I look out the tiny oval window at the circuit board of lights below. Millions of yellow dots twinkling in the night. We bank to the left, and my seat shoots to the upright position. I try to close my eyes again but they burn too much. I’m also deaf. Between the 24 hours of surf time within three days and a quick 15,000-foot decent, my ears are completely clogged. The old woman next to me is talking to me but I can’t hear a thing. It’s late. I’m exhausted. I’m dreading the fact that we still have a two-hour drive home, on top of the hour or so it will take us to get our boards, clear customs, shuttle to the car, pack it up, and get the hell out of L.A. I’m rashed, sore, burnt, and beat. All I want to do is be home. No wait… all I want to do is go back; back to my Concha Huita. 

Of course everyone jumps up the second the plane comes to a stop, only to stand impatiently for endless minutes before disembarking. I’m in no hurry. My mind is elsewhere. I reflect on the morning. Six hours of water time, pre-dawn paddle out, and glassy, perfect right-handers hugging the palm lined point. Passing up perfect wave after perfect wave just to get out the back and get a bomb. I make it out to the tip of the point, where the sets cap. I only have time to sit for a second, take a deep breath, roll my head and then spin around. I fade deep near the rocks, bottom turn, crank one off the top, tail comes a little loose, pivot off my back hand, another bottom turn, another hook, fade again, back to the top, getting more and more confident as the wave wraps down the point, more and more critical on each turn. I feel invincible. I feel like I have the place completely figured out. I surf for hours, trying to push each turn more than the last. You can only surf as rhythmic as the waves allow and this place swung on a perfectly balanced pendulum. Nobody was falling. Everyone was glued to his board. I get one more. The van is waiting to take us to the airport. On my way in, I look out the back. I wave goodbye to Concha Huita with a tear in my eye. As I walk up the scorching sand, a small gathering of locals yells from the shade, “No te vaya, hombre. No te vaya.” “Don’t go!” I don’t want to go. I have to. If I stay, Concha Huita will keep me forever. 

The beginning…

Seven days ago, the crew met at gate 23 at LAX. A midnight red eye meant we would be waking up on the ground in a mysterious country marred by political instability, economic collapse, guerilla ambushes, and a civil war, which ended less than 15 years ago. We were all a bit dazed by the late hour, the anticipation, and the omnipresent anxiety associated with traveling. Most of us were acquaintances or knew each other well. The group consisted of Boogie Nights co-organizer and Coronado surfer Peter Cuffarro, 17-year-old Hunter Lysaught from La Jolla, Dan “Double D’s” Dowden, Carlsbad pro Adam Knox, Peter’s hometown buddy Rory Moore, photographer Sean Rowland and myself. We knew little of what to expect from our destination. That is the beauty of a surf trip to a place off the radar. And the curiosity, anxiety, and anticipation combine to keep you up all night. 

Wavehunters had organized our trip. The research I did on our destination and the information Wavehunters provided made me confident that we would be in good hands, surfing good waves, eating good food, and well taken care of. The trip seemed it would lack the adventure involved in other trips I have taken: renting a car and driving in a strange land, navigating off of outdated maps or trying to find bus routes that don’t link up, finding accommodations convenient to the waves, finding the waves, and the vulnerability of traveling with all your gear on your shoulders, which, if lost, could turn a dream trip into a nightmare. No. Not this time. This time we were sorted, and although I’d be missing the adventure I loved so much, I could not complain. This would be a surf trip minus the hassle…which made for a lot more surfing time. 

It was ultra-difficult to get any shuteye on the cramped flight. Of course I didn’t bring any type of hoody or jacket to rest my head on, no blankets or pillows were distributed, and although we all secretly poked fun at Knox’s airplane neck support pillow, we were extremely jealous when we saw he had something to rest his head on. 

We flew through the night. Over dark deserts and jungles, we crept our way south, unbeknownst to the creeping, crawling jungle creatures far below. I managed to fall asleep for a bit. When I awoke, and slid open the window shade, a piercing sun illuminated my face. I looked out upon morning in a strange land. We were immediately above the coastline where rolling sets were unloading on a long, empty beach break. I could almost see the water steaming as it rushed up the dark sand that buffered the jungle from the sea. 

Customs went uneventful. Our luggage arrived and our transport was waiting for us outside the terminal, thanks to the trustworthy organizers at Wavehunters. Fortunately, there were no mishaps on arrival. As we stacked the five board bags (three to five boards in each) on top of the van in the thick, humid, hot air that hung like a velvet blanket, our anticipation to surf swelled. We had to commute two hours to get to what was to be our home for the next six days, and when we got there, a sleeping Concha Huita was waiting.

First date

Two-foot, crossed-up waves dribbled against the point. We were absolutely starved after a travel itinerary that deprived us of dinner and breakfast, so we sucked down the first meal included with the accommodations. There was not a second to waist. Despite the sleep deprivation and pitiful conditions, we were out there. It was a forced surf, mostly to get the travel grime off our skin. The water was as steamy warm as it looked. There was not even a nip of chill. Despite the exhaustion associated with such relentless heat, surfing such water has to be one of the best feelings. You feel permeable as you paddle through it. You tire quick, but when you sit out the back awaiting the bomb, a revelation occurs: surfing in warm water is so much more enjoyable than cold water because you can wait and wait and wait, pass up five medium sets and then spin around for the biggest wave of the day, drop in, and be looser than you were before. If you sit for a half-hour at San Miguel in the winter time and go on the bomb, your first bottom turn will catch more water off the inside rail than you planned, you get caught behind the section, and blow it because you were cold. But in the tropics, you could spend the night in ankle deep water and still need a fan.

The perks were becoming apparent: amazing and ample feasts, water as warm as a hot bath, nice clean air conditioned rooms all which had a view of the sleeping beauty between bent palms. I was to share a room with Hunter, which we quickly nabbed because the others had a flight of stairs, air conditioning cranked down to about 55 degrees, and five snoring, drooling mugs to look at in the morning. Hunter and I made off pretty well. I think we all felt relief to be able to settle in a nicely chilled room, maybe a little reading time and a movie, full stomachs and finally some proper sleep. I smiled in comfort, flicked off the light, and took a look at my watch; it was 7:45 p.m.

She has sisters

I thought it would be hard waking up as early as we planned. It actually got easier as the days went, not to mention more worth our while, as the swell just got bigger and better. At 5:15 a.m. the boat was ready. We were eager to see what was around the point. It was a team effort to launch the boat through the rolling beach break. A coordinated task of pushing and pulling and keeping the little thing from capsizing as too many of us scrambled up one side. Fortunately, we got a system down on the smaller days in the beginning. By day six, when the swell was absolutely pumping, we had the process pretty wired. 

We skated out of the bay and passed the first good set we had seen out front. The only guy out dropped in on the first wave half way down the point, got about seven turns in and then proned into the beach. We watched the rest of the set unload off the rocks. We all looked at each other and without words asked, “how was that set?” They were by far the most perfect waves I have ever turned my back on and everyone else agreed. From that point on we knew we were in store for something good. 

As we rounded Concha Huita, miles of point break riddled jungle coastline laid out before us. None were really doing what they potentially do according to Antonio, our captain and guide for these daily excursions. Twenty minutes later Antonio cut the engine and we floated up to a boulder point. A huge, gnarled, dead tree lay on its side. A couple of white horses grazed on the patchy grasses that covered the red earth. Knox did a front summersault off the boat and Dan was right in after him. I guzzled some water and was out there too. The wave is thick and powerful and its tube potential was apparent. This day we were just racing, linking turns, an odd air here and there, just feeling the place out. We all got our share, called it a morning, and headed back to camp. 

Upon arrival and getting the boat back up the beach, we were greeted with a brunch buffet of epic proportions. We filled up quickly, and it was time for some air conditioning, surf vids, and a rest. We needed it, because later in the trip, there would be no resting. 

The Bros

On any surf trip where another “crew” is present, there are always a few stares, reluctant “what’s ups’,” and muffled “f*cks’” when somebody from the other “crew” gets a good one and you were next in line. The “Bros,” as they accordingly called themselves, were probably pretty pissed when the “Pros,” as they called us, showed up at their one-week-a-year paid vacation. Early on, we shared some decent waves up the coast from Concha Huita and the bros were contenders in the lineup, impressing the pros on a few. They turned out to be a nice lot of old high school buddies who make la Concha an annual visit. They were a good crew that meshed well with ours when the waves were cooking. 

Knox gives advice

The only positive thing about being the youngest guy on a trip is that you are surrounded by possible mentors. I remember traveling as the youngest surfer on the trip and I dissected everything my elders said. Despite the dead arms and bitch chores, I respected my seniors and learned from them. I’m sure Hunter felt the same way on this trip. 

His dilemma was being the only goofy footer in a land of rights. Us regular footers had little trouble getting our timing and flow down in the racey, spinning point break waves. Hunter, on the other hand, couldn’t quite get up to the lip soon enough or late enough and was just off on his crack attempts. 

One evening we walked into the nearby town of “El Cuco” to take a few pictures, have a beer or three, and experience a bit of local tradition and culture. After so much surfing, it didn’t take much to get a little buzz going and we all started critiquing each other’s surfing. Knox explained to Hunter the reason for his mistimed maneuvers and, though we hoped it would cure him, none of us thought it would work.

The next morning we surfed two different spots absolutely cranking. The boulder point, a 20-minute boat ride away, was stacking across the point, barreling the whole way -- every time. If there were challenging conditions for Hunter, it would be this. But instead of getting clipped, he was belting it blind, tossing foamy madness off the top of each turn, and then launching and rotating off the closeout on the inside. Whatever Knox told him worked. And the grom’s backhand got as wicked as any.

The marathon

The days ticked away, the waves got even better, our sessions got longer and all of our surfing got better. But time was of the essence. With only a few days left we felt it necessary to maximize every second of the day. Four days in a row we were up at 5 a.m., in the boat by 5:30 a.m., finished at one spot by 9 a.m., breakfast by 10 a.m., and back in the water by 10:30 a.m. My program from there on included nothing but surfing, and falling in love with Concha Huita.

For four days I didn’t leave Concha’s side for eight-hour periods except for 15-minute soda and sunscreen breaks. Those were the best sodas I have ever had in my life. After my morning three-hour surf and another five hours out front, my tongue would be marinated with salt, my throat near swollen shut, and my eyes unable to look in any direction but straight ahead. That soda would trickle down my parched throat like water from the Holy Grail. I’d reapply the Coppertone 50 and I was back out until dark. I overlapped sessions by the bros, hooted when I’d see one of the boys paddling out by the rocks, and maximized each wave I took.

Although the waves were flawless and the crowd was nil, the quirks of Concha Huita became apparent. As you paddle back out, kamikaze sardines that, one by one, ram the side of your legs instantly greet you. It is more annoying than scary when you feel the slimy little fish squirm against your thigh or go for shelter between your legs. You have to kick frantically for sometime to rid yourself of the little bastards. It’s hilarious to watch somebody paddle out and squeal like a little girl and then kick for their life, all because of a tiny, stupid fish. 

Another fault, one that I had to accept as a way of life with Concha Huita, are the biting, pinching and stinging creatures that thrive in the steamy waters. On the last full day, just after fighting a sardine for 10 minutes, I placed my hand straight into fire and a live electrical current at the same time. I grunted, cursed and clenched my teeth. The sea lice that get in your shorts and nip at your extremities can be easily mistaken with a jellyfish sting until you get stung. The sting began to welt on my arm. But I had to cope. Despite the burning, singing pain, I put my head down and kept trucking. I wasn’t going to let a brainless, spineless, little sea creature ruin my surf. I had nine hours of daylight left with Concha Huita and I wasn’t going to let one minute go to waste.

And so we surfed and surfed and surfed. By the time I got into the van bound for the airport, the skin covering my ribs was completely scabbed, I couldn’t close my eyes and I couldn’t raise my arms above my head. Concha Huita had completely wore me out. We were all going home to different jobs, different homes and different lives although we had shared the same primal existence for the past seven days. Eat. Sleep. Surf. No complexities, no obligations. Our minds were jaded, and la Concha, her sisters, and the friends who cared for her captured our hearts. I promised the local community I wouldn’t say where it was. And it doesn’t matter. There are places like Concha Huita all over the world. It is not a place, rather a state of mind. The culture, company, elements and natural perfection made this trip so amazing. I am sure we will all see Concha Huita again.

Pete’s quotes: 

Sean – “Even when we were sitting at lunch, Sean was talking about getting back out in the water to get more shots.”

Zack – “Every morning at 5am Zack would come into our room and in a high pitched voice say, ‘Puntos Mangoes!’”

Dan – “I don’t know if Dan liked the AC in our room or the perfect right point break out in front of our hotel better.”

Hunter – “Hunter reminded me of the first time I went on a surf trip when all of the older guys picked on you one minute and helped you the next.”

Rory – “All I remember of Rory on this trip is he saying, ‘I just want to go down the line really, really fast and turn.’” 

Pete – “If my chick was there, I would have never left.”