The Left © Roger Sharp
Through dawn’s early light we can see long, emerald barrels peeling down at “The Left.” It’s chilly this time of the morn. The dew on the grass is frigid; the mud in the little carpark is frozen. The wave is just another one of the abundance of semi-secret spots near the little village where we’re staying. It’s flawless, and solid. We all paddle out together, a multinational instant crowd. Two South Africans, two English lads, two Americans, one Australian. Once out, the waves are slightly more sizeable than what we thought from the car-park. But it’s so clean, and the sun is beaming, so rare for this country. We all get a couple, the vibe is mellow. No-one really hassling.
A few bigger sets come through, a few more guys paddle out. The relatively narrow take-off spot is now a little congested. I’ve had two waves, and am waiting for a set, but this one guy keeps paddling past me, and continually going over the falls and wasting waves. Putting some of us a little ill at ease. Not incensed yet; it’s just irksome. A smaller wave comes through, and jacks on the reef. One of the South Africans calls me onto it. I turn around and paddle for it, but the wave jacks up too quickly. I grab my outside rail in a vain bid to pull into a backhand barrel, but it’s too late and the wave has already broken on me. I go over with the lip, still holding onto my rail. I land on my board in a textbook railgrab position and do an inadvertent splits. For the first time in my life. Get sucked over, and just feel this almighty wrenching in my groin area.
I surface and gasp for air. There is a stabbing pain between my legs. I try and stand on the exposed rocks, but my body gives in and I lie flopping around in the shallows. There are eight guys left surfing, a photographer in the water, a videographer in the water, and a photographer on land. They all watch me as I start taking in water, drowning. No help is offered. No one realizes what’s going down. The pain is so bad that I am paralyzed. I float on my back with just my mouth sticking out, gasping for life-giving air, spitting out mouthfuls of saltwater. I float onto the shore. I try and stand up, but my legs give in, and I collapse in the shallows. I sit on a rock, dumbly wave to my friends in the water that I’m fine, and start hobbling. The twenty meters back to the safety of the car is a hoot.
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