rites of summer * soul retrieval

Kevin Naughton in Central America * photo Craig Peterson

Fast upon our midsummer’s moon, post the Aquarius full thunder buck (sunset blood) moon lunar eclipse, and with mercury ‘n mars in retrograde, we are well into the season of one of our most celebrated and hallowed rites of summer – the surf trip. Stereotypically, our encounter culture surf tribe is best known for its search for the perfect wave and for whereverupon that may take us, albeit truth be told what we are really on surfari for, is a return to soul and to get closer to it, and as ‘tis more oft than not more about the journey and not always so much (just about) the destination. Live 2 surf, surf 2 live.

1973 Surfer magazine cover shot of Petacalco * photo Craig Peterson

Whether we are on a rickety two prop plane to Natividad, with goats and live chickens in the back and with window and/or door wide open, or scurrying under our hotel bed for protection in La Libertad as civil war bombs drop not too very far away, not to mention having to race the local banditos to water’s edge, we are (truly) out of our element, if not (completely) outta our tree. The soul surfer is on surfari as “only a surfer knows the feeling,” and in knowing that “surfing is good direction.” Well armed with tea tree oil, duct tape, fishing line and Skin So Soft from my local Avon lady, I am into the wild unknown.

surf hunt of the Ancient Mariner * photo Craig Peterson

On my first trip alone internationally I found myself in search of some semi mysto spot called “Ollie’s Point,” best reached by sea, albeit I was doing my best to get their by land, or at least for a look see. Before long I found myself two hours off the nearest paved road and eye 2 eye with the local end of the road National Geographic cover shot family, with darkness falling and nothing but the calmest of bay views before me. Turning around with my rental car suspension rod/cable barely hanging on I was eyes glued to the road to avoid hitting any rocks or the like that would put me out of commission. Unfortunately I neglected to see that I had failed to account for the drainage ditch to the side of the road and soon found myself and said car belly flush to the ground, with the car not budging an inch.

muddy Mexico jungle road w/no round trip guarantee * photo Craig Peterson

With mozzies coming on and calm receding in direct proportion to the such, I heard the faint sound of what turned out to be a ramshackle jalopy milk truck looking like vehicle coming my way. After flagging it down they offered to help but only after they dropped off the concrete in the back of the wagon. I was having nothing to do with waiting on my own, so they let me hop in the back to join them. Not a second later this imitation of a truck made a left down a slope that if snow covered woulda been black diamond rated. And how we made it back up with a full load of humans and then a load of bananas in addition, was a near ancient miracle. And lest there was any surprise, the all of them and myself hauled my rental back on the road, and I was off, but not without an escort for the entire trip back to town. Twenty dollars later and a most heartfelt thank you, I had my first taste of Captain Zero in Costa Rica.

waiting on a West African wing 'n a prayer * photo Craig Peterson

Once upon another time we were down to Ixtapa Zihuatanejo for a surf trip and this time accompanied by a race car mechanic. For the above account I had forgotten about the hanging suspension cable and called the rental car company in Costa Rica to offer to pay for the repairs, and the guy just chuckled and said everyone returns the car like that and not to worry. This time the rental car company was not so fortunate, as our pit crew professional in tow could fix most anything, given he had the necessary duct tape, bondo and nearest leftover tin soup can from the night before. With him at the wheel the off road to Rio Nexpa seemed like demolition derby, and with the rocky bypass winning most every time. And unfortunately don’t think the any of us in tow had the decency to call any car rental company this time.

Santa Cruz longhair Jeff w/local friend * photo Craig Peterson

The stories are endless. Mexico with roadside federales (or perhaps not), with automatic weapon in one hand and bottle of tequila in the other; surfing Tofino and where one of the brothers Bruhwiler couldn’t help himself in letting me know that my (rental) wetsuit was turned inside out 😊, and visiting Panama after my friend assured me that Central America was safe to visit, and then exhorting that I couldn’t leave the hotel lobby, for which I found out after the fact, was due to an anti US rally. There was surfing Lacerations on Nusa Lembongan where I wasn’t quite sure why I was the only one left on the water as unbeknownst to me the tide was dropping and fast, and cause for what was an ill fated, right hander a-bomb of a wave, that blew me up and the booty off my right foot, and causing just that (lacerations) and keeping me out of the water for the next week. In hindsight it prolly saved me from an afternoon surf at Razor(Blade)s, of which my fate could perhaps have been worse ?? In Peru my pal Juan Carlos Lombardi was nice enough to drive me from his home in Miraflores/Lima every day to Playa Hermosa/Punta Rocas, and then set me up with a hotel in Cuzco/Machu Picchu, save for telling me about not eating too much when first arriving at altitude, of which I promptly fell into the hotel’s buffet dinner, and which left me virtually chained to the el bano for the next 24 hours straight. And one of my faves and back to Isla de Natividad, where on the last (surf) session of the trip, lunch time came and about half our lot decided to get out of the water and make it up to the house for what had been a great fare of lobster, rice, beans and the local fixins only to find out that very dry tuna and their umpteenth serving of rice and beans was a less than memorable last supper, and where we scored near absolute perfection on the outgoing tidal shift. And as it turns out our personal leftovers tasted pretty darn good after holding out as we did.

Eric Penny at Petacalco * photo Craig Peterson

surfari * twenty one * surfer tarot

The water family is an international tribe. We are a surf frontiersmen, on pilgrimage to paradise, to the holy lands of our surf meccas. From beach Babylon to beach haven, we enjoy a solidarity with other surfers, other peoples, and their music, food, and culture, and lands. Destination surf takes us from town, and to country, gaining us new reference points, on waves, on land, and with others. The surf pioneers were first to inform their local beach cooperatives. The surfer now knows what she wants. As beach bedouin, she is surf troubador, gypsy and quixote, weaving her surfer tapestry as mandala mosaic, within her surfer collective. On surfabout, she keeps to her surfbeat. As ocean earthwalker and surfrider she is home on the wave range where her buffalo surfers roam. Her surf hunt is the search. Have board and Kombi van, and will travel. The alchemy of surf travel spins a reality heightened by imagination and relocation. As ocean’s offspring, we follow the endless waves of summer. The wavehunter has a knack. Like a grain of sand yielding to the currents of life, we meet up with our fellow waterwomen, watermen and water spirits of our Water Planet, on surfari. The surf trip is symbolic of the real journey to come.

Destination Now by Autumn Skye Morrison

Inward and outward bound, we set out to experience life for ourselves. On surf odyssey we depend upon an innate sense of a built in compass, to wander in purity of spirit, in flow, and under the affirmation of life in its entirety. We take the step towards becoming who we are. Serendipity invites a renewal of spirit, to seek out the undiscovered, the uncrowded, and to touch upon our wholeness. As free spirits and independent thinkers, we gain composition and choose second thoughts of our own, and are less traveling prophet than wayfarer. I am the nowhere man, now here. From penthouse to outhouse, and from first world to third, we are not bound by creed nor color, nor do we abhor coming upon remote outpost at the ends of the earth. We find magic and life changing experience in our fields of dreams, coastal pantheons naturally built to suit. As multi-cultural musician and storyteller, mystical experience is forever shared, with both the common and uncommon cherished, as it may come and go, or ebb and flow. Our travelogue is of a cosmic timelessness, full of vagabond idylls, and stories of serendipitous fun and adventure. We are a nomadic tribe, unbound by border crossings, as it is indeed, “a small world after all.”

Durban, South Africa by Remi Bertoche

And while there is “no place like home… on the road” is a way of life for some. Vestige for a nomadic counterculture of holdouts who are no longer accountable to, or responsible for their original, homemade conditioning, and yet can’t get out from under their dereliction of worldly obligation, these crustaceous souls are still lookin’ to hole up, only forestalling the inevitable, and going nowhere. Unprepared and despite endless complications, they’re “out there.” Feeling crusty, “Scruffy the surfcat,” can’t stop the itch. With plans premature and passport expired, he is soon broken down with missed carriage, on a “bad trip” as he makes his “escape.” Soon hoodwinked and with plans now aborted, he is bogged down and not there yet. He took too many things and is unable to engage. We always are take, take, take. An accumulation of possessions can weigh you down. Afraid of the unknown, our driving and compromising contributes to the greenhouse effect. At first overplanned, we are insulated against coincidence, but conditions change and we become locked in and no longer committed. We are a parafin paradox.

Pisco, the surfing alpaca by Patty Sjolin

Ain’t life grand? Surfing is the time of your life. It’s the best trip ever. Leave the chaos behind. Be at one with all things. We’re all in this together. Harmonize. Keep things flowing. Tap into the cosmic flow. Trust in life. Everything falls together. Life happens. Make it work. Instead of being pulled in all directions, pull it together. Connect to our ocean and earth. Mirror land and sea. Deepen your connection to life. Find your place. Where else is there? Check out your roots. Interdependent and resplendent, you are the seeds of a new culture. Take care of the animals, that way our land stays intact. Stay close to the ocean. Get some distance from your problems. Expand your horizons. Get the big picture. Be creative with what you have… fishing line, old friends, etc. Apply yourself, whether alone or in a group. Remove your conditioning, if not your clothes. Don’t be afraid to adjust, whether mid-face or midtrip. Change direction. And start with yourself. Be quixotic. Go away and come back to start anew. Embark. Some ol’ ethno exotica will stimulate and romance new erotica from within. We give a little, to get some. You get out of life what you put in. Reciprocate. It’s only natural. Learn what’s sacred. Make offerings. Remember to make each place better than when you arrived, and to give. Share. Surfing has been good to you. We are sharegivers as we go. You are a surfing ambassador. Make contact. Open doors. To find anything, you first must be looking for it. Search without to find beauty within. Beauty comes with age. Be in touch with the whole earth. The ocean is our playground. Tune into gaiatlantis. Get the proverbial answer to your question. My ride is my elixir. Be prepared to go in any direction. As the wanderer, break ranks. Cross over. Live your fantasy. Live every day as a celebration. Rekindle your lost fire and stoke. Learn love for humanity.

Baron by Ichiro Tsutsui