The Pan-American Highway (Routa Sette) is a long gray scar running down the Central Plain of Chile bisecting the Andes and the Coastal Range. The Andes are majestic, seemingly endless snow covered peaks and while the Coastal Range is dwarfed by the scale of them, it is nonetheless formidable. It was unusual leaving the dusky, early fall colors of the Northeast US and arriving on this stretch a half a day later to find the vibrant greens of early spring shocked with brilliant pinks and whites of fruit tree blossoms. While the most well-known waves in Chile are located in the central and northern regions of the country, I decided to follow rumors of the uncrowded, lefts found in the cold waters of the South. I was not to be disappointed.
Six hours south on Routa Sette from Santiago (a bit of a grind just after a 9 hour flight) and it was time to finally ascend the Coastal Plain and head for the sea. The elevation climbs gently from the plain and the landscape changes from verdant flatland to cool pine forest. The feel is very much like the Oregon Coast. The climb is long and the outside temps dropped over 10 degrees. Near the top of the Coastal Range the light quality acquires a white brilliance to it, the first sign of the vast Pacific beyond. The western descent is abrupt and in a short time I arrive at sea level in the tiny village of Copequerco. The town gives way to groups of rustic farmer huts lining a vast beach. As the mountains meet the sea squarely here, there is no easy way to travel the coast. Another climb up a washed out logging road opened to a magnificent view of the headland I would be surfing for the next few days. After another steep decent I had finally arrived in the tiny hamlet of Buchupureo.
Buchupureo is nestled in the southern end of a massive cove. A small river meets the ocean there and the combination of rivermouth and long point set-up catches lumbering swells from the stormy southern oceans and sends them reeling down the point for over 400 yards. The village itself is comprised of a handful of modest beach homes and La Joya del Mar, a small resort carved out of side of the beachfront slope . La Joya del Mar appears as if someone had plucked an elegant resort from the Italian Riviera and set it carefully onto this wild stretch of coast. The resort consists of 3 villas and a spacious restaurant/common area. The villas were cut into the hillside above the restaurant affording picture postcard views of the of the massive cove. They were large two-story affairs with living rooms, massive bedrooms with balconies and kitchenettes. The set-up also included a stylish pool and spa set on a terrace between the villas and the restaurant.
The trip was taking it’s toll and after a terrific meal of fresh seafood, pisco sours, and great local wines there was no trouble getting into bed, lulled to sleep by the rhythms of the distant surf.
In the predawn hours the gentle thundering of the surf revealed a certain cadence of quiet steady rumbles followed by a crescendo of loud, thundering sets every 10-15 minutes or so. Soon the nightime black slipped to the gray-blue of early morning. There was time for a long, relaxed pre-surf yoga session followed by slipping into a 4/3 wetsuit with booties. There were the makings for a cup of tea which helped chase away the morning chill as I walked out onto the terrace to check the point (La Punta). Misty green swells were peeling down the distant rocky ledge as the sun, rising slowly from behind the hills, cast a yellow-pink hue on the horizon beyond.
It was a short walk across the river to the beach followed by a healthy paddle out to the take-off zone. There was nobody else out yet I was not alone as I was visited by many curious seals unafraid to take a long stares at me. There was a small surf camp set up in a patch of sand between the rocks and I figured I would have company soon enough.
The wave at Buchupureo is a long, hollow fast left. It has numerous features and by no means a straightforward pointbreak. The first section is broad and fast. A bottom turn set too early results in a close-out…most of the time. Better to "down-the-line" it for the first 20 yards and then draw your bottom turn. That lines up a long, fast, feathering face to paint however you wish. The wall races steep and hollow most of the way with a surging jet-engine noise never far behind, always beckoning for a stall under the spilling lip. This can run easily for a couple of a hundred yards ending in the channel of the rivermouth. The take off zone can be reached either by paddling back out or walking on a steep goat trail a long the headland. Either way it will be hard to wipe the grin off your face heading back to the line up.
As the morning wore on, the sun rose higher and warmed my back. The wind completely died and the swell gradually kicked up creating ultra-clean, ruler-edged lines with sets throwing well-overhead. The water became a deep crystal green blue and teemed with life. Groups of dolphins surfed outside sets and I dared not drop in on them. Large male seals bleated loudly, claiming their territory as the echoes of their wails sounded from the cliff walls of the headland. I was soon joined by the surfer camped on the beach and was pleased for the company as my mind was beginning to consider some of the other "life" which these waters might be teeming with. Hans (Solo) was the only other surfer to be out that morning. I found out later that perhaps due to their fondness for Pisco Sours, the Chileans are not exactly morning people. Hans and I traded mind-bending waves for the rest of the morning. As my shoulders became sore from the long paddles out I kept heading back to the point for "just one more" until I was finally spent.
By now it was almost noon and I was reminded how terrific a hot shower can be after a long, cold session. I walked down to the restaurant where they had breakfast waiting for me. It began with a pitcher of fresh raspberry juice and continued on that theme of unique interpretations of fresh local fruits, home-baked cakes and breads all washed down with strong coffee. Chris, the owner, came over to say hello and talk about the surf. He and his wife, Dayna were a little busy since I had arrived, having just had their second child 10 days prior. He was being a good father and hadn’t surfed in weeks and was anxious to get out. It didn’t take long to learn that Chris and Dayna were special people having followed their bliss from California to create this remote sanctuary. The conversation turned from the surf, to the building of the villas, to wine and then to politics where most conversations end up. Eventuallly he needed to check on his family and I needed to do the same. It was time for a little reading and it wasn’t long before siesta time became apparent. Resting comfortably in an oversized bed, the cold, adrenaline-laced, streaks across heaving walls, clinging to life on a thin foam rail seemed worlds away. It occurred to me how incredibly transformative the act of surfing can be. Movement shifts from walking upright to prone paddling. On the go-out our brains sense the new-encountered energy around it and instinctively alter the body’s chemistry, flooding it with compounds which increase endurance, sharpen focus and heighten balance. The make-up is vastly different from that which occurs in one’s system when on land. Sensory and cognitive worlds also shift dramatically. The human form has such a vast array of abilities. Surfing unlocks the numerous physical and cognitive skills left otherwise dormant through the course of one’s daily routine. It is upon drawing upon a greater range of our potentials that we, as humans, achieve a sense of fulfillment. Perhaps this is why I dozed off for siesta feeling a deep and thorough sense of satisfaction.
The view from the villa was magnificent. The large windows were framed in simple white wood trim which gave each view a postcard feel. In front of one of the windows was a raised platform, about 8 feet square, covered with a plush carpet and a couple of pillows. Whether by intent or not, I do not know, but it was the perfect yoga set up. Afternoons were henceforth relegated to long, meditative yoga sessions, great for the mind and necessary for the body as the evening surf would soon follow. The Chilenos had finally woken up and the afternoon session was much more crowded, but still manageable. Surfers of all types were picking off the glassy lefts…young guns on thrusters, soul surfers on fish, a gang of spongers and husky old-timers picking off outside bombs. Patience and etiquette were the rule which was fine with me as the morning’s session had yet to fully wear off. The headland, by now, had also served as a gallery of watchers and photographers. I was happy to see Chris in the line-up, this was his first surf in weeks due the birth of his child, and he was absolutely ripping. I was most captivated, by the twin-keel fish, these boards seemed to drop and skate across this wave more harmoniously than the others. I made a mental note of this for the next trip. I sat outside with the old-timers and managed to pick off a few choice bombs while still giving them all the waves they wanted. The waves were incredible and, having the break wired now, the drops were made more precisely, the bottom turns were drawn more gracefully and I was familiar enough with the wave to set a nice trim line and just flow with the wave, flow with the quarter-mile, glassy, cool-evening-long-green wave. Walking back to the villas I could smell the savory pignon smoke which settled in the cove as the locals fired up their wood-stoves for the cold night ahead. As I got closer I noticed the smoke curling from the chimney in my villa as well. The staff, knowing I’d soon finish the evening session in the cold, had stoked up my woodstove and had the villa nice and toasty upon my return. As incredible as the food, wines and design are at La Joya del Mar, it was this basic comfort they provided which formed the most lasting impression. So it went for three days. The routine outlined above didn’t vary much…surf, yoga, food, wine, woodsmoke. I had left the crowded small waves of an East Coast summer for the cold waters of Southern Chile finding fulfillment in them and perhaps gaining an understanding as to why.
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