Contrary to some mis-interpretations of my recent irony-laden post on El Salvador, it was one of the surprise highlights of my recent global trip.
Surprise because of the bad rap El Salvador receives from all and sundry, a deep-rooted prejudice I played-up with all the subtlety of a pantomime dame in ‘that’ post in the hope that readers would see both sides of the coin.
El Salvador. The most dangerous, god-forsaken hell-hole in all of Christendom. What in Beelzebub’s name were we thinking coming to a place with such a bad reputation? Even in the badlands of Nicaragua people would lean in, speaking in hushed tones, as they told tales of hapless surf-travellers being accosted on the beach, a line being drawn in the sand over which they were forced to lie face down with their heads on one side of the line their bodies on the other as the prelude to an horrific, yet reassuringly accurate beheading.
The trouble with these remote-access Central American point breaks is that you can’t take a camera. To get to Lance’s Left near El Astillero, Nicaragua we took a bone-rattling ride in Johnny’s pint-sized hire-car to the fishing village. We then walked north up the beach for half an hour, fording rivers and scrambling over high-tide storm debris until we reached the headland which forms the point-break. We then had to inch our way around the rocky headland, making a run for it between sets to avoid being dashed upon the rocks before finally reaching the paddle-out spot.
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A world away from the average commercial surf competition, Fathers & Sons celebrates the original Hawaiian spirit.
