By Phil Jarratt
WHEN you’re travelling, sometimes wonderful first impressions should be left at that.
Closer examination often reveals there is no gloss beneath the gloss.
Such was the case at the historic Closenberg Hotel in Galle, Sri Lanka, last week. Our tiny, musty room offered a view out over the bay of Megalle, but the first heavy rains of the monsoon had cast a grey pall over the abandoned hotel construction sites in the distance, and directly below the water was dark and scummy from the village drainage outlets pouring into it. I passed on a surf.
Instead we called a tuk tuk and bumped and honked our way along the south coast road to the Horseshoe Bay House above Hiriketiya where host Marty Madell had reserved us the middle floor.
This turned out to be a blessing since the sideways rain of a couple of nights earlier had ripped right through the penthouse, where we had stayed the previous week.
This space – where we’ve been a week now and find it hard to leave – still has a magnificent ocean view from the balcony but it offers a little more protection from the elements.
The squirrels and the monkeys generally stick to the surrounding treetops, but we were invaded first night by flying termites who can’t fly with wet wings and apparently make for any open window when the monsoon starts. Quite a sight to come home to after dinner with thousands of the little buggers dead or dying and completely covering our cement floor.
The surf here has also been a little different to our first experience, with the swell picking up to almost unmanageable proportions and the little bay offering only partial protection from the savage trade winds.
Most days this week I’ve chosen to take a tuk tuk 15 minutes down the road to the more organised righthander I’ve named Fisho’s Point because I can’t remember it’s Sinhalese moniker.
This means I’ve got to be on my toes so I can tell the driver to take the second right after the “Surfboard For Hire” sign.
But here at Hiri, Point Perfect has become Carnage Cove. About 90 per cent of the tourist population (which isn’t that many) are German backpackers who are here to learn to surf come what may.
Every morning hordes of kamikaze pilots jump on their rented NSP epoxies and flap-paddle out into the bay without even looking at the churning rips that suck back every five minutes to unleash a double overhead, sucking, heaving, length of beach closeout.
Heilige Scheiss! And there they go, abandoning ship, going over the falls on top of one another, all day, every day.
One girl, who we’ve befriended, is a doctor, but even she doesn’t seem to comprehend the dangers of an ugly chunk of moving water.
“Oh god, this is so much fun,” she told us while taking a break between sessions of getting relentlessly clobbered on the head.
Miraculously, no-one seems to have been seriously hurt so far – at least nothing a massage and a few beers won’t fix – and the swell has finally calmed down. Yesterday I was enjoying a session on my rented Bonga Perkins Southpoint with just a few kamikazes and a good young Aussie shortboarder when he suddenly pointed to a fast-spreading black patch of water just inside us.
As the patch spread closer the stench arrived with it. I realised immediately what had happened.
The first big rains had flooded a homestay behind the beach and they had dug a channel to release the foul waters of a lagoon.
Deep scheiss! Even the kamikazes realised that this was not good. The water was cleared immediately.
But today it was like nothing had happened. The bay was clear and clean again, with shoulder-high peaks out in front of restaurant row and a few overhead sets on the point.
A good coffee at the Beach House, then a surf before an egg hopper breakfast next door at Henry’s Blue Beach.
Then … well maybe fit in another quick one before the kamikazes get too thick.
And then, find a recliner under the palms and watch the carnage until beer o’clock.
It’s not perfect here at Hiri, but I like it.
John John set for a title
It’s not quite a done deal as I write, but if he doesn’t pick up his first world title in Portugal this week, there’s nothing surer than that John John Florence will clinch the deal at Pipeline in December.
And well done, him!
Like others before him, John has had to wear the expectation of greatness from a very early age.
Now that monkey is off his back, who knows how many titles he can win?
Meanwhile, our own Julian Wilson went into the Peniche event a long outside chance to take the title, but saw that evaporate as John progressed.
For my money, however, he produced some of the real highlights of the comp, as this Poullenot pic attests.
Can backhand surfing be any more perfect?
