Another Door In the Wall

16th – 19th of January 2024

Only two hours from Santiago (unless you’re on a bus), Maitencillo is a popular weekend trip from the city. It’s strung out across two long bays with the usual water-front collection of restaurants and bars. The Humboldt current[1] means the water temperatures is lower than you’d expect, and it also brings with it a cooling breeze, which, despite the strength of the summer sun means evenings can be chilly. After a long, laden walk to my hotel from La Laguna, I head to the beach to take it in – more or less on the latitude of Sydney, with no land in between. Half the globe of nothing but Ocean ahead of me. I’m not here on a geography field trip, though, I’m here for the surfing.

I consider surfing a lot like I do skiing – they’re organised into the same section in the library of my mind. Besides the obvious comparisons, they both provide a yin and a yang.

In Chamonix Mont-Blanc, there is a famous black run that starts from the top of Le Brévent mountain. It’s worth a trip up there for the views alone. To the South, the Aiguille du Midi and behind it, the huge hulking mass of Mont Blanc itself, towering over the valley; to the North, one of my favourite views in the world – unspoilt and uninterrupted Alpine majesty laid out like a carpet of cotton wool as far as you can see. Because it’s a black run, hardly anyone goes up there, which adds to its draw. When I lived there, twenty years ago (Christ), on clear-sky days I’d take myself to the top, duck under the barrier, shuffle along a ridge, sit down with my Comté and tomato baguette, light a Gauloises (sorry Mother) and contemplate life ahead of me. What was going to happen next? What would university be like? Could I ever have a job and not hate it? Would Van Halen ever reform? Would I get Married? If so, what does she look like; I wonder what she’s doing now. Twenty years later, I can still see that view when I close my eyes.

That was the yin. The yang is just as memorable. A gently sloped narrow path, with a sheer drop to the North (which always checks your instinct to continue gawping) snakes around the back of the peak, taking you briefly into icy shade, before dipping down and spitting you out into a huge, sun-drenched bowl, with Mont Blanc instantly towering over you. And steep, too. Terrifyingly steep the first time I saw it. After a few calamitous attempts, I mastered the correct approach: gather enough pace on the exit of the path to carry across the upper part of the bowl; the centrifugal force will keep you on your skis even if you’re close to 90 degrees. Then dip down – dead straight. Hold your line (and your nerve) and the counterforce of the incline at the base of the drop will naturally slow you. The feeling on exit is magical. Hit the road that joins the main blue run back into town with enough pace and you could even clear a few nervous beginners. Repeat until you can’t feel your quads, and then profusely apologise for being late for work.

The peculiar thing about surfing is that even though I don’t have anything like that level of experience or competency (I’m barely more than a beginner), I get more from it. It’s a feeling deeper in the viscera. Just as much joy, but a tranquillity in execution, too. And I don’t think it’s because I like being in the sea; I love being in the mountains just as much. Mastering a mountain feels incredible, but a single wave will never repeat. It’s a mediation; you’re both searching for control and having to let go – accepting the random awesomeness. The yin and the yang are closer together – part of the same motion.

After three days of lessons with my instructor, Tomy, I’m reminded of the importance of making time and space in my life for this pursuit. Tomy is 20 years old, curly-haired with bleached tips and a wonderfully charming energy. He wants to go to Australia, so he helps me with my surfing and I help him with Aussie colloquialisms. He asks me a lot of questions about my life – will I have kids? What will I do next? He has a suggestion for me – set up a school to help young people in the world; there’s too much anger and hate and maybe you could help with that. A wise and thoughtful young man, Tomy – good luck in Australia, pal.

On my last evening, I head out on my own to experience golden hour on the board. Bobbing up and down in the soft light, waiting to catch the right wave; there are seals, pelicans and even penguins all going about their business nearby. Another transcendent experience.

After my bus trauma, I’m taking a taxi the 150kms back to Santiago airport. Miguel tells me all about his young family and their adventures in his sea kayak, and his time living in Thailand and Malaysia. We make considerable time through a mountainous country enveloped with wide expanses of dirt and parched grasses; the occasional poplar or clump of eucalyptus trees break up the brown monotony. After an hour or so, at considerable motorway pace, this gives way to a sea of cultivated Avocado trees at the base of the valley, on either side of the river plain. Miguel is a Phil Collins fan, so the soundtrack is excellent.

From there it’s a four hour flight south to Punta Arenas. Comfortably the farthest south I’ll have ever been, and the starting point of an 11 day trek in Patagonia.

[1] The cold water current that flows up from the South and – along with the Andes to the East gives Chile its dry flat lands, and in particular ensures that the Atacama desert is the driest place on earth.