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Beach Bum = Broke Bum

By Dan Wallace - 2009-07-23

During the bus ride from Calama to the coastal town of Iquique, I could only think of one thing: the beach. We don’t get many opportunities to spend time at beaches on this trip. In fact, it has only happened once. Mike, Chris and I had an awesome beach day on the island of Chiloe, but needless to say the trip was too short, and left me longing for more sand-time. My wishes were granted when we decided to take up an invitation to visit Iquique, and give a presentation about our trip to a youth group there. We planned on staying at least three to four days, and while the bus bumped along westward through the desert, I dreamed of reuniting with salty seas and sandy feet.

We arrived at night. Since I had volunteered to bring my complete touring bike (so that we could have a cool prop to show the youth group), I rode to our host church across town. The other guys called a cab. I was happy to ride the seven or so kilometers along the coastal strip, and reveled at the thought of getting a sneak peak at the city and its beaches, famed for their beauty.

The ride down the coast did not disappoint. Even though it was past ten o’clock at night, there were still tons of people out and about. Some were couples walking the boardwalks; others were groups of young people hanging out on the beaches. Vendors were still out, yelling sales pitches. I passed a gym that was right on the beach, filled with people working out. I was shocked to pass a beautiful, brightly lit, concrete skate park, packed with future X-Gamers of all ages. The ride was wonderful because I got to see Iquique’s nighttime attitude, but even more so because there was a seven-kilometer bike path alongside the beach that kept me from having to deal with any road traffic.

Our first day at the beach was great. We spent most of the day swimming, soaking up sun, and talking with our friend Carla. I took a two-hour surfing class, and picked up the basic skills amidst falling into the tepid blue waters. Later, a few of us went with Carla to a local grub spot for an early dinner, and toured the downtown area after that.

The following beach days were filled with plenty of good times and good vibes. The guys and I enjoyed a tiring soccer game on the sand with a lot of local kids, and we even got to “pepper” with some kids who knew their way around a volleyball. I did some more swimming, ducked some more gypsies, and watched lots of good surfing during Iquique’s annual national surfing championships. Watching the pro’s catch and ride the big waves was my favorite thing to do at the beach and inspired me to go beyond just one surfing class: a decision I would come to regret later on.

Encouraged by the skills of the pro’s, I headed to the local surf shop and rented a board and wetsuit our second to last day in Iquique. Walking down to the beach, I was filled with excitement and hope at the thought of getting to practice on my own for three hours. After hiding my hat in some bushes, I took off for the water’s edge. I quickly made my way to the breaking zone and began jumping and diving under crashing waves with the board leashed to my right ankle. I struggled to catch my first wave, and only stood up for about four seconds. But it was enough to spur me on indefinitely. Unfortunately, after 30 minutes, I had only caught four waves. I realized I was spending my most of my time trying to stay alive, as the large waves crashed with frightening force all around me. Much to the experienced surfer’s delight, there was a large swell that produced 7-12 ft waves: a fact that did not work in my favor.

The moment I thought about paddling out, another large wave crested over my head, forcing me to dive below. My heart sunk when I surfaced and found my rented surfboard in two pieces, connected only by a few unbroken strands of fiberglass. I didn’t even have time to think before another wave came barreling down on the already-destroyed board and me. I quickly gathered up a floating black fin that had also been broken off in all the chaos, the fractured board, and headed for shore against the powerful pull of the rip tide.

On the beach, I sat next to the pieces, trying to think of what to do next. What could I do? I picked up the board, and my pride (which was equally battered and broken), and began to walk back to the surf shop. I arrived to gasps and “lo siento’s” ("I’m sorries"), and sat down for my trial and sentencing. The verdict: victim, but guilty. The punishment: $300 for an old busted board. Ripped off and disappointed, I dragged my feet to the ATM, reluctantly pushed the buttons, walked back to the surf shop, and paid my fine. I think the take-home lesson is not to learn to surf on waves that bust boards, but I’m not sure.