Rule 37 of surfing: Not all surf trips go to plan.
The further away you are from civilisation, the more this rule applies.
Of course it helps if you either a) had a plan in the first place, or b) knew someone that had any idea what the plan was.
When you are bobbing around on a boat in the Indian Ocean, within spitting distance of the equator, you are far from civilisation. The nearest settlement, featuring basic facilities, is somewhere in Australia, India or some war-torn bit of rubble in East Africa.
This far out, the rule is law.
Go South, young man…
It’s always nice to go somewhere that’s far away, and then go that little bit further. The Southern Atolls of the Maldives are just such a place. Removed geographically and economically from the ‘Hilton Bling’ of the Northern Atolls, the south has no hotels, no luxury spa-resorts, no Club Med’s and no pasty white, honeymooning tourists going a deeper shade of red. In fact the Southern Atolls are a whole different ball game: prettier, emptier and host to better waves and superior weather.
Arriving in the Maldivian capital of Male by air is always a terrifying experience, but only if you have a window seat. The way the ocean rushes up to meet the plane, until you can see individual coral heads and scarpering fish, to be replaced a microsecond before impact by the reclaimed strip of land they call an airstrip is an experience that will make even the most relaxed person clench their clenching bits.
Normally once you’ve been through this trauma you can calm down, as you know that after the impressively overstaffed customs are finally negotiated, it’s only an hour between you and a large colourful drink with an umbrella in it.
If you are doing the normal thing…
We weren’t.
Not only were we not doing the normal thing, we were not doing the normal thing on an unprecedented scale. For this covert little mission ‘down South’ the crew consisted of O’Neill surfers Sam Lamiroy, Justin Mujica and Jarrod Howse; photog’s Billy Morris and Greg Rabejac; journo’s Dirk (Surfers-Germany), Julian (Surf Session), Mike (Adrenalin); a TV crew of three; water filming legend Larry Haynes; Big J the O’Neill combat accountant and myself.
Now that’s a fairly impressive list for any trip. But when you consider how much luggage a smattering of pro surfers, photographers and TV dudes need it gets scary. Especially when the photogs and TV dudes that brought loads of equipment just happened to bring their boards as well… Problem being: to get to the Southern Atolls involves another flight, on a very small twin prop plane, that is normally used by little ladies to do shopping trips to the capital, with a luggage capacity akin to small Renault van.
When we checked in for our flight to Kadahadahoovoo (or something like that, buggered if I can remember how it was spelt) each and everyone of us had to stand on the baggage scales. For the surfers, with nothing heavier than an iPod and wax comb in their carry-on bags, this was no biggy. For the photogs and TV dudes, who as a matter of course fill their ‘7kg limit’ carry-on bags with 25kgs of camera gear, it was a little embarrassing.
But thanks to an overwhelming desire to get our ramshackle mob out of their departure hall we got waved through.
The plane ended up with luggage loaded inside the passenger compartment as well as the hold. How we ever took off is a mystery that physics is yet to explain.
A few hours later we were sat in the sunshine outside the Kadahadahoovoo International Airport; it’s not the biggest of places. One tin-roofed building with two rooms, a staff of three, one check in desk, one cart to move luggage, goats grazing at the side of the runway, palm trees as far as the eye can see, that tropical/rustic kinda charm. Did the trick though, we amassed our luggage and headed for the boats parked just down the road. It was at this point the travel stress evaporated. Hop on board, find a bunk, dump your bags, grab some boardies and fling yourself into the Indian Ocean. Nothing better to clean off the grime of international air travel than a belly-flop from the top of a Maldivian skiff.
Life on the open sea…
There’s something indescribably exciting about leaving port on a boat for the unknown. None of us had the vaguest idea where even Kadahadahoovoo was, except that it’s an hour and a bits plane ride, in a general southerly direction, from Male. Scoping the maps was useless because there was a Kadahadahoovoo, a Kadahahoovoo and a Kadahadahadaoovoo and so we didn’t know which one we leaving from and we didn’t know where we going anyway. Which is kinda cool. So we agreed to not bother looking at the map and got on with feeling lost. It’s the first trip in fifteen years of surf tripping that I’ve not known where I was. The crew gave us sarnies, chips and a cuppatee and opened up the throttle to max power… A steady 6mph. We were off, heading straight for the equator, at a brisk walking pace; hopefully some good waves were in store.
Don’t say that damn word…
If there’s one word that haunts many surf trips it’s ‘potential’.
“It’s got potential,” is a surfers polite way of saying “ It is, in fact, utter shite; but with a higher tide, different direction swell/wind and a few thousand more years of erosion this reef may throw up a reasonable wave.”
The Southern Atolls could easily be renamed ‘Potential Land’. There are so many little islands, each with perfectly foiled reef passes, each home to a potential world-class left and right. Given the right conditions. The first waves we checked had swell but dodgy winds, the next had good winds, but no swell, and the final stop on our days pedestrian chugging was a wave with good winds, a fun little swell, but no water, well, the tide was dead low and the reef was sticking out all over the shop.
Good waves indeed…
Our first full day out in the big blue was a belter. After a breakfast fit for kings we tootled along to a grinding righthander where everything was as it should be. The session was indeed, as they say, ‘on’. Sam, Justin and Jarrod went bonkers on the shallow right and the attendant photographic/televisual department frothed as only they know how. With tubes aplenty under their belts from a morning and spectacular evening session the boys were stoked, the media crew were on the beers in celebration and we were all very happy to be in the middle of nowhere.
That damned Conch…
Seamen the world over are a salty and superstitious bunch: An albatross landing on your boat is considered good luck, killing the bugger because you need some variation from a fish-based diet is very bad luck. Women on board are bad luck, and anger the gods, unless they are naked in which case they can calm stormy seas (which is why ships in the old days had a carved bint showing off her hooters at the bow) and you should always step onto deck right foot forward.
In each ocean the lore is subtly different. In the Pacific, Hawaii for example (here’s some film style plot foreshadowing: Good old Larry Haynes, the water filming dude, is from Hawaii), catching and eating large conch shells is the done thing. The meat is mighty tasty, they’re not exactly hard to catch (top speed of your average conch is about one mile per year…) and you get a free musical instrument/mantelpiece ornament once you’ve eaten the squashy bit.
In the Indian Ocean, the Maldives perhaps, catching a conch is deemed really, like really, bad luck. Catching one is bad, catching and eating a conch is the trigger for Beelzebub and all his little pikey mates to kick off Armageddon. Suffice to say it ain’t the done thing.
You can see where this is going can’t you?
Good old Larry, Laz to the boys, is an old style waterman, built tough, North Shore proven and hard as nails. He is the life and soul of any party and is also an excellent free-diver. He is from Hawaii. He like’s to eat the conch.
Second day Laz caught a ruddy big conch. He was keen for some eatin’. The Maldivian crew thought otherwise. “Bad luck, very bad luck, no eating, you must put back.”
Their vibe was obvious and the affable, good-natured Larry obliged, returning the gigantic snot-beast to the deep. Not before someone tried to blow it… With the beast still in its shell, there wasn’t a note to be heard.
Within minutes the unbroken blue sky we’d be enjoying until that point hazed over, a gust of wind whipped through the rigging and the first tendrils of a storm crept over the horizon.
Somewhere, in the deep below us, a rusty door began creaking.
Davey Jones locker beckons…
Things started going wrong. Mike slipped on deck (his own fault for leading with his left foot) and strained some groinage. The TV guys managed to drop an expensive bit of a kit in the briney, the big lens they hadn’t even used was suddenly found to be knackered and they only avoided losing a whole, very expensive, TV betacam and tripod over the side thanks to Lamiroys cat-like reflexes. Even the beer was getting unlucky, it was either warm or had turned to ice.
As night drew in we retired to bed, a little spooked.
Around eleven that night the storm that had been lurking on the horizon decided to pay us a visit. If you’ve not experienced one then know this: Tropical storms do not piss about.
It went from a warm, still evening to monsoon apocalypse quicker than I could say: “batten down the hatches midshipman!” and with the ocean transformed from millpond to a washing machine, the boat began to rock like a demented weeble on acid. Now this is not a problem, unless your boat is moored next to another boat, like ours was. Compounding the danger of having two wooden boats bashing together in rough seas, the other boat lost its anchor. Cue much running around, shouting, waving of hands in the air, ropes going twang and general wondering if we were going to see the morning. It’s impossible to sleep on a boat in a storm, especially one that is surrounded by shallow reefs, in the pitch-blackness, in the middle of nowhere, with a lot of people shouting in a manner that doesn’t exactly fill you with confidence. It appeared that this was a situation that the crews hadn’t encountered before.
I found my swimfins, mentally noted the location of the nearest island and sat on deck in the torrential rain waiting for the worst. I’ve never been on a boat that sank, now seemed a good a time as any to try it out.
Four hours later, I was in the same position. There was nothing we could do to help, except put our faith in the crew and finish off the properly chilled beers. After a damp eternity the boats were separated and we motored off to find some shelter.
The calm after the storm…
The next morning we stopped into a nearby village and the locals asked us ‘if we slept last night?’ We said ‘not really, why?’ And they said ‘that storm last night, was the worst we’ve had in these parts in years…’ The way the wizened old dude arched his eyebrows when he said it suggested he knew someone had been blowing hot air up a conch’s ass.
Plan B…
And that was about it. We were done. The surf sucked balls from that point on. Most nights we got a minor beating from a storm, or three, and the days were spent, reading, catching up on the sleep missed due to the storms and eating far too much food. It rained a lot too.
A feck off big fish…
At least we had the fishing. In the Southern Maldives it’s as simple as tossing a handline off the back of the boat and voila you’ve caught a fish. If you have to wait more than a few minutes then you’re a useless fisherman. J, the O’Neill fixer, and I are the worst fishermen in the world. We caught nothing. Nada. Not even an old boot or a shopping trolley. Everyone else would get bored after five minutes of catching different tunas and lord knows what other flavours of fish. We fished for hours and caught nothing more than mild case of RSI. Of course, as with surfing, there is certain element of competition in fishing. It was fairly good natured contest between the boats with some good size beasts being caught and the lead switching from boat to boat daily, but then Jarrad had to go and spoil it. A 45kg Sailfish kinda does that. It’s the kinda game fish that rich dudes pray for and he caught the thing on a handline that he’d literally just tossed off the back of the boat. We urged our ringer, Basque fisherman extraordinaire Greg Rabejac, to bring us back the lead but we only had one morning left…
Endings, beginnings and rumblings…
After a week at sea, one day of surf and more fishing than is really healthy we returned to port. Greg nearly brought it home at the last minute with a whopping wahoo, it was a bloody big fish, but Jarrad held on to his title of Overlord and King of Fishing for the next year at least.
We didn’t get a heap of surf, but the waves we got were great. The Southern Atolls are a great trip, surf or not: Good fishing, unreal food, heaps of potential and some real kickass storms. Which, believe it or not, were kinda fun.
Just remember: Don’t bother the conch.
