Divine Inspiration in Senegal
It must have been a writer who named a hurricane sized low
pressure system Hercules. For journalists and the surf media it was like manna
from heaven as pens and keyboards around Europe were dripping metaphors. But
trying to find an easy, slick metaphor that worked with West Africa proved
difficult. The old gods don’t hold much sway in Senegal, an Islamic country
where despite the modernity and fast paced development of its capital, Dakar,
people still go to see the witch doctor when they’re sick, and still wear
charms to ward off evil spirits.
The swell size and power was forecast to be on a Hawaiian
scale. Long lulls in these high period swells can be fatally deceptive. Jesper,
the manager of Ngor Island Surf Camp and our guide, remembered that the last
swell this size had claimed the lives of a score of local fishermen whose ocean
going pirogues could not navigate the perilous shorebreak. It seemed
patronising but we surfers were warning fishermen not go out on the biggest day
of the swell. But these hard working guys would probably go anyway, or they
might not make any money that day. We hoped they would return safe. Inshallah.
The day before the swell peaked we paddled out at N’gor
Right, the swell magnet of Dakar and the spot that can hold the largest of
swells. Big sets poured in from the north while north trade wind backed off
under the weight of a heavy sky. Only a few of us staying at the camp wanted
any of what Ngor Right was dishing out. This was far from the playful looking
surf discovered by the makers of the original Endless Summer. Tyron and Dave
from Newquay, a German transplant to Portugal called Marc, an Irish-Scottish
mongrel known forevermore as Hellman, and myself paddled out. After some
lurching, heavy drops and some good old fashioned beatings we eventually
submitted to a monster set that nearly closed out the channel from the island
to the mainland. Washed up, tired and tense with anticipation for the next day,
the crew retired to the surf camp.
When we returned we found Jesper busy on the phone planning an
adventure for us. He was organising us an off-road vehicle and a driver and
sending us south of Dakar to an area known as the Petite Cote. Given the
forecast we had agreed to roll the dice and go exploring, hoping to find some
waves in an area known to be inconsistent. With an early departure, a dawn high
tide and a big swell, Jesper was worried about safely crossing the normally
placid waters of the channel between Ngor Island and the Ngor village. We’re
going to need a bigger boat, he had said, and was booking one for pre-dawn
start. We cracked open a well-earned beer and enjoyed that most Senegalese of
dishes; thiebou dienne. The large communal plates of fried rice, spicy fish and
fresh vegetables finished us off for the night. Or so we thought, as Jesper
produced a cooler full of booze. It was his birthday and he didn’t need to
persuade us too hard to help him celebrate.
At five the next morning we arrived at the beach still
fighting the effects of sleep and a few too many of the local beers. A boat was
waiting for us but as we stumbled onto the sand we saw it thrown up the sand by
a surging wave, the local boatman riding its stern like a figurehead in the
night. It was a scene that didn’t inspire confidence. As the call to prayer
from the muezzin in the village drifted across the bay there were some anxious
looking faces. The boat driver barked at us, and we were herded onto the boat
and calmly steered between the rocks to the beach in Ngor village.
We loaded our gear onto the 4x4 and blazed a trail through
the early morning traffic. An hour later we arrived at the reef we’d scouted
the day before. The early offshore breeze carried a chill so we warmed up with
coffee and peered through the pre-dawn gloom at the surf. During the midnight
high tide the waves had scoured out trenches from the top of the beach ridge
and thrown debris inland. It looked like tons of sand had been moved around.
Evidence of Hercules at work.
The sun rises quickly in Africa. That morning the only
things moving quicker were the surfers getting changed once we’d seen what
awaited us. A small point of reef was setting up overhead A-frame waves. The
left was fast, with a bowly, hollow take off followed by a playful wall about a
hundred meters long. Hellman and his goofy footed companion Marc ran down the
beach at the sight of it.
Although the paddle out was easy, it was quite long so a
couple of us hitched a ride out to the peak. Our second boat ride of the morning was just
as hair raising as the first. We hopped in with the local fishermen after
helping push their pirogues to the water’s edge. They launched their clumsy
looking craft through the head high shorebreak with a steely determination and ancient
skill. In this part of Senegal, the villages depend on their fishermen for food
and income and have done for centuries. Their pirgoues are made from hollowed
out tree trunks, a classic design given a modern lease of life by some battered
looking outboard engines.
We jumped into the water, waved goodbye to our new friends
and paddled over to the peak. The right had a big first wall with carving and
cutback sections before reforming on the inside as a long steep hollow section
followed by a fun shorebreak. The right was around one hundred and fifty
meters. If you could design and engineer a surfbreak it would look like this.
Some of the guys snuck into a few tubes, Tyron was giving lessons in roundhouse
cutbacks and everyone was feeling blessed to be here. I was sat in the line-up
wondering who to thank; Hercules, Allah, or Jesper for convincing us to gamble.
We had left our gear and thermos flasks in a local fishing
hut under the watchful eye of the elders. The village kids, being kids, were
cheeky but curious and would love to help you wax your board or rinse the sand
off your wetsuit. My ear plugs were a source of great amusement. If the kids
got too close, however, the elders would bark a few harsh words of Wolof and
scatter them. After a few minutes they kids would regroup to push their
boundaries once again.
Needing a drink I asked one of the elders where I could buy
some bottled water. He quickly enlisted a tall teenager to be my guide and take
me through the rabbit warren of dusty streets. Laden with bottles, the lad
wanted to carry them for me back to the beach. After talking about school and
football in my basic French, the only thanks he wanted was the answer to this
question; “what do I have to do to become a footballer in Europe?”. I didn’t
know what to say. The hospitality, friendliness and generosity of the Senegalese
still takes me by surprise. Visitors with are often invited to join in with a
big family lunch or shown around a village by its proud residents. It is often
humbling.
Back at the beach and it was time for surf four of the day.
A few other surfers from Dakar had arrived but only surfed the right so our
crew took turns on the left. I couldn’t help thinking how busy this place would
be if it was anywhere else in the world. A US Marine from California had also
made the trek down to the spot. On a break from a posting in Mali, he was wide
eyed at the quality of the surf and compared the spot to Trestles. The spot is
no secret, but it is rarely surfed as it sits in the shadow of the Dakar
peninsular. It works from waist high up and breaks good less than twenty times
a year in these big wrapping swells or good south swells. This was an
exceptional day. The overcast, cloudy conditions kept the winds glassy until
dusk, while the sets kept coming and coming.
Meanwhile back in Dakar the Hercules swell was wrapping into
some of the breaks on the south coast of the Almadies peninsular. One spot
there sits under the two watchful minarets of a huge mosque. It is a Herculean
setting if ever there was one. It too is a sleeping giant of a wave. Frequently
breaking around head high in large north west swells, it really needs a
powerful swell to clear the rocky, urchin crusted reef and show its class.
Reports from that day told of overhead to double overhead rights peaking up and
barrelling for a hundred meters into the channel. Some of the local crew were
running the show. We checked it out the day after the peak of swell and scored
some intense rides over the shallow reef. Falling at the end section or getting
caught inside by a big set is not really an option here. Everyone gets an
urchin when they surf here. It is the price you must pay to whichever god you
choose to follow.
Hercules had certainly flexed his muscles, damaging coastal
areas in northern Europe and drenching the coast of Morocco, while the waves in
Senegal snuck in under the radar of the surf community. Ngor Right and a left
hander across the bay from Ngor Island can hold huge swells and could have been
towed into that day. It was breaking at least four or five times overhead, with
no wind and in warm water. While the big wave crews charged Mullaghmore and
Belharra, and the sheltered spots of Europe were filled to bursting point, we
found quiet perfection and a warm welcome.
As Hercules fades into legend, its might and power have left
scars some coastal communities, while its waves have been surfed, documented
and immediately displayed to the voyeuristic surf media consumers. We are a bit
late in sharing the story of Hercules from Senegal. But then this is Senegal,
things work slowly down here and a little patience goes a long way when you’re
working in African time.
Andy Bramwell
January 2014
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