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Kitesurf Panama Print E-mail
Page 4 of 5


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Brazilian kiteboarder João Pedro Simonsen on deck for an afternoon kite session
THE NEXT DAY, WE STOP BRIEFLY at Zapatillo, a bean-shaped island less than 800 yards long. It marks the farthest distance we’ve ventured from Colón. At its northern tip, a triangular spit of beach protrudes from the tenacious jungle. A few riders rig their kites on the sand and get them aloft. The wind dies at once, and six mini Hindenburgs crumple into the sea. By evening, a hard rain is falling. It pummels the boat all night, making it difficult to sleep below. At dawn, it’s overcast and the air is rancid and steamy. We’re halfway through the trip, and soggy nights and windless days have silenced our group. Nobody wants to say what everyone is thinking: What if the expedition gets skunked?

But McClurg has a plan. “We’re going to Cusapín,” he informs us. “The wind has to be stronger there.” His rationale is its location: Cusapín is not an island but a village at the end of a craggy peninsula that juts into the Caribbean like a saber. Its eastern half is unprotected, exposed to open ocean and (presumably) wind. The four-hour excursion to get there takes us through another stretch of mangroves and across ten miles of open water. Big-wave kite champ Will James, who once landed a monster 459-pound Pacific blue marlin from his jet ski, feeds out 120-pound test line with a squid lure on the leader and clamps the rod into a deck-mounted holder. Barely five minutes elapse before the reel starts spinning. James has wandered off, so Wisenbaker grabs the rod and lands a two-foot Spanish mackerel. We catch three more, and Chemarin attacks each haul like Edward Scissorhands, transforming the fish into magnificent plates of sashimi and makizushi accompanied by a sinus-scouring homemade wasabi.

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Discovery
At Cusapín, we anchor in a glassy bay and pile into a dinghy. It’s drizzling, and the wind remains elusive, so we leave the kite gear stowed on Discovery. A few dozen wide-eyed villagers, Ngöble-Buglé Indians, greet us on a dilapidated dock. It heaves under the weight of the locals, who are giddy to have guests. McClurg speaks Spanish and learns that a short hike across an isthmus will take us to the surf.

The path is red clay. It’s wet and muddy and slick as ice. We trudge upward, stumbling, sliding, until our legs are coated and orange. We reach a low pass, about 600 feet high. From the saddle, we hear the muffled explosion of surf. Everyone breaks into a sprint, tumbling downhill into the whitewater. A gaggle of villagers follow, perhaps 40 strong, and huddle on the sand. They’re slack-jawed and mesmerized: A group of norteamericanos has just emerged from a rainy mist on a 57-foot luxury yacht to ride waves in their backyard.

Cusapín is a jewel among the Bocas breaks. Even with no wind, everyone is exultant. Later in the trip, we will detour back here. The swell is larger when we return, and by day’s end, Abreu—who hitches a ride back to Discovery in a dugout canoe paddled by two boys—returns with a snapped board, a result of the angry surf. But he’s unfazed. “I go through 15 boards a year,” he says. “Good thing I’m sponsored.”


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