“Its lefthander is the key to this country’s surfing experience, and with a primary focus to score this natural wonder, it needed to be ridden.”
There is a mythical tale titled The Forgotten Island of Santosha, in existence long before I knew what surf travel was all about. Built around a fabled left-hander that peeled perfectly down an idyllic reef off an island cast adrift in the middle of the Indian Ocean, , the story is possibly what keeps the desire to ride a perfect wave alive.
White sand, tropic marine layers and a freighting left-hander were not here, not today. As I sat wedged in the choked, nightmarish traffic of Port Louis, inhaling copious amounts of smog, fumes and dust, the supposed magic left funnels of Tamarin Bay seemed unreachable. This small island country is planned so every main arterial road junctions at the port, a sweaty third-world reminder that the sea was once the only way to travel and trade.
The evening prior, we’d sat honeymoon-like in a restaurant in Perebyre, a relaxed tourist town located in the north west of the island. Our waiter Arash, a good-natured local, was happy to spend time at our table and chat. When conversation steered to the weather, it gave insight into perhaps why Mauritius was no longer popular with traveling surfers, but more so with hitched couples.
“Well, I’m 21, and I have seen just one cyclone, only one. My grandparents often speak of yearly storms that would tear up the island; sometimes they would go around Mauritius, other times they would come straight to land. But it was every year when they were young. Every single year.” His delivery was serious, either highlighting the fact that these storms were dangerous or that they don’t happen anymore. The swell machines had vanished.
The heinous congestion of the road system was worth the effort to explore the northern part of the coastline. A stream of south swell had thick straight lines bashing rocky points and reefs for days, though finding something more than dinky reefs riddled with deathly urchins was a test. With ample swell bumping the charts, the choice was made to sail a tri-cat to a group of islands off the northern tip with a chance of a little bingo score. The tropical vibe was served with dolphins and whales, what some people travel for, though a howling north wind cut the ocean to pieces and dashed all hopes of surfing. A quick snorkel revealed only underwater graying decay. The percentage of coral reef alive was, disgracefully, in the single figures; another saddening chapter within the book of human occupancy. As we glowed in a western fire sunset, pesticide runoff and tourist trash swam through my mind. Our umbrella drinks took on a spoiled taste – the rum within was produced from the very agriculture that is responsible for the death of the Mauritius reef system.
Down south in the Black River district, the river does not flow toward the people. Tamarin Bay is Shinola. No tourists, no smiles and sure as hell none of that Santosha vibe that instigated this whole adventure. Its lefthander is the key to this country’s surfing experience, and with a primary focus to score this natural wonder, it needed to be ridden. Without it, you could almost say this surf trip was redundant.
Looking from the beach out to the outer reef, it looked good enough to surf. I’d left my trunks back at the hotel, which led me to the local surf store. It wallowed in the shade and looked as though it was minutes from closing down. “Be careful, there are some lunatics around,” the shop guy told me. “And tomorrow is the weekend so they’ll be hungry. With this swell coming, I suggest you wait until Monday.” He was more focused on giving advice then selling me something. “I’ll be ok,” I answered, browsing the depleted rack of shorts. “Do you have any 32’s?”
“The white ones, but I won’t sell them to you. You’ll have to choose another color.”
