoon, the sun low in the sky, cumulous cloud-citadels towering rosy over the green canopy rising up the slopes of volcan Masaya to the east, I had crawled back into the "tinny" after a long day of surfing a very symmetrical left reef break. Martin followed close behind; I helped stow his board as he readied the outboard for the run back out to the Trader. Our three surfers-Josh, Dylan and Evan-had enjoyed themselves all day, riding the wave, with it's broad wall and tumbling barrel section, with a lot of verve. They had headed back to the Trader in the glare of the late afternoon, leaving the evening session for Martin and me.
The waves, the offshores, the verdant Nicaraguan coastline, the thrill of discovery: it was a fine tableau. Contrived? Well, considering how I got here-and with its operating price of about $2000 a day-that argument could be made. But the smile on Martin's face as he surveyed his latest treasure find convinced me that despite its promotional overtones, this was the sincerest expression of the sort of stoke and inspiration The Crossing hopes to foster. SURFER, too, for that matter.
"Well," grinned Martin. "What do you want to name it?"
And I couldn't help thinking about a particular Nicaraguan legend I had come across, the tale of El Secreto del Encanto: The Enchanted Secret. Native Indians speak of a beautiful crater at the center of an ancient volcano that appears on no map and that only the suitably inspired may find. Within the crater lies a wealth of fabulous flora and fauna, an enchanted garden where visitors are allowed to look, and even eat of its fruit. But should any try to capture even the smallest butterfly, or pick a single flower to take back with them, then the trail home will disappear and they'll be lost forever.
I looked back at the beautiful waves, the lovely coast, then back to Martin.
"Let's just call it fun." I said.
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