Bahia, Brazil

We took a ferry from Salvador to the island, Ilha de Tinhare (don’t bother, there’s no translation) to a secluded little village called, Morro de Sao Paulo (St. Paul’s Mountain). The weather was terrible and the sea was rough.  We weren’t in any danger but Lu and her family were pretty traumatized.  We sat in the stern of the thirty-odd foot catamaran beneath a canopy that was open at the sides.  The passengers on the port side opted to have a canvas flap lowered.  It was a mistake as the enclosure caused a number of them to get seasick.  One poor bastard spent the whole two-hour crossing in the head.  If that wasn’t bad enough, about midway into the trip one of the engines conked out.  The captain powered down and a couple of crewmen scrambled below deck to fix it.  There was a lot of clanking and shouting as we drifted in a hard, hard rain.  Ten minutes later, the guy on deck signaled the captain and, a moment later, the engine fired back to life.

We labored on for another forty-five minutes before we finally spotted land.  The sea calmed as we entered the harbor and soon we pulled up to a narrow, concrete dock and tied off.  A stream of young men in bright yellow tee shirts crowded onto the boat and started asking everyone if they would like help with their luggage.  There are no cars or roads in Morro Sao Paulo, only footpaths.  To get anywhere, you have to walk, and our hotel was a pretty good distance. 

If the strategy of the yellow shirts was to overwhelm and disorient the ferry passengers so they could bilk them for a high fee than they did an excellent job.  I was furious.  The boat ride had been bad enough, but to now have to deal with this flock of pestering sea gulls was too much.  I wanted to hit someone. 

We made it ashore but the chaos continued.  There were people and luggage everywhere.  Lu and her father were having a heated argument with one of the yellow shirts, letting lose, I assumed, about the lack of precaution on the passage over.  The guy was all smiles and island charm but they were having none of it.  In the midst of this our luggage suddenly materialized from below deck and was passed from one yellow shirt to another over the heads of the crowd and finally dumped onto two wheelbarrows and tied down with rope.  (All transport of goods in this town is done via wheelbarrow.)  I clung to my laptop and camera and pushed through the crowd and up the steep, steep landing.  Lu joined me.  Her anger gone she was all laughter and smiles.  The argument with the yellow shirt had not been about the trip over.  Lu and her father had been haggling for a price to have our bags brought to the hotel.

“His starting price was a total rip off,” Lu said.

“Did you get him down?”

“Are you kidding?” she laughed.  “When it’s me and my father together, no one stands a chance.  You should see us at the gem shows.  We’re notorious.”

We followed the wheelbarrows along a soggy sand path through a row of little bars, tour guide offices and souvenir shops.  Between two shops I caught a glimpse of the ocean.  Off an outcropping of rocks a perfect, head-high wave broke right.  A surfer ripped it to shreds.

“Holy shit!” I shouted.  “Lu!  They’ve got surf here!”  I ran ahead to a better vantage.  Four waves came in one after the other.  There were only five guys out. 

When we planned this trip and it had been decided that Lu’s family would join us for this portion, I decided that I wasn’t going to make a big deal about surfing.  If it was easy to make happen, fine.  If not, I wouldn’t push it.  Two days ago, after flying into Salvador, the eight of us drove in a van out of the city to a beautiful whale and sea turtle sanctuary called, Praia do Forte (Fortress Beach).  In between bursts of warm rain and sun, we spent the day swimming, eating (fresh caught and grilled needle nose fish (fried), shrimp, whole fish, and lobster) and going for walks.  On one such walk, Lu and I happened upon a group of guys surfing.  The waves were okay-ish.  I longed to go in, but to make it happen would have been a logistical nightmare.  I needed to rent a board, which meant driving back to town.  Then what to do with the rest of the family while we were gone?  How long would it take?  How would we get the board back when the van was filled with people? Etc.  Still, it felt weird to watch waves and not at least make an effort to go in.  But now, at Morro Sao Paulo, I realized that once we got everyone checked into the pousada, the logistics would become simple: this is your room, that’s the ocean, eat when you’re hungry, sleep when you’re tired. Ciao!

Lu caught up and I told her the plan.  “I’m going surfing.  Right now.”

The guy unloaded the wheelbarrow at the front desk of Pousada da Torre.  The place, built of palm wood and white ceramic tiles, was lovely, and right on the beach.  Along the entry there was a pool, hot tub and sauna on one side and a glassed-in restaurant and bar on the other.  Our room was a slate and thatch roofed bungalow that was all but swallowed by jungle foliage.  Very charming and very private.

“The place is great,” I said, and dropped our bags.  “Let’s go!”

Beneath a palm tree with a poorly painted sign that reads, “Surf School” I rented a 6’ 2” jalopy from a totally drunk guy whose eyes were as red as his sun burn.  Through Lu the guy congratulated me for choosing the board I had.  It was made by a local shaper but to the exact specs of the board Kelly Slater used when he won the Masters.  "It’s the best board we’ve got," he said.  The guy was so blatantly full of shit that Lu and I couldn’t help but laugh.

Lu and the guy agreed on a price (half-day free!), but when we went to pay he told us that the shop was closed and that we should just pay him tomorrow.  We thanked him and started to leave.  As we walked away the guy shouted after us that the shop owner was in the water and that if he gave me a hard time about taking one of his boards, I should just tell him that he, slurred, inaudible name, said it was okay.  I looked at Lu.  “And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” 

It was just before dark when I paddled out.  The water was warm and clean and easily washed away the stress of the day.  The vibe among the surfers was relaxed.  They were all friends and there were waves enough for everyone.  I said hello to a couple of guys and they said hi back.  One asked where I was from and when I told him he said, “Ah! California! Is very nice surfing there.” 

I hung back through the first set.  Three guys took off on as many waves and I paddled out to where they were.  A guy shouted, “Amigo!” and hurriedly paddled over.  He pointed at the board and said something incomprehensible.  The shop owner I presumed.  He seemed pissed.  I smiled, apologized and said that I didn’t understand Portuguese.  He pointed at the board again and repeated what he said.  I pointed towards shore and made like I was drunk.  The shop owner roared with laughter.  He got it.  He gave me the thumbs up and paddled off.  A couple of minutes later, another set came through.  I paddled over the first wave and took the second.