Warning: Serial Snaker On The Loose In Nicaragua

There’s always one.

Six people in the lineup. A fun, overhead, Lowers-esque peak. Enough punch to be fun without presenting a challenge.

Each set came with enough waves for everyone to get a taste, the odd “bomb” breaking outside and running all the way to the beach. Laughs and smiles and the sense of camaraderie among strangers the surf industry uses for marketing but seldom exists.

Except for one guy. Widow’s peak that doesn’t bode well for the future. Attitude that screams ‘Florida.’

He was roasting a mediocre middle-aged guy for getting in the way while paddling out. Sprint paddling from shoulder to shoulder while calling waves—I’m going left!

On the shoulder. Always on the shoulder. On offshore runners that would back off enough to let him fly if only he knew how to bottom turn.

Dropping in, back-paddling, surfing with a confidence surfers possess when they’ve clearly never seen footage of themselves on a wave.

Sitting inside, never taking sets, attempting blow tails that never came close to a make. Sit-down ‘gouges’ that let sections run by and not once came close to recovery. Flailing arm cutbacks that would have Curren spinning in his grave if the man weren’t alive and kicking.

A vibe that screams: I’ve come down for two weeks every Summer for the past ten years. Everyone make way for the local!

It’s a familiar look.

Like a schoolyard bully, he was difficult to ignore, but was obviously unwilling to follow through on his attitude. Sour grapes snowballing sections that were a cakewalk to dodge, backing down at eye contact and staying the fuck out of the way thereon. Complaining aloud to no one about the etiquette of others as he drifted out of position then sprint paddled around whoever was on the inside.

He’s one of thousands and if this trip is successful, and I convince you all that Nicaragua is safe, they’ll re-descend on the country like a ravenous mob.

Which might make me feel bad, if my intent were to help you score surf.

But it isn’t. It’s to put some money in the pockets of a group of people I like. To force some liquidity into an economy that’s feeling a sting. To pack the lineups, litter the ocean with no-talent garbage, and hopefully help the people of Nicaragua find a brighter future.

It’s an effort which, in the end, may backfire brilliantly. Because we surfers are too often truly awful human beings.

Even when we find exactly what we’re searching for we still manage to find a way to royally fuck it up.