Monday, May 25, 2009

Taylor's Travels: Jeffery's Bay

When the guard opened the gate and I entered the property for the first time, I felt like Shoeless Joe Jackson emerging from the corn and onto the Field of Dreams. My version though, cause instead of being in Iowa, I was in South Africa. And instead of overlooking a baseball field, I was standing above a wave I’d dreamed of since I first stepped on a surfboard.

To call Cheron’s place a “surf house” is like calling Death Valley “dry” or Angelina Jolie “cute.” An understatement. Every adjective in the thesaurus couldn’t capture the degree to which it oozes surf.

I came to stay there the same way I came by most of my good fortune in South Africa—Twiggy. Well, actually Twiggy’s girlfriend, Kate, cause he’s never around (this time he was in Chile winning a big wave competition). Kate connected me with Chio (Twig’s cousin) and Gumby in St. Francis. When the surf picked up Gumby and I relocated to Chio’s mom’s house—and oh my, what a house.

For a surfer, there are few homes in the world with such perfect location, location, location as this one in Jeffery’s Bay. It sits proudly at the top of the point at Supertubes, the most famous point break on earth. So close, in fact, that when the waves are big the water reaches the base of the property. Wake-up to first wave takes ten minutes. I mean, it’s so close you could throw a bar of wax at the people about to paddle out! (Seriously though, why would you do that? Not cool). Beyond Supers, through the floor to ceiling windows, you can see Magnas and Boneyards, Super’s sibling waves that, if not for their overachieving older sister, would likely be destinations by themselves. Yep, doesn’t get much better.

I’ll spare you the bedroom and bath numbers—in part cause I couldn’t be bothered to count, but mostly cause it doesn’t matter—the place transcends standard real estate specs. With its location (right on top of Supertubes, I mentioned that, right?) I woulda been content curling up in my surfboard bag fighting off Puff Adders. But this house, as one can imagine (especially one who skipped straight to the photos), was more than a slight upgrade from Dakine digs.

The two-story compound shapes a U so that every room faces the ocean and accepts the rising sun’s warmth like black pavement on a summer afternoon. I’ll tell you, waking up to the sunrise over a six foot set at J-Bay is as good as you’d imagine. In the living room there are two sets of couches; one overlooking the waves and one facing the T.V. If the waves are pumping, there’s no way you’re in the latter set. In between wave watching, you can flip through any of the latest surf mags from around the world. Or delve into the dozens of signed and numbered coffee table surf books that don’t fit on the coffee table, so they’re spread around the place like little treasures waiting to be discovered. Don’t feel like reading? Me neither. Just stare blankly at wooden collectors surfboards that hang out in the corners, or up at the stunning chandelier—no crystal here, it’s made entirely of beach glass.

Not that you’d want to, but you simply can’t escape the sand and surf at this place. Digging into what would be an Apple Upside-down Cake anywhere else is “Jordy’s Pudding” at Cheron’s, named after South Africa’s best surfer, because he once came back after a party and ate a whole pan of it. Or playing a game of foosball, about as far away from surfing as you can get, and your opponent mentions the tense matches that go down between heats when the contest is in town. Freddy P. is unbeatable. Occy is hopeless. But it doesn’t matter if you’re good or bad at foosball, a surf star or surf bum, if you are lucky enough to visit this magical house, Cheron will care for you like family.

Cheron came to Jeffery’s in the 70’s, fell in love with the sleepy, hippie town, and never left. She learned to sew and began making boardies and shirts for local and traveling surfers; the clothes were such a hit that she began her own brand, Country Feeling. Later, she brought Billabong to South Africa, building it so successfully that she beat out companies like Coca-Cola and Nike to receive South African brand of the year. Billabong has since bought her out, so she now splits her time running Country Feeling, a furniture store, and the town itself (the book, Jeffery’s Bay, calls her the unofficial mayor of Jeffery’s). Cheron and Jeffery’s are akin, both built around surfing.

On any given day, when the surf is pumping, people are constantly coming and going. Suiting up. Showering off. Snapping photos. Sipping tea and snacking before another surf. The chatter of great waves caught today and predictions for tomorrow is incessant. It’s like your local surf spot’s parking lot, only for VIP’s and VLP (Very Lucky People, I’m in this category).

In the evenings, people stop in to have a glass of wine and discuss logos and slogans for the Supertube Foundation. Cheron seeks everyone’s input and offers her own like “Make the letters thinner on that girly print. Girls won’t wear anything fat on their shirts, even letters.” Or a WCT surfer on break from the tour will come for dinner. Cheron seems to love the flow of people through the house. She is a consummate hostess, making sure everyone is well fed and comfy. It’s her hospitality that makes this surf house a surf home.

When the waves died and the wind switched onshore, it was time for me to move on. I said my goodbyes, hugged Cheron and thanked her. In her laid back, no worries sort of way she said, “My pleasure, you’re welcome back any time!”

I’m going back this week.

Friday, May 1, 2009

Writer's Block

I guess this is writer’s block, cause when I returned to Durban about a week ago, I had earnest intentions of posting another blog. My whirlwind first couple of weeks in Southern Africa had calmed to a cool breeze and I had experiences galore to document. But I leave Durban tomorrow, and paper is avoiding my pen like it’s filled with acidic ink.

For example, I wanted to write about the two faces of Mozambique I experienced. Tell you about the parties and crowds of Easter Weekend—beers for breakfast and the masses from Jo’burg. About the Afrikaner guy who good-naturedly swiped the beer out of this American’s hand, drank its remains, then bellowed to the barkeep, “Fucking Brandy and Coke…Double!” then made me chug it. How after the long weekend passed and the beaches emptied, I surfed the bluetiful white sand point break solo. I wanted to write about this, but American Idol was on and it was down to the top ten. Allison needed my support.

I wanted also to write about Adriaan, my new friend who I went to Mozambique with. Tell you about his slick ways of getting us to the front of what would have been a three hour border queue, talking fast to officials and distributing Red Bulls and chocolates to appease the people we cut in front of. I was going to tell you all about it, and man, you woulda loved this guy, but the scab on the back of my hand wasn’t going to pick itself.

If not for this damn writer’s block, I would have told you in stunning detail about my trip to Kruger National Park with my friend Lianne and her mother Maryanne. About the pride of lions that guarded the dead rhino from the pesky vultures, and how majestic the giraffes and elephants looked mere meters away from our car. Oh, and the description that never was, of us sipping tea on our front patio watching buffalo meander to the riverbank for a dawn drink? I assure you, you would have been transported to Africa. Been able to smell it. But my book was getting good; the main character, Oscar Wao, had just tried to kill himself. I couldn’t leave him alone.

Who knows, maybe I could have even worked in a couple of amusing moments. Like when Lesley’s four and half year old son, Dylan, asked on Election Day why people were voting again, didn’t Obama just become president? Or when Adriaan called Asian-American Rob “China” (South African equivalent of “Buddy”), only to be politely corrected that he was, in fact, Philipino. Jeeze, you woulda laughed. But cricket was on and I was just beginning to understand the rules. It’s like Baseball on Valium.

For a few days I intended to write about the series of people I’d met that lead me to these remarkable experiences: Jesse took me to a party at Greg’s house in San Clemente when I was 18. A few years later Greg introduced me to Twiggy on the bluff at Mavericks. When Twig heard I was coming to his hometown, he had his girlfriend Kate get me from airport, I could stay at their house. Kate said she’d arranged a ride for me to Mozambique with her old boss, Adriaan, if I so desired. I did, and joined Adriaan and a crew that included Lianne and Lesley; these amazing people responsible for the fun I was having. I was going to link everyone in a thoughtful, flowing way. Even had the first line in my head, “If ever I had doubts that relationships were the key to a rich life, my time in South Africa has squashed them.” I wanted to add to this, I really did. But I was meeting Adriaan at The Bush Tavern for lunch and beers. Priorities.

So I guess you’ll have to wait for this invisible enemy to surrender before I can conquer this blog again and provide you with a distraction from work. It seems South Africa is doing a good job of distracting me from mine.

Author’s Note: I realize that writing these blogs is not my work, but it’s the closest I’ve got at the moment, so just let me have it, ok? However, if anyone has any ideas of how I can make this my work, I’m all ears.