By Morgan Sliff
Last night Cruz spoke about a man. A man who walks forever, day and night, down the road, and never stops — even when onlookers give him water, he walks as he reaches for it.
At 6 a.m. sharp, I popped out of bed and joined in errands with Michael Cruz, Â aka the man of many hats — camp manager, design director, tour guide, bartender, boat captain… The list goes on. While driving down the bumpy Nicaraguan rock and dirt road for some gas to fill up the camp boat for a water launch surf session today, we saw some interesting characters and the roadside littered with schoolchildren waiting to be picked up by buses with their crisp and clean uniforms. The dirt and howling offshore wind makes everything dusty here. Except those bright white uniforms.
The station attendants filled up our barrels as Cruz, who bounces around to five different countries regularly, seems to know everyone no matter where he is. Pulling out of the station I was nearly thrown out of my seat when the tour guide (at the moment) nearly ran off the road — before I knew it a few friendly hitchhikers, Marion and Lorena, were in the van on their way to work at the local hospital. I tried to keep up with their beautifully spoken Spanish and threw in a bit of my own, gringo accent in full force.
Dropping them off at a bus station to continue inland to work, we went on our way and stopped to drop the barrels to Max, our handsome captain with gold teeth, who was with his dad and family. Max was of the sea — his shack by the makeshift docks and salt in the way he spoke – if I saw him away from the water there’s a good chance I’d ping him as a sailor. Â Max and his most likely 90 year old dad lifted the waist high barrels together with a large stick through a piece of rope for support, and away they went.
On the way back we saw him. One of the interesting characters I saw in the road on the way to the station. The man who walks, was still walking. Cruz said “they call him Osama. Some say he is a gypsy walking through purgatory. He never stops. I see him every day, and he never stops.”
A few hours to kill with low tide, Morgan getting antsy for surf, and finally the boat arrived; we paddled from the beach with our bags as the dashing captains loaded up our quiver on the handmade boat racks. A quick shot down the coast took us to a spot called Casitas, where some little waves were waiting to be ridden.
I was on fire. My shoulder, finally all healed up, allowed me to catch quite possibly about 100 waves — some of the best I’ve ever ridden and performed on. Then, possibly on wave 100, I promised Chris Portugal I’d do something silly — a karate move on my board. Â I ran up to the nose, did a funny kick behind me, and big blue spun out and flew in the air, coming down to land on my forehead.
I drifted in to the shore, seeing stars around me, feeling the lump on my forehead getting bigger by the second. Never having had a concussion before, I remember feeling frustrated that I was so confused, and sitting on the beach with Michael asking me questions I could barely respond. They eventually got me back to the boat, back home, and into the hammock, where a recharging nap and a few passing hours helped alleviate some of the dizziness.
I couldn’t help myself though. Come 6 p.m., everyone grabbed their boards, and the call of the sea was stronger than the painful knot on my face. I grabbed big blue, and paddled into the most beautiful sunset sesh. The sky, draped in blue, purple, orange, and red, opened up, and our tan and burned bodies and brightly colored boards shined against the black water. I don’t think we’ll ever forget the sunset at Chicken Bowls that night.
