After one hour on a tiny local boat, 3 busses and one border crossing by foot I was ready to arrive. I sat squashed under the sweaty armpit of one large Panamanian male so the journey couldn’t end soon enough. The bus dropped me off with my surfboard, guitar and suitcase. It seems however, that I wasn’t left at town, but an army checkpoint with a sunny little bus stop.
“Take the bus from town to Port” was next on my directions. Nice idea in theory, but after hours in the relentless sun playing guitar with a bunch of locals it seemed obvious - there was no bus stopping here. I hitched a ride in a truck with about 10 people and various objects in the back. I rode up front with an obese lady breast-feeding her baby and tried my best to explain – “I’m going to the surf camp. I’m the new surf guide”. The driver just shook his head and continued to mock my lack of Spanish. But as always with us surfers, the sight of dreamy island waves erases all remembrance of hardship.
Arriving finally to my surf destination by boat we were greeted with beautiful peeling lefts winding their way playfully around a small island. I had under my guidance a large group of Panamanian surfers, resulting in what I like to call an “insta-crowd”. Around 15 people bobbed about the peak, one by one picking off racy overhead sets under the gaze of a hot tropical sun. We surfed until our arms were dead.
The boat would not drop me at camp, my assigned home for the next month. Laden down with bags they left me at the far sand bar, as the swell was running too high for beach entry. I felt part of a bad movie, stranded on a hot and sandy desolate island with no water and only half a bottle of rum. After a long and sun soaked trek across the sand I could see it, like a beautiful mirage off in the distance - the thatched roofed huts of camp.
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