I exited the shop unperturbed, almost ignorant. As fisherman reeled in their wooden boats in preparation for the big swell, I paddled out for what would be a memorable session. On the shoulder high spinning lefts, ragged coral heads protruded out from the base of waves like witch’s hats. A few kids on bodyboards caught inside reformers, and an older yet alluring woman on a longboard sat wide while a bald Frenchman delivered news that a shark had devoured a surfer at a spot I surfed the day previous.
The swell arrived in the dead of night, and the plan to cut through the dysfunctional Port Louis in the early hours worked. Zipping the rental car south through the cane fields and into a dusty plot of land, I could see feathering crests above a maze of dry docked fishing boats. The left of Tamarin Bay was alive and it looked amazing. A handful of people were in the lineup with stacked set waves spinning through unridden made it look non-challenging and inviting.
With the surf shop guy’s warning now playing on my mind, I positioned further down the line from a small crew sitting on the outside, giving them adequate room. The takeoff for such a long wave is relatively tight, so I worked the inside alone and picked off a session’s worth of quality rides. While it isn’t a wave of consequence, it is relatively fast, and you’ve got to pay attention.
I should’ve seen it coming, though I was too focused on applying my art to this magnificent Indian canvas. The yelling so aggressive and loud, I thought the guy paddling toward me was growing horns. This wasn’t going to end well. While his rant was in a foreign tongue, I knew he wanted blood or me gone from the lineup. He stopped paddling and continued his tirade in English. I’d heard it all before. Here was one of those dullards who believed that they own a slice of Mother Nature.
Holding a peaceful demeanour, I diffused any notions of physical violence and continued surfing for a while, although I was nervous. Wave riding seemed pointless now. Gang mentality took over the group of men, all wearing white shorts, that sat out on the peak. As they shouted abuse, I knew I’d be paying for my lack of attention. This is why the surf store guy wouldn’t sell me white shorts. These were the rejects of society that he warned me about, and they should’ve been left alone.
A hominidae by the name of Bruno appeared from nowhere and sprint paddled towards me as if we were in the Octagon. I nudged into the line of breaking waves to buy some time. I didn’t want to go in. This is the Santosha hippie trip, damn it! With sets pouring through unridden and everyone’s focus on me, I felt as though I was being hunted. The swell of the year at Tamarin Bay may as well have been flat.
Before paddling out, I’d left my traveling companion in a fenced ocean-side property with a large house on it. Its big, white colonial style roof was my marker from the lineup, which I was now aiming for as I was forced to belly ride in. I walked into the yard, delivering the news of my surfing experience to the owner, a rugged man in his fifties named François. Within seconds he’d snapped, grabbing a fence post and chasing off after the first person he could see exiting the water. It was disastrous, and most certainly would ensure a brawl. “No no no!” I yelled, though François had run off into the maze of fishing boats, paling raised.
He’d grabbed an innocent bystander among the boats and threatened to burn down his house and kill his family if he ever picked on his Aussie friend again. “I’d be in jail for killing people, but it’d be good for you – the waves would be empty.” And while we laughed, I smiled nervously. I knew he was serious.
His smile was everything. Although toothless, it was genuine and welcoming, and his eyes avoided direct contact. The deep wrinkles suggested a life on the hard road, or vices of consequence, but his true heart shone a lonely bright light. Self-admittedly he has a short fuse, and for this reason he doesn’t surf Tamarin anymore, even though it has literally been his backyard longer than anyone else that surfs there. François owns a group of houses along the foreshore, and his mother still resides in the same house she grew up in. It was the first one in Tamarin Bay, long before surfing was of interest. Back then the rural backdrop and this bay would’ve truly defined Santosha.
Sitting in his yard with us, he shared stories of his life. In the shade of the canopy was his garage, full of yellowing dinged up boards. Some dusty photo albums brought life to what may have been the Forgotten Island of Santsoha, and as his animated tales drifted in the afternoon breeze with lemon tea prepared by his maid, François shared his tropical island life with people he’d just met. This is why you travel.
Chickens ran wild around the small dirt road with no curb or guttering, a dead mouse lay on the front lawn, and an envelope from the postman stuck in the front gate. All the doors were open in this damp home by the sea. As I packed my boards into the car and shook François’s hand, I knew he had enjoyed our company, and we had enjoyed his.
Driving back toward the Port Louis scrum, aiming for the weekend horse races, this island began to define itself as a confusing lost cause and I’d be leaving unsure of its true purpose in our modern age. There had been valuable lessons learned down in Black River, and as for Santosha, well, it’s as sour as François’ lemon tea. As the storms of yesteryear, a reef system in despair, or those fools in white shorts are all going the way of the dodo, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps the island of Santosha is going the same way. One day, it may simply be forgotten.
