After getting the motos sorted along with fixing Scott's eagerness to listen to literally anything other than reggaetón, we hit the road from Santiago to Pichilemu to suss out a rumoured 1km wave. Upon checking the forecast, we realised the waves would be a pumping 3m over the few days we'd be in town. Although not quite as big as Pat's ego, the waves were nevertheless far too Grande for our limited experience. Making sensible decisions isn't our forte, so we rode to the coast despite having the inklin' that one of us would likely drown.
Deciding to camp on a small grassy patch on the on-ramp to a freeway on the way to Pichi yet again highlights our lack of brain cells. We snuggled up and settled to sleep to the soothing sounds of trucks and horns. At 2am in the morning, some police officers shone their torches intensely into the confused and scrubby faces of three sleeping Aussies. We awoke to a series of questions most likely something along the lines of ‘what the actual f*** are you doing camping here you spastic gringos'. Sleepily saying we're just three Australians on a moto trip heading to Pichi for a surf seemed to make enough sense and they were on their way again.
Waking up again to the distant sounds of reggaetón playing in almost every car and truck, I realised that my wallet had got upset with me and run off into the abyss. That, or I left it unattended at a petty station in a sketch area of Santiago, it's likely the former…
Three bikes and two wallets then set off again to the coast. Halfway through the ride, another bloke on a moto en route to Pichi pulled up and said g'day. Turns out this bloke is a board shaper from Santiago and has a house down on the coast. He welcomed us to stay at his place and said he'd introduce to his mates down at the surfboard hire shop for a ripper cheap deal. You bloody beauty.
Three became four as we punched the rest of the ride to the coast to get a glimpse of the mammoth waves we'd soon be getting intimate with. No time was wasted getting out, although I wish it was. We got hooked up with super cheap boards and a wetty and nervously tiptoed to the point. The relationship between ourselves and La Puntilla (the break we were surfing) was short lived and extremely one-sided. She pummeled us from all angles, in very unpleasant ways, comparable to the way we treat Lachie over here.
Despite feeling like a ragdoll inside a washing machine on full psycho mode, we managed to snag some pretty epic waves that carried us almost into shore. Though those waves were limited, it was bloody worth the beating we copped. Momentarily spending some time on the face of a beautifully peeling wave gave us the motivation to have a few more cracks over the next coupla days. We're slow learners and this was particularly evident as we paddled out the next morning and afternoon, spending most of the time underwater as 8ft waves made easy work of our tired bodies.
We enviously spent the time between our surfs watching the big guns shred out at Punta De Lobos. The waves were pumping as the brave guys and girls wrapped in 5mm of neoprene tore it up on 10ft+ waves.
After a coupla days, Pichi had given us a spanking so it was time to get cracking on towards the deserts and mountains again. We left feeling rather humbled by Pacha Muma, and there's something satisfying about that. Having very limited control in certain environments is belittling in the best of ways. Having a solid crack and getting out there was a damn dream despite feeling pretty nervous about it. It's always worth it.