The first thing you notice about Puerto Rico is the driving. By U.S. standards, it is psycho. Stoplights and road lines don't matter.

Checked out (what we thought was) Aviones on the east side of San Juan. Waves were macking at a windy double-o. Decided to chance the long drive west in search of the famed Gas Chambers.

In Aguadilla, we hit some really tiny country roads. Finally, reaching the ocean, we found chest-high waves. But were we looking at Gas Chambers? I don't think so.

We decided to ask this young couple (who were doing the hanky panky before we rudely interrupted), where Gas Chamber was. The great language barrier arose. He finally told us to follow him, and they picked up and drove us to a place called Surfers Beach.

We thanked him, but passed on surfing that area. Still searching, with the sun going down, we finally chanced upon a small sandbar right next to a radio tower. Some nice lefts peeled off, with a bunch of kids in the lineup. Good enough.

Surfed for an hour, well beyond dark, absorbing the tropical sunset, with pelicans swooping silently nearby. Truly a serene experience, with no city noises to spoil the mood.

The spot was reminiscent of Pine Trees on Kauai, with an outside sandbar that backed off on the inside. The nearby neighborhood was pretty third world, but not too threatening.

Four hours before finding a spot, two hours driving home--all for one hour of mediocre surf. Are we crazy? Nope, just stoked.

Buenos from the Enchanted Island,
sponge

Photo by Steve Fitzpatrick