30.5

Finding a hole through the jungle to a hidden two-track, we bump past equestrians and shotgun-toting security. After a few minutes, the trail ends. Blinding white sand. The sort of blue water that has you questioning any allegiance you might have to tropical Pacific waypoints. A handful of beach creatures are lazing in the morning sun. Out on the reef, a three-wave set stands up, finds its footing, and offers itself up to the scant handful of surfers who chase one another into the bay.

It’s theoretically possible to surf the same swell event from Mossel Bay all the way up to the Mozambique border in the north, a stretch of more than a thousand miles that’s home to a succession of right-hand points. Here and now, that’s precisely our plan.

Rescued off Ahe atoll on day 13 of a five-day voyage, exhausted and with blistered hands, swollen eyeballs, and tales of fending off hungry sharks, he claimed to have sailed more than 600 miles total.

In the lineup, we were governed by a set of indelible surf laws and etiquette. Those on the cliffs taking pictures were not.

Looking at Perrott’s photos, there’s the sense that part of their uniqueness is in this choice and mastery of his equipment. For example, his use of those long lenses has an effect that separates his work from the close-cropped action that dominated the period. Perhaps Perrott was sensitive enough to understand that if he could document surfers without them knowing it, then he could capture the true essence of the individual riding waves.

I wouldn’t want the surfing to be how it was back then, but we certainly had a lot more fun. Well, I say “fun” and people only see this crazy side that gets kind of glorified, but there really was a cost to that.

Strindberg seems to tap into something that’s fundamental with surfers: the deep, longing, exploratory stare.