War and Peace on the Cape Peninsula
by Leanne Cameron
posted 2008-10-05
Gathered despite the morning chill, two dozen spectators standing on the shoulder of the Sentinel had an eagle-eye over the proceedings below: a wash of white water, nothing more than a lacy tablecloth over an angry blue, crashed endlessly toward the shore. From the mountain, the waves that roll in heavy sets from the cold Antarctic were merely flat vibrations on the top of the water. Strangers huddled together, in hoodies and wool blankets, with binoculars glued to the scene so that they could see the grin on their homegrown hell-raiser, Jason Ribbink, representing Durban’s elite in the first heat. All I could see was a black dot darting across the water followed by a jet stream that was quickly swallowed by the fringe of white surf. Red Bull Big Wave Africa, a surfing contest for the clinically insane, was in full swing.
Photo courtesy of Leanne Cameron
The Dungeons at Hout Bay on the Cape Peninsula is no Hawaiian Pipeline: there is no convenient shore to plant a chair and knock back a cold one while the professionals put on a show. Spectators have two options: pay for a spot on a boat to get closest to the action, or watch for free from high above on Sentinel Ridge. The massive Sentinel, a towering point that stands guard above the monstrous waves, separates the quaint wharf village of Houtbaai from the waves that batter the Dungeon, a low-lying reef. The swells cross the Atlantic and sweep toward the southwestern tip of South Africa, just to slam heavy into the sea bottom at the reef. The cold water bombards Dungeons head on, then rears back into twenty-foot rollers to form an all-out assault at anything that lies ahead. These are some of the meanest waves on the African continent, and a choice offering of the Big Wave Fraternity are the only men crazy enough to battle them.
I came with my Dutch friend Deborah to South Africa to learn how to surf and ended up watching eighteen professionals battle the dark forces with skill and grace. Our quest took us to Muizenberg, a town thirty minutes by train from central Cape Town. Muizenberg is set on a soft curve of sand littered with beach huts left over from a time when the rich English came to bathe in the bay. The water that laps up onto the shore is not the bone-chilling variety found on the western side of the Peninsula; instead of Antarctic temperatures, the warm Agulhas Current from Mozambique keeps the water at a bearable 57-68° Fahrenheit. Sure, the bay has strong currents and sharks along with warm beaches, but South Africans swear that this crescent along the northern shore of False Bay is the place to learn to surf. Behind the iconic Victorian dressing huts rises the backside of Table Mountain, often capped in a monk’s tonsure of impenetrable white fog, and the peak for which the town is named, Muizenberg Mountain. The paddle-out was painful, but the scenery visible from the bay when wave-waiting is worth the effort. We marveled at the bright little town that rose and fell with the tide from our position on the boards. Dave, our surf instructor, said today was a lekker (good) day to surf, and South Africans don’t take lekker lightly.
Surfing is no easy science; it is pain and torture that taunts you with a seemingly unreachable payoff. Three waves out and I was getting royally drilled. Every attempt to stabilize my torso, slip my left leg into position and rise to my knees was met with the nose of my board tipping into the wave and flipping me off. However, I was quickly learning the art of falling. By the second run I knew not to come up too quickly since my board, tethered to my ankle by a long leash, would whip around and smack the back of my skull. While the amateurs bob immediately to the surface, the wise sage pauses under the water, despite a nose full of water and a mouth spitting salt, to allow the swell to pass. I was not wise, but the bump on the back of my head was becoming a convincing teacher.
After every failure, Dave was encouraging: “You’ve nearly got it,” he would call as he pulled me into position. “Once more and you’ll have it.” Finally, it clicked. On the fourth run the stars aligned and I could stand as the water cut underneath my surf board, the mountains coming fast into broader view as I flew toward the shore. Beach Boys tunes warbled in my head, reminding me that “everyone is surfing” and now I could, too. I had visions of Roxy commercials, coming out of the water in a bikini and sexy wet hair a la Ursula Andress to wave to the surfers who only dreamed of getting my mobile number. Of course, reality was a thick wetsuit that hid a bikini somewhere under a skin of black tar and hair that was more Rasta than Honey Ryder, but the thought of my new status- Me, Californian, Surfer- made me want to do a little dance.
I got out of the water later that morning, swollen with pride and self-satisfaction. Deborah shared a similar experience, perhaps without the soppy daydreams of dreamy smiles with some tow-headed surfer boy, and we promised to come back the next day for more coaching. But the next day, Dave offered us a lesson in real wave riding: Big Wave Africa, Cape Town’s international surf contest on the pro circuit, was on alert.
After surveying the paltry action from the top of the mountain, where a walkie-talkie chirped out reports that a bored-looking employee scrawled on a chalkboard, we trekked back down to the wharf: whatever the cost, we would be on a boat and as close to Dungeons as possible. An hour and a hundred rand later, we were on a charter that normally ferried tourists on seal tours, pushing past the fishing trawlers reeking of the day’s catch and strewn with lazy seals waiting for the sun to appear, to reach the mouth of Hout Bay where boats were gathered. We were in good company: on board with fifty South African surf enthusiasts proving their loyalty to the sport in Billabong and Volcom, Von Zipper sunglasses and bikini straps tied around sunburned necks. Many of them were acquainted, calling “Howzit, bru” across the deck and clapping each other’s shoulders. They knew the surfers, many of them on a personal basis: Grant Baker, who took home the crown a year earlier at a similar surf contest called Mavericks in Half Moon Bay, forty-three year-old Mickey Duffus who started surfing before many of the others were born, Sean Holmes whose day job is marketing manager for Billabong in Jay Bay.
