SURFERMAG

Last summer I was sitting in the SURFER offices, braying at Martin Daly, the legendary surf explorer and skipper of the equally legendary Indies Trader, the storied mother ship of The Quiksilver Crossing. This incredibly ambitious, corporately funded expedition has spent the last four years wandering around our watery planet-to the tune of 70,000 miles and change-looking for surf.

Daly was in the SURFER office to tell me that during the Central American leg of the Indies Trader's Northern Hemisphere voyage they had come across a very promising point break And would we be interested in sending a photographer down along with a few of their team members to document it. The only hitch: no telling where.

"That sounds great," I told him. "You want us to reveal the place, promote the place, but not say where it is. I think you'd better know that my current motto here at the mag is 'Death to Secret Spots.'"

"And my personal motto is 'death to anyone who would say death to secret spots.'" Martin replied.

"I guess I'll see you down there," Martin said. "What better place to continue this discussion than on the deck of the Indies Trader, anchored off a newly-discovered secret spot. Give you a chance to experience first-hand what the Crossing is all about, mate."

And so that's how I found myself with a carload of groms driving north-west across Nicaragua, headed toward points unknown and with plenty of time to ponder the weird ethical history of surf discovery in the magazines.

In the beginning the vibe was share and share alike. "Think of all the perfect waves that have gone to waste," narrated Bruce Brown in 1965's The Endless Summer, intoning the sports first "get up and go" edict. "...and of all the perfect waves that are going to waste right now at Cape St. Francis."

Intrepid surfers did go, and as late as the early-1970s the thrill of global surf exploration was still innocent enough to share openly. SURFER's 1970 travel feature "Perils Of The Tropic" by a 19 year-old Bernie Baker, openly chronicled his back-pack and board voyage down through Central America and the Caribbean, naming many breaks that later went on to earn protective pseudonyms, including La Libertad in El Salvador. Printing misleading names of California breaks had already begun, the most famous case being San Diego's Big Rock, which was known by a number of goofy monikers like Lobster Lounge and Moidsland; the beachbreaks of Imperial Beach known as "Emerald City." But so far as the rest of the globe was concerned, the world was still big enough for show and tell. Then in June of 1972 SURFER ran a feature called "El Dorado: A True Life Adventure" by John Amsterdam. On a yacht voyage across the Atlantic, after touching in at the Cape Verde Islands Amsterdam and his buddies make their way to what is only described as "our island destination." The waves were depicted as perfect, the people friendly, the livin' easy. But despite several photos of what indeed looked like a perfect point, for the first time the destination wasn't named.

And they were just passengers on a yacht. They didn't own a yacht, especially not a 75-foot, former dive salvage trawler refitted specifically for surf exploration. Amsterdam and crew would've fit right in on the The Crossing, however, where the ethic they first introduced to the surf media three decades ago has become an essential element of this most modern surfari, the first of its kind and certainly the most elaborate, comprehensive surf trip in the history.

"This is a very important aspect of The Crossing," reads a paragraph on the project's quicksilver.com website. "While the basic route is outlined, no specific references are given in regards to surf spots. Everyone connected with the project respects keeping known and unknown surf spots a mystery. In fact, everyone who is invited on board The Crossing must sign a confidentiality agreement not to disclose locations."

Once free of the city zone, the two-lane road bent away from Lake Managua and toward the coast like an asphalt river. And like a river it seemed to pull civilization along with it through the jungle, small towns and villages bordered right up to its banks, all modes of transportation sweeping purposely either upstream or down: pedestrians, couples sharing rickety bicycles, two-wheeled carts drawn by tired ponies, big-rig tractor trailers, roaring by like steamships.

We were following a Land Cruiser carrying photographer Tom Servais and Britney Huntington, a marine biologist on hand to participate in The Crossing's work with The Reefcheck Foundation, monitoring the world's coral reefs. It was a decidedly odd experience to be driving through this exotic landscape with absolutely no idea as to our final destination, although not an entirely unpleasant one. I knew we were headed for a port in the north, from which we were to be ferried either up or down the coast to the waiting Indies Trader, which was anchored at this reported point break. I had my own ideas about where. Unlike the pros, who'd probably signed their non-disclosure agreements in advance, I'd purchased a detailed map of Nicaragua and was already using it for reference. A certain amount of whimsy is fine on a surf trip, but ultimately it's nice to know where you're headed.

Surfing's charts changed dramatically in the 1970s. Unlike those 14th century Portuguese maps that in so many ways resembled surfing's-poking their way along the coast of Africa, charting point after point, headland after headland in fine detail-our maps grew more and more blank, despite a spate of rich discoveries. Take, for example, the memorable series of travel features produced in the 1970s by Kevin Naughton and Craig Peterson , in which the "show great photos but name no names" gag order was in full swing. In 1973 their first article, titled simply "Centroamerica" featured La Libertad, El Salvador, but was referred to only as Rocky Point. This was the same La Libertad that only three years earlier was unabashedly identified in "Perils of the Tropics." In the ensuing three years a veritable colony of visiting and ex-pat surfers had set up camp at La Libertad's Punta Roca, a community Naughton and Peterson were only too happy to join once they arrived in town, tired, penniless and eager for companionship. But by not specifically naming the break in the eventual full-color magazine feature, what higher purpose were they serving? I had spoken to Naughton about this very topic not long after his return from his first chartered trip to the Mentawai islands (see "A Lovely Cruise" vol. 44#10), catching the restless regular-foot on the eve of departing for Tavarua, a break he introduced to the surfing world 20 years ago on the cover of SURFER.

"We were really sensitive about not naming spots," he said "We'd talk about the general areas freely enough, but when it came down to actually naming the spots, we wanted to share the stoke without running the sense of adventure for the guys coming behind us. Surfing a new spot, even when it's just new to you, is always a big thrill."

Very altruistic, but not taking into account a component almost as powerful as those colored dots on a page: surfing word of mouth. Perfect example? Look at Punta Pequena, in Baja California. Although this dreamy desert point had already been surfed by a handful of surfers (Surfline's Sean Collins reportedly rode here as early as 1969, having sailed by with his father during the annual Newport-to-Ensenada race) when Scott Dittrich's surf movie Fluid Drive came out in 1974, featuring J. Riddle and George Trafton racing the impossibly lined-up, sand-bottomed barrels, the Great Baja Land Rush was on-despite the fact that the break was never identified. Nor was it in the summer of 1975 when the first-and only-major magazine feature on what was now being called "Scorpion Bay" appeared in SURFING magazine. And yet by 1979 this remote fishing village in the Mexican desert was a veritable R.V. park of Econoline and V.W. vans, with as many as 50 like-minded surf campers on hand for every decent south swell. Today "Scorpion Bay" actually does have a campground-as well as restaurants, beach rentals and public toilets. All the result of simple word-of-mouth.

"So far as identifying surf spots are concerned," I e-mailed. "our policy here at SURFER is simple; place it on a map, but don't necessarily draw a map. This is absolutely necessary to provide some sort of editorial interest and point of reference to travel stories. Another boat trip to Macaronis doesn't have quite the cache as, say, a first-surf trip to the Nicobar Islands. Nor would a feature on Lagundri Bay be as compelling these days as a newly discovered right tube in the Tubuai's. To label this recent trip simply as "Centroamerica" again would rob the story of any real significance. By not saying where it is you cannot write about the country or its people, the culture, the weather, the history, the food, the music, the flora or fauna. By lumping this trip under the single banner "Centroamerica" you also run the risk of fostering an insular, neo-colonial attitude that disregards the rich cultural differences that distinguish all the countries that make up the region. The fact that they all speak Spanish does not mean "it's all Mexico south of the border..."

After almost six hours of driving we arrived in the crossroads town of Chinandega, where at a tiny, brightly lit import-export office we picked up an inscrutable guide who had been retained to take us to the Indies Trader. By now it was twilight; people were everywhere, emerging in the evening's cool, drifting in and out of the darkness bordering the highway like shadowy spirits. Eventually we swerved off the paved road and down a rambling, rutted dirt track that snaked it's way through what by the bouncing headlights looked like a deep forest; broad-topped mahogany trees draping themselves over the path, blocking out the inky sky and stars above. Martin Daly was waiting at the end of this road. Surf was waiting. The naming or not naming of which seemed totally irrelevant at this juncture, considering I had absolutely no idea where here was.

Rattling along in the ebon tropical dark of the Nicaraguan forest, scattering charcoal-dusty pigs and aerobic chickens, bound for our secret rendezvous with Captain Daly and the Trader, I thought back on the pattern of exposure/colonization that established itself in the decades following Naughton/Peterson's journeys. And there has been a pattern: Intrepid surfer (or in many cases surf photographer) discovers exotic new break. Tells friends. Friends tell friends. Generally, two seasons pass. Word of mouth builds, eventually reaching Dana Point. Mag team is dispatched, consisting most often of a tuned-in surf photographer who'd been told of the spot and several pro surfer/models. They return with story, magazine feature appears full of titillating photos but no specific locations. Another season passes. Second season following release of magazine article sees the arrival of the suitably inspired, their presence resented, naturally, by those surfers who'd come due to word-of-mouth. Third season, more surfers, maybe a second magazine feature. Fourth season, Balinese/Sumtaran/Latin American/European/Polynesian locals start renting out hammock space at the break, which is now considered crowded, and subsequently ruined.

But just who, exactly, are the destroyers? The surfers who find the break, the magazines who run the photos, or the surfers who come after? The answer is usually revealed in degrees of privilege. A few privileged surfers get to experience the thrill of discovering a brand-new spot. Even fewer surfers attain the level of privilege-and the wherewithal-to keep looking, one step ahead of the ravening hordes that are sure to come swarming after.

We rolled down the Toyota's windows, the damp heat pouring into the cab. And something else: the smell of saltwater and muddy, bare mangrove roots. Rounding a corner the trees ahead were suffused in a halogen halo-bright lights illuminating a black iron gate that stood out in sharp contrast from the thatched-roof palapas that lined the trail. Through the gate, across a cobblestone-paved driveway and suddenly there was our destination, as if it had been plopped down in its entirety on this forgotten coast by some alien hand, completely formed: an exclusive yacht basin, complete with yacht club and restaurant. And there at the dock, moored next to several well-appointed ocean-going sloops and what looked like some millionaires' motor yacht (a millionaire developer who, in fact, had carved out this little slice of Miami Beach in the middle of nowhere), floated the Indies Trader, resplendent in her red-and-black Polynesian print, wheel-house and deck lights blazing, the smiling Indonesian deck hands standing ready to load and store boardbags.

Three days later, on a warm, brassy Central American morning, I found myself flying a few feet above the Pacific along the inshore coast of Nicaragua, balancing myself in the Indies Trader's aluminum tender skiff, Daly at the helm. Surfboards and anchor line were piled carelessly in the bow, the bright sunlight and sea spray blowing back from the bow streaming into the open boat. Next to Daly on the steering console was a walkie-talkie; several miles out into the deeper blue, paralleling our course, was the Trader. It occurred to me that this was exactly how an early explorer like Captain James Cook might have charted this coastline over two centuries ago, working his way along the shoreline in the skiff, taking soundings and marking reefs, while his ship the Endeavor cruised safely offshore. But here today was Martin Daly, completely in his element, eager to talk about The Crossing's mission; its essence.

"This is what it's all about, mate," he beamed, one eye on approaching swells, the other always cocked toward shore, looking for any vagary in form that, from our outside vantage point, might indicate a rideable wave. And it was easy to believe. As conceived by Captain Daly and project director Bruce Raymond, this really was what it was all about: a chartered exploration of the world's coastlines, looking for new surf spots. A barefoot exploration, face wet with spray and stoke. The photos and movies, the Explorations specialty magazine devoted entirely to the project, the websites and media tie-ins, the stickers and t-shirts: all secondary to this feeling, this moment, and the vision of this man and his motivation.

Our itinerary was delightfully loose. We had quickly abandoned the alleged perfect point, which, in Martin's opinion, didn't live up to its early promise, and set a course down the coast, pointing the Trader's bow toward an area of coastline that, due to the large surface area of Lake Nicaragua and its proximity to the coast enjoys a pressure gradient that provides almost constant offshore wind. Taking to the "tinny" as Daly refers to his tender, we began to examine the coast in earnest, Martin actually rubbing his hands together at the prospect. And for the opportunity to show me, a representative of what he seems to regard as The Great Exploiter, why the Indies Trader has logged almost 80,000 miles in this pursuit-and why both Bruce Raymond and he have insisted in the non-disclosure cause.

Yesterday I may have argued with the skipper. Yesterday I might have answered that plenty of surfers have explored Central America, for example, and in much more difficult circumstances. Not as a chartered privateer, some modern Sir Francis Drake, provided with a royal decree from the sovereignty-in this case the almighty Quiksilver Company-to plunder these water as he pleased. And who didn't have teams of photographers, videographers, web-designers and pro surfers tagging along. And who, simply because all they wanted to do was experience the thrill and not commodify it never had to wrestle with ethical distinction between telling the world what they found, but not telling where. The paradox that colors every SURFRR "travel issue"; the paradox that follows in the wake of the Indies Trader wherever she may sail.

Yesterday I might have. Yesterday morning, maybe. Because late yesterday afternoon, the sun low in the sky, cumulous cloud-citadels towering rosy over the green canopy rising up the slopes of volcan Masaya to the east, I had crawled back into the "tinny" after a long day of surfing a very symmetrical left reef break. Martin followed close behind; I helped stow his board as he readied the outboard for the run back out to the Trader. Our three surfers-Josh, Dylan and Evan-had enjoyed themselves all day, riding the wave, with it's broad wall and tumbling barrel section, with a lot of verve. They had headed back to the Trader in the glare of the late afternoon, leaving the evening session for Martin and me.

The waves, the offshores, the verdant Nicaraguan coastline, the thrill of discovery: it was a fine tableau. Contrived? Well, considering how I got here-and with its operating price of about $2000 a day-that argument could be made. But the smile on Martin's face as he surveyed his latest treasure find convinced me that despite its promotional overtones, this was the sincerest expression of the sort of stoke and inspiration The Crossing hopes to foster. SURFER, too, for that matter.

And I couldn't help thinking about a particular Nicaraguan legend I had come across, the tale of El Secreto del Encanto: The Enchanted Secret. Native Indians speak of a beautiful crater at the center of an ancient volcano that appears on no map and that only the suitably inspired may find. Within the crater lies a wealth of fabulous flora and fauna, an enchanted garden where visitors are allowed to look, and even eat of its fruit. But should any try to capture even the smallest butterfly, or pick a single flower to take back with them, then the trail home will disappear and they'll be lost forever.