El Salvador // K59


The morning of departure from our base in El Tunco arrived. We rose at 5am, set the coffee on the stove, layered up with suncream, waxed the boards, sipped at the rich caffeine filled treat swirling around in our mugs, and made our way through the quiet early morning street of El Tunco. Only the birds singing their morning songs and the dogs hauling themselves off the roadsides accompanying our morning reverie.

We surfed until 10am, right after right peeling across the line up. Smiles plastered across our faces. We only stopped because we knew if we left early enough, we might be able to squeeze in another morning surf at K59 before the arrival of the midday wind. We caught our last waves in, bidding an ‘Hasta luego amigos, nos vemos otra vez, estoy seguro!” to Dennis and his mates. We made tracks back up the volcanic sand beach where the heat of the sun had already scorched the surface. We bought our last papaya juice and quickly packed up our board bags before the heat of the day kicked in. We were ready for a ride over to the next stop on our trip.

El Salvador’s Pacific coastline is littered with limitless rocky right hand point breaks. We had researched the breaks before we arrived, reading up as much as we could about the various spots; where was heaviest (Punta Roca), which break had the busiest crowds (Tunco) and where was quietest, but we still never really knew quite what to expect.



El Salvador // El Tunco


Clare and I learnt to surf together back at university 7 or 8 years ago now. We would head down to the closest beach, mid-winter, head to toe in neoprene. Wetsuits too big. Gloves laced with holes, barely keeping our fingertips warm. We learnt to surf on the North coast, catching a ride wherever possible from the south. Neither of us had a car, it was our first year of uni, we didn’t really have a clue what we were doing but we headed out in the walls of white water anyway. I still remember running Clare clean over on my 8ft swell board as if it were only yesterday!



We swore to each other we would keep on surfing. We were hooked. The bitterly northerlies, and relentless whippings from the cold Atlantic failed to deter us. We were addicted, and from these early winter days, we both knew we were in it for the long haul. We promised ourselves, repeatedly over and over again, that we would get better. We would keep trying, keep practising, never giving up. We wanted to get out back, paddle past that great churning wall of white water the Atlantic threw at us day in, day out. We wanted to travel the world for surf, seeking out new destinations, tropical surf spots we had only read about. These goofy teenagers in their hole-ridden, rented wetsuits made a pact between themselves.


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