The wind whipped the palms into a permanent 70 degree slant as we walked Calle 70 with boards in hand and on heads to check the surf. Still several blocks from the coast line, Yaya pointed to the ocean where the whites of the waves jumped up in anticipation of us...”hay olas, grandes!”. My heart was like a puppy dog with its tail wagging fast enough to almost fall off in excitement for it’s owner arriving home. After the anxiety of walking across boarders with gear and boards and passports that were possibly not welcomed, I was finally home, I was at the sea! This sea I had been reading articles about for the last 6 months, stories of arrests for surfing its waves on hand crafted refrigerator door foam surf boards, stories void of women until Yaya and her slowly growing crew of fearless females took their first paddle out. Now we are part of the story, we are joining the in the history of not just surfing in cuba, but women surfing in cuba!!!!
The scene at Calle 70 is one of anticipation, excitement, and most profoundly the sense of family. Old 50’s style cars of green, blue, and red pull up with boards jerririgged to the roof. Surf gear and skate boards cover the grassy knoll separating the hotel parking lot from the rocky reef coastline. There is no worry of gear theft as everyone here is family. Everyone embraces with hugs and kisses as their eyes stay locked to the sea. This is Calle 70, this is the Havana Surf club, this is family.
The sea is an energetic mess of random washermachine breaks crashing down 7ish ft of walled up face with just enough of time to pop off the back of the wave and save your board and body from puncture wounds by the rocky reef suddenly jetting upward. As I suit up, the crew start giving me pointers in spanish;
“dont be there, there, or there, its shallow reef, will break your board, paddle out down there only and by the time you make it past the break the current will have you at the surf-able zone. Right there, and ONLY there, with in that 3 ft gap marked by the palm tree, is where you get out. Wait for a big wave and jump out over the exposed rock, you have to time it right, not there but there, don’t hesitate, GO!!!”
So basically there was one spot to enter the water and another single spot to exit. Everywhere else guaranteed cuba reef tattoos somewhere on your body and board. I successfully entered the water text book status. Got stung by a jelly, caught a wave, and successfully gave my body and board some high quality reef tattoos...3 jagged chunks of skin missing from my foot, ankle and knee and 7 gouges on my board that should have been my body.
Now, months later, the scars do not remind me of the jagged reef awaiting my return, or the washer-machine waves that drop out below your feet. The scars make me smile and give me hope as I remember my surf family in the water. I have never paddled out into an all male line up and automatically felt part of the crew, and equal participant in the fun, all united and one in the water. Competition, slanted eyes, or snaked waves were replaced by whistles of excitement when a rogue wave was spotted rolling in, yells of “va va va va” (“go go go go”) as the lucky person in the perfect alignment for the wall of water paddled hard, and hoots of joy for every pop up, cut back spray, and wipeout down the waves unpredictable road. We were all on the same team. Yipping and cheering each other on as we all faced our fears of the shore and paddled into the close-outs. The ocean was nothing but pure waves of joy.
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