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02/25/10

We didn’t exactly go off the grid, but we did go close enough to sit on the edge of it, wiggle our toes in the spicy air and imagine what it would be like. You could go off the grid here in Charleston, I suppose. I know a few people around here who have never been on it. But off the grid, as I imagine it, would be somewhere more exotic.

One of the advantages of being a surfer is that it simplifies the process of choosing an island. There either is surf or there isn’t. If there is, then it becomes a matter of defining the size potential, crowds, aquatic danger, etc. etc. Way down on the list are such things as accommodations, electricity and other creature comforts. A successful surf trip requires only one key ingredient — waves. An extraordinarily simple formula.

So you have to admire our courage when Vinnie and I decided to ask Mrs. Vinnie and Mrs. Blog to come along with us. Because, although we love them dearly, our wives don’t usually see things through that same lens, which complicates the formula immensely. And it’s not as if either one of them is some innocent ingenue, either. Over the (dare I say 35) years the poor things have sat on some godforsaken shore/rock/pier/car hood waiting for us to slake our surf lust, they have been almost carried off by libidinous natives, trampled by herds of wild ponies, devoured by biting flies, slithered over by snakes, shredded by wind, pooped on by birds, drowned by rain and blistered by the sun. Just to name a few.

I know this is going to sound selfish, but it’s pretty hard to enjoy a surf session when your wife is being torn to pieces and eaten by hungry animals. All the shrieking, running and thrashing about on the shore makes it hard to concentrate on your bottom-turn-off-the-top combo. Damned bad form, if you ask me. At least they could have the decency to be devoured quietly.

In any event, the poor creatures have known what they are up against for decades and are pretty much old hands when it comes to a surf trip. So we fulfilled the criteria for what we thought would provide the best waves, and Vinnie and I, being consummate gentlemen, chose an island with a fairly decent chance of hot water, electricity and safe beds. Heck, Mrs. Blog and I even brought our own pillows from home. But we were completely surprised by the hazard that lay ahead.

You’ve probably heard about cases where man has intruded on nature and introduced some foreign species which then becomes invasive. Well, our little dot of paradise was completely overrun by a monster that is scientifically known as gallus gallus domesticus. Yep, chickens. Now, those of you who know me well will know that I have quite a bit of history with this particular species of bird. It is actually pretty quaint to have them running around underfoot at the ferry docks, restaurants and beaches. But it is another thing entirely at 4 a.m. when every rooster on the island starts crowing fervently.

Shakespeare had it wrong. Macbeth didn’t murder sleep. Roosters did.

Free-range alarm clock. (Photo/Surfblogger)

It looked to me, at least in the places that served visitors, that fish was the main menu item. I kept asking Mrs. Blog if she thought the locals ate any chicken. I know by the third day, I was ready to eat chicken at all three meals. It was most unpleasant to have my body battered by surf and then sufficiently balmed by rum only to be awakened a couple of hours before daylight by some over-amped McNugget calling to his jungle-fed paramours. Vinnie kept urging me to take them out with rocks, but it would be my luck that the locals would catch me sneaking around their backyards in the dark with a handful of dead chickens. Suppose there’re so many roosters because they have been deified and are ardently worshipped?

Who knows what tortures a bunch of angry Rastafarians would subject me to after I killed a bunch of their gods? I’m too skinny to provide a satisfactory roast, but I could be easily carried to the edge of the cliff and thrown in. I shudder to think. But I’d make a pretty cool shrunken head, though. I’d be totally stylin’ to be this little head hanging from the rafter of some reef-side shack. Bone in nose, lips sewn shut, looking out over those glassy, turquoise bombs for all eternity. I don’t think I have enough hair left to be mounted in the traditional way, but perhaps they could give me some kind of miniature weave and hang me by my little purple dreadlocks. However, I digress.

Just another day not at the office. (Photo/Surfblogger)

So anyway, the other thing to deal with is the double-whammy you get when you go to Rooster Island. First, you have the guilty pleasure of being somewhere all turquoise and warm while everybody back home shivers through snowstorms and the like. And second, all those winter storms that are making everyone back home so miserable are going out into the deep Atlantic and spinning long-period groundswell right onto the exposed reefs and points that wait a thousand or more miles to the south. So while I felt both guilty and privileged to be on a tropical island, I was also dealing with some of the biggest, most consistent surf I’ve ever seen in my life.

I get caught inside and worked just about every time I surf. It’s part of the sport. The new dimension for me was surfing off of a rock shoreline where there was no option of giving up the fight and going to the beach for a breather. You either made the wave and kicked out in the channel, or you didn’t and clawed your way back outside through the impact zone. I spent most of my sessions exhilarated that I made it, or terrified that I would be wailed across the coral heads and rocks that seemed so far away when I took off, but menacingly close when I fell.

I got quite a few scares and some bumps and scrapes, but never did get killed or anything. I think it was because I didn’t charge it on the biggest days, I kinda hung on the shoulder and dodged the macker sets. Which is pretty frustrating. Because I do way more surfing in my head than I do in the water, and that little movie always stars me charging it on days that look exactly like the waves I was ducking. So I spent several after-surf evenings fairly humbled. Whoever invented rum was a genius.

We were already talking about coming back to Rooster Island before we even got on the ferry to leave. But, more important, we were talking about why we were leaving in the first place and how we could figure out a way to stay. I’m thinking the restaurant business looks pretty good to me: Colonial Surfblogger’s Jungle-Fed Fried Chicken. Your kids will dig the free shrunken head that comes in the Happy Meal.