Tatchu Surf Adventures: media SECTION - Wilderness Surfing is Smelly Business

Wilderness Surfing is Smelly Business

By Brad Foster

NOOTKA ISLAND — I was stunned when my guide, Clay Hunting, pointed to two grey whales frolicking in the very waves we were about to enter. “Do we have to surf right there?” I asked, gazing down the length of pebble beach. It looked like there were several whale-free options.

“This is where we bring all our beginners,” Hunting replied. “The waves are always a nice size and there’s a clean exit to the beach. Don’t worry about the whales. They won’t hurt you.”


	Hurt? I wasn’t thinking hurt. What about getting a nudge in a downward direction, or being mistaken for a fleshy beach ball? According to Hunting, this kind of wildlife activity was commonplace, but it made me anxious. I had surfed on the west side of Vancouver Island before, near Tofino, but here on the exposed shores of Nootka Island things felt different, wilder: the waves larger, the wind more ferocious, and my sense of isolation more complete. There were whales in the water, for Christ’s sake! What other large, possibly carnivorous, creatures lurked beneath its surface? The power and danger of the wilderness were palpable. By comparison, Tofino seemed a distant and benign little playground. My protestations were useless. I was here to surf, and Hunting, used to the jitters of soft-skinned urbanites, wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Get ready,” he said, calmly handing me a wet suit. That morning I had awoken to the sound of crashing waves. The pebble beach outside my door seethed with each surge, rain spattered nosily on the tin roof, and a strong southeast wind flapped the thick plastic sheeting covering the windows. With each gust the small cedar cabin shuddered. With the call of nature mercilessly prodding me from my warm sleeping bag, I slipped into a pair of resident rubber boots, exited the cabin, and shuffled straight to the nearest bush. The ocean was a foamy mess and appeared in no mood to entertain. It didn’t look like a great day for surfing. It was my second morning of a three-day wilderness surfing excursion, and I knew I was already late. Hunting and Silvi Rauter, my guides and the owners of the Nootka Island–based Tatchu Surf Adventures, had subtly let me know they were early risers. Hunting’s insistence that I “relax” had relative meaning, especially coming from a guy who spends his days hand-milling wood, building tree houses up 500-year-old spruce trees, and exploring the 71,000-hectare expanse of wilderness that makes up Nootka and Kyuquot sounds. Hunting has spent years searching this area by plane and boat for the ultimate surfing spots. He and Rauter are also passionate about protecting its pristine nature. My cabin, the Surf Shack (named this, I now realize, because of its precarious location next to the actual surf), was on the southwest side of Nootka Island above a small creek flowing into the Pacific. After a few slurps from the creek, I was on my way to the main camp of Canada’s only wilderness surf school, half a kilometre down the beach. My boots crunched through the pebbles and I gazed in appreciation at the pounding surf and the old-growth forest lining the shore. Then, as I stooped to examine a strange-looking species of seaweed, I noticed footprints. My heart froze. They were wolf tracks about the size of my hand. My head shot up. I glanced nervously up and down the beach. It must be near, I thought, probably stalking me from beneath the forest canopy. I gulped. My pace quickened. When you’re alone in true wilderness, superstition easily replaces rational thought. I reached the Tatchu base camp, sweating but intact. From his deck, Hunting hollered, “Did you see that wolf? It passed by here just before you. Big one, too. Looked hungry.” Funny guy. From the beach a three-metre wall of thickly tangled salal creates the illusion that the camp is built on the ground, but in fact Hunting has fashioned an idyllic retreat that feels straight out of Middle Earth. Two exquisite, one-room tree houses with decks sit perched two metres above the forest floor. They give a clear view of the ocean and the surrounding forest. By September, Hunting hopes to have completed both tree houses and one large main building that will act as a dining location and collection point for large groups. The entire facility will be run on energy resources such as solar power, simply because there is no alternative. Sitting in the tree house, munching on a breakfast of muesli, yogurt, and fruit, washed down with strong coffee, we discussed living in such isolation and the peculiarities of the surfing culture. I was particularly interested in the notion of surfing territory and the lengths to which surfers will go to protect it. Hunting has a list of international clients who visit him every year because he knows where to find the serious waves—some, according to him, comparable to the big kahunas of Hawaii and the South Pacific. “We are about the soul of surfing. People come here because of the isolation and to connect with nature,” Hunting said. “The Tofino scene is about fashion, getting laid, and being seen. We are the antithesis to that.” Sensing his reluctance to discuss hot surf spots, I pressed him further. “Tell me, Clay, where are the big waves?” Silence. “Tell me, Clay, what would happen to me if I discovered your best spots and then told everyone?” Eyeing his double-edged axe leaning just inches from the breakfast-table table, he matter-of-factly replied: “Surfing can be a dangerous sport.” On the beach, I struggled with my wet suit, hopping around, awkwardly forcing my gangly frame through the holes of a neoprene garment seemingly built for a dwarf. I glanced nervously out at the water, straining to detect the position of the whales sharing our surfing space. I thought they had disappeared until a giant fluke appeared and slowly sank back into the sea. I zipped the suit, mustered my courage, and prepared to negotiate the intimidating shore break with my board. Then the force of this wild place hit me square in the nostrils. No, it wasn’t salt water. It was the excruciating stench of a whale belch. “Clay!” I yelped. “What in God’s name is that smell?” I could hear his cackles over the roar of the surf. “Just be glad it didn’t shit,” he called. The smell permeated every molecule of air. When surfing, there are certain natural challenges that one expects to contend with. Belching whales are not one of them. I knew my chances of actually standing on this floating plank were slim at best. Nevertheless, I positioned myself, belly down on the board. I could see a nice swell approaching. I paddled furiously, trying to match the wave’s speed. Within seconds I was lifted and the wave began to break. I jumped to my knees and then to my feet, wobbling like an infant. I was surfing. I was communing with nature. I was the wolf. I was the whale. I was the tree. Then I was launched headfirst into the wash. I surfaced, coughed, and smiled broadly at my good fortune. It was a good day to surf. Brad Foster Karyo Communications 2nd Flr. - 1035 Cambie St. Vancouver, B.C., V6B-5L7 www.karyo.net t: 604-623-3007 f: 604-687-4304
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