Finca Popoyo

After a few weeks of heavenly Indian Summer days, it’s clear now that change is in the air. The days are getting shorter while early mornings and nighttime hours begin to cool noticeably. The swells have begun to pack a little more oomph as water temperatures continue to plummet. Foliage has already started to pick up vibrant shades of orange and red as the slow death characterized by winter bides its time with murderous intent. Predictably, the sun worshiper in me observes this yearly shift with a deep sense of loss. Deep down, I understand this process is inescapable, and that I should embrace the change. However, the advance of winter’s icy grip fills me with dread, just as it does every year around this time. 

On days like this, when my longing for an endless summer threatens to spoil my mood, all I can do is direct my attention somewhere else. To a place where the water temperatures require no neoprene, the sun blazes down with tropical benevolence, and I can spend my entire day, from sunup to sundown, in nothing but a pair of board shorts. A place like Nicaragua, where I was lucky enough to spend three weeks chasing waves and good vibes this past July. This is a snapshot of my time spent at Finca Popoyo on Nicaragua’s Pacific coast, where I found a colorful surf community that captured my heart. If you’re anything like me, and the wintertime blues have begun to threaten your internal skies, I hope this helps.

Mornings at Finca Popoyo follow a predictable pattern. Light offshore winds, propelled coastward by eddies powered by the sizable Lake Managua cool the tropical air and groom the consistent swells that peel across the ancient reefs that cover the coastline. Rabid surf junkies, such as Tommy Tsunami and Nica Greg assess the conditions from their preferred perches, anticipating the wake-up rush of the scalding cups of coffee that the employees of the beachside beacon are never in a rush to procure. 

Sitting on a wooden bench, Tommy lords over the handful of sleepy-eyed surfers, surveying the scene with well-practiced precision, eyeing the various set-ups as his German Shepard jostles and wrestles with the energetic stray Brindle adopted by the guardians of this popular pre/post surf gathering place.

“Tide’s sucking’ out, quick,” says the soft spoken elder statesman as the much welcomed offshore wind blows through his graying but sun-bleached locks, which lap at his boney shoulders. “I’d say things start cookin’ out there in no time.” 

Donald, the pint-sized ball of sinew who just waddled up sleepily isn’t so sure. “There’s potential, but it might go dry a little faster than I’d hoped,” he states with obvious dissatisfaction.

He squints as he gazes southward toward a series of left-hand reef breaks, whose treacherous teeth had recently chomped a section of his deeply tanned forehead. A silver cross bounces on his chiseled pecs as he restlessly squirms in his seat, the anticipation of caffeinated deliverance sending his nervous system into rhythmic spasms. He’s itching to get his feet in the wax of a fresh 5’0” custom-shaped blade that he will undoubtedly put to great use with a stylish goofy-footed approach that belies his proximity to life’s usually restrictive aging process.

There’s something about spending one’s golden years entrenched in a tropical paradise such as Nicaragua that offers old timers such as he and Tommy the ability to quench their thirst for aquatic thrills with uncanny grace and agility. Dylan, the portly security guard, bartender, and overall larger than life Nicaraguan, stirs from his slumber on his oversized hammock that lives smack dab in the center of the quaint restaurant as a bell rings out, signaling the arrival of the morning’s giant vat of tasty coffee, sending surfers scrambling to secure their supply of caffeinated holy water.

This morning marks my third day’s stay as the sole occupant of the two story edifice constructed to house a great number of guests at Finca Popoyo. I can’t say why there’s no-one sharing the beachside lodging located a stone’s throw from the water’s edge, but I’m not complaining. It’s no secret that surfers aren’t the biggest fans of crowds, and I’m no exception. The upper level of the establishment, a vast quarter of shared hostel space, offers a sweet bargain at merely $20 a night for thrifty travelers prepared to endure the snores and stirrings of fellow sojourners. Initially tempted, I opted to stake claim to the private, air-conditioned chambers at ground level, however cramped. 

Being the lone tenant of this well-worn establishment, I wouldn’t have to worry about the stomping of feet of budget-minded tenants above, allowing me uninterrupted sleep and single-minded consideration of the friendly cooks, bartenders, and maids who eke out a modest living at the usually bustling premises. 

The previous night, I’d lulled myself to sleep reading 11/22/63, an engrossing tale of time travel written by my favorite author, Stephen King. I must have nodded out merely an hour after sundown. Without companionship to pass the time, and thoroughly torched by the blazing Central American sun, retiring at such an early hour made perfect sense, especially with the promise of another day sampling the dying swell. Unlike Don, the playful surf I see this morning has got my heart singing as I mind-surf the turquoise rollers peeling invitingly across the lineup.

As I sip my coffee and banter with my newfound friends, my eyes repeatedly stray to an outside reef that was beginning to come alive a mere 200 feet from the peak that everyone’s attention is focused on. It was a lurching left-hand slab breaking over a shallow reef that appeared to go dry in places. When I ask about this undoubtedly treacherous zone, Tommy is matter-of-fact. 

“Yeah, guys surf it,” he says. “But I think they’re a little nuts, personally. Most wear helmets because of the reef. I like to stick to the inside section, but I’m sure you could pull it off if you wanted to give it a go.”

Despite his ominous description, the inner masochist and adrenaline junkie in me begins salivating as I watch more and increasingly below-sea-level pits unload gouts of spit as they fold over the shallow reef. With that fire comes a wave of trepidation and self-doubt. What happened if I got slammed on the reef? A terrifying scene began to play out in my head- myself, covered in bandages, hooked up to an assortment of wires and tubes in a dingy Nicaraguan hospital bed. I shudder and self medicate with a giant gulp of coffee, banishing the negative thoughts as I march with intent back to my room to prepare for war.

The first step in my preparation is my tedious skincare ritual. I cake a liberal amount of thick mineral sunscreen on my face and go through a few quick stretches as it absorbs into my skin. Then a liberal coating of tinted Zinc Oxide over my entire face, lips, and ears. Next, I play “Intolerance” by Tool and wax my board in a frenzy of excitement. Finally, I wax my feet for good measure, down a large glass of water with electrolytes, and burst out of my quarters. After a quick jog through the restaurant area, I descend the steps leading to the water’s edge.

When I reach the sand, I look up to see Eduardo hailing me.

“Fuerte amigo!” he hollers and flexes his bicep in a show of strength. I drop my board on the sand and do my best, “Randy the Macho Man Savage” flex, sending the jovial groundskeeper into a series of subdued chuckles. As I secure my leg rope by the high tide line, I lift my head in time to see Johnny elegantly forming his way through a series of critical backhand bottom turns on a dreamy left-hand runner on the inside. Spurred into action, I wade through the sand bottom channel quickly yet mindfully, as to not stub a toe on the treacherously exposed reef.

After a few paces, I dive into the water, submerging my head for a moment to allow the energy of the ocean to help fully wake up both mind and body. Man, that feels good! I mount my 5’11” Travis Reynolds “Summer Squash” model and begin my paddle out. Once near to the action, I have a front row seat to Don styling his way through a rail-heavy carve that sends stinging spray into my face. Looks like Don’s board works pretty damn well after all! 

Once I reach the lineup, I exchange pleasantries with the other surfers in the mix and paddle up to Tommy. Just as I reach him, I see a head-high mutant left unload on the outer reef, producing a meaty cavern that, to me, looks totally makeable. Heavy, but makeable.

“I think I’m going to give it a sniff,” I tell Tommy decidedly.

“Go for it,” he says, motioning with his hand.“Whether you go right or left, it’s a backdoor situation. You’ll have to be deep, so paddle as hard as you can. You’re gonna need all the help you can get to negotiate that steep drop.”

I nod intently and put my head down, motoring full speed towards my destiny. The paddle out isn’t too far and within five minutes, I arrive at the inside section of the reef. Damn. They weren’t joking, there’s barely any water out here at all! I find a deep spot on the shoulder to watch a few set waves detonate over the comically shallow reef, noting possible entry points and visualizing what it would take to successfully thread the gurgling pits on hand. Inch by inch, I begin to paddle up to the take off zone.

After paddling over a series of swirling boils, I peer over my shoulder to gauge my proximity to the crew trading off waves back at the inside reef, desperately hoping that, should I suffer a bad wipeout once I commit to a wave, someone would have the ability to rush to my aid. In any case, I’m reminded that even should they get to me promptly, true medical assistance would entail a long drive somewhere with trained doctors and staff. Gulp. 

I turn back toward the slab in time to see a menacingly imperfect set wave hit the bowl at the wrong angle, creating a drop that Kelly Slater himself would be hard pressed to execute successfully. I close my eyes and begin practicing some deep breathing before paddling the rest of the way out. During the first fifteen minutes, all I can do is wait nervously, constantly glancing over my shoulder towards shore to keep myself lined up with any recognizable landmarks. While the ideal takeoff zone doesn’t change from wave to wave, it’s clear to me now that the angle of some of the swells varied—choosing the wrong wave would put me in a spot of bother that I wasn’t eager to experience firsthand.

The offshore breeze, although light, provides another challenge, as the extra wind resistance would require me to take a number of extra forceful paddles to allow myself in early enough to knife the steep drop. Finally, a wave comes my way that looks just right. No turning back now. I put my head down and paddle furiously, praying that my instincts will guide me into the perfect position for a tube ride of a lifetime. Everything seems to be going my way until the moment I pop to my feet.

The bottom drops out. I’m launched into the air and all I can see under me is a vortex of roiling ocean and the dark shade of the shallow reef below. 

Boom. I hit the water with a violent smack and darkness ensues. As I’m being rag-dolled underwater, I keep anticipating the sickening sound of flesh connecting with stone, yet after a few endlessly long moments, I pop up to the surface, unscathed. I don’t hit the reef, but I may as well have. I gasp to pull back in some of the precious air that’s been so forcefully knocked out of me. I don’t have much time to collect myself, as the second wave in the set is coming my way with breakneck speed. Without time to jump back on my board, I dive deep underwater, just as the lip is about to connect with my head. Crisis averted, for now. 

Once I pop up from that churning maelstrom, it’s time to get back on my board to collect myself. Now the adrenaline is really pumping. I motor back out to the takeoff zone and begin to steel my nerves for another attempt. I realize that, if I want to make these comically challenging drops, I’m going to have to paddle even harder next time around. After ten more minutes of patience, a large set begins to head my way. It’s now or never!

This time, I make sure I give myself a few extra digs before attempting to rise to my feet. It’s a good thing I do, because this wave is almost twice the size of the one before. I get to my feet and proceed to plunge deep into the bowels of the angry wave. As I do so, time begins to slow down, giving me time to think of all the mundane things one ponders while risking life and limb, such as what my dog was currently doing back in California and whether or not he’d need a nail trim once I made it home. 

As my fins reconnect with the surface of the wave, I’m able to point my nose towards the channel and absorb the impact of the drop. With that supernatural sense that every experienced surfer comes to rely on in situations like this, I know I’m good to go. From there, I go on auto-pilot as I pump through section after section. Right before the wave goes dry on that deadly end section, a firehose strength plume of spit blasts me out of the tube. As I straighten out, I feel my fins scrape the bottom, prompting me to cover my face with my hands in a potent mixture of relief and disbelief. Goosebumps all over.

I’m then bucked off my board and tossed to the bottom like a child’s plaything. This time I feel my feet, then legs, being raked mercilessly over the sharp reef, but no pain registers. I just got one of the best tubes of my life and at that moment wouldn’t have felt a hammer to the pinky toe, much less a few pesky scrapes. As I’m being pulverized by the powerful whitewater I feel my leash snap, but it doesn’t matter. I’d accomplished my mission.

Ten minutes later, I finally approach the shallows, where my battered board was dry-docked like a pathetic shipwreck. I stagger to my feet, tip-toeing around urchins and ankle breaking gaps in the reef. Blood is pouring from my wounds, however, with the adrenaline still pumping, I hardly notice. I limp up the beach to find Eduardo busily chopping some branches with his rusty machete. He looks up from his work, glances at my crimson stained legs and feet and asks me a simple question, “Como fue?”

I smile devilishly and shrug.

 “I got a couple,” I say nonchalantly.

He shakes his head and sighs. “Crazy gringo”.

For more on Finca Popoyo, follow their Instagram account @fincapopoyo