Where the Clock Doth Not Tick

SAT 4: Puerto Malabrigo/Chicama

8.14.25

Part 1

El Cruce

What is that? It’s not so much something as it is its lack. Lack of noise, of time, of date. The clock doth stop its tick. Those pressures recede and leave a wide space full of small, small things.

A fishing boat slides along the ocean’s shining surface. A lone man moves on deck and a single gull circles above. His pointed bow cuts through the afternoon heat. In town, dogs nap on sun warmed stones in the center of the street. Trujillos are sipped in shaded doorways, their empty bottles filling boxes surrounded by weathered men on plastic chairs. Where is there to be? Why rush? Lunch will be served when it comes, the store will open when it does. Somewhere a machine hums, low and faint. It used to make something but what, we’re not so sure.

El Caballero.

This is Puerto Malabrigo. Home to Chicama, ‘the world’s longest left’ and the reason I came to this small town in Northern Peru. But the pace is why I stay. There’s magic to it and this seems to be the tale of the town. The wave attracts and the calm keeps. Katia, Victor, Renato, Deny. Two now own hostels and live here full time. One returns annually for the past 27 years. The fourth, like me, just can’t seem to leave. I hear more stories like this every day.

To be sure, the wave is a strong pull. On the south side of a long bay, lefts peel around a rocky point. If you’re lucky enough to catch one from top to bottom, the walk takes around 25 minutes. When there’s swell, the bay fills with its long marching lines, 8 to 10 soldiers deep. I frequently catch three waves in the same set: Pull out, scrape to the corner, catch the one behind. Dive off, panting as your legs burn, and repeat. I thought that was a myth. A wave that could make your legs quiver and your hips lock, tired enough to force you stick straight, mid-wave, to rest. This is a batting cage for goofy-foots. And this is just El Point, the final section. There are two more coves just above where waves peel one after the other. The full walk, nuts to bolts, takes 45 minutes to an hour. Tide dependent, sometimes it's the Cape, Las Tetas, El Hombre. These are a few of Chicama’s different sections and one of them always seems to be working. A Malecon runs along the bluff that watches the bay. It’s well paved, paid for by surf tourism and lined with sparsely occupied hostels, hotels and cevicherias. Time spent out of the water is spent telling whoever will listen to look at the set.

Te Amo.

I spent the first week alone in a hotel with a view of El Point. The first day I spent half sick and the next three, surfing, writing and wandering about town. A swell came and went. I made some new friends and played translator for a Limeño and a fellow Californian. We turned a restaurant into a karaoke bar and closed that shit downnnn.

It was only 11pm.

The swell was predicted to drop in the coming days, and my hotel reservation had run its course. A family of Peruvian pros recommended I head down to Huanchaco as it faded. Wave energy here was magnified there. The same concept applied at Pacasmayo, a heavy, powerful, windswept, left I’d been hearing rumors about since my arrival. I spent the following 24 hours driving myself up a wall deciding what to do.

In between my needless worries, I had two incredible sessions. Sessions full of long canvas walls that sped up, opened and sped up yet again. This was a wave that encouraged close, patient reading and rewarded fluid surfing. A place to slow down and practice. My final ride of the evening took me further down the beach than usual and sent me scampering up the stairs in the dark. I walked back past the shuttered shops along the Malecon and into a guy I recognized. A Brazilian with a thick gray beard and a face still covered in zinc. He was nestled into the corner of a hostel patio with a mate in hand. We’d silently shared first tracks at 7 that morning. He rode a fresh, green railed, highlighter yellow fish. I admired the lines he drew through the gray dawn. Flashing color brought splashes of spray, the product of his smooth, unhurried style and arcing lines. Still dripping wet, we discussed the day's sessions. I mentioned my deliberation and prodded him for his opinion. Stay or go? In what I would soon learn was signature Renato, he made the wise, ever so gentle suggestion, that if I stayed, I might just score some good waves.

I moved into their hostel the next morning and Renato, Virgilio and I surfed like a pack of rabid dogs for the next 8 days. It would turn into the best week of surfing in my life.

To be continued…