NICARAGUA

Surfer Mag's 2011 Photo Annual features Warren on his trip to Nicaragua, shot by Morgan Maasen.

Enduring heat, power outages, and 'horse brain' in a search for Central American surf.

DAY ONE

We arrived just after dark. Our airplane touched down on the wet tarmac and then nothing but bed. Barrels tomorrow. We passed the time as we waited for Craig Anderson to arrive from Australia by going to the supermarket. What a weird experience that always is...not looking for food you want to eat but rather food that is similar in quality and taste to what you eat at home - milk and cereal. Later, we returned to the airport in the dark of night to fetch our Australian friend. His hair was wild with jetlag, his boards fragile as ever. We bounced down the long dirt road, passing endless jungle and aloof oxen that stood under the faint claps of distant thunder and lightning.

DAY TWO

Dawn came with warbly but sizeable waves. An 'air wind' excited the crew. So began our first descent upon the wave called Meatgrinders. Airs, floaters, roundhouses, and a massive superman flyaway were performed, much to the delight of several drunk Floridian expats. Craig came in first, looking flustered despite having what looked to be an amazing session. 'I was going crazy out there, but it was too hot,' he said simply. 'Hmm,' I thought as I continued shooting in the sweltering heat. But as he collapsed face-first into the nearby swimming pool, he admonished the heat, saying he felt like he was boiling alive, not only under the sun but in the Jacuzzi-temperature Pacific Ocean. Warren and Sterling, on the other hand, relished the waves and water - like the Gulf but actuallly worth surfing, they say. Beers were shared, and our next session commenced at a neighboring beachbreak. We arrived to perfect waves, stymied only by the hottest microclimate known to man. Wow.

DAY THREE

The pool has become a place of refuge. We are staying in a comfortable place, but almost every night the power goes out. No fans, no AC, and heat creeping through the windows, making sleep impossible. The beachbreak is where we spend most of the day. Barrels, airs, and dehydration are rampant. Warren blasts a huge air over Nate's head, crossing the sky with ease and finesse. Craig lays down the law with his signature style. Nate goes big. Sterling does every trick known to man, twice. To escape the heat at the height of noon, I swim out with my waterhousing, only to get jerked around in a vicious undertow. The water must be close to 90 degrees. It's ridiculous. The wind switches offshore and the rivermouth breaks free. A clean left forms. I look around, not a building or human in sight. I like this place, but I hate this place. We leave, finally, as the land begins to cool and the sky darkens with the afternoon thunderstorm. A long day spent in the sun. Beers, well earned.

DAY FOUR

Rain, wind, and sloppy surf plague our day's operation. We eat breakfast quietly, wondering what to do. Breakfast slowly rolls into lunch, which we also eat quietly, wondering what to do. Ping Pong and aimless wandering provide some relief in the muggy afternoon downpour. As we settle in for an evening movie, the thunder and lightning start to go off. The storm moves directly over us, hovering on the water's edge. The sky shakes with a clap of thunder. But just as we think the rain will get harder, it stops. The sky explodes orange and the waves turn on. Headhigh, glassy lefts peel to the tune of the most amazing sunset. Surfboards and cameras go flying into action, and we relished the spectacular evening as lightning dances on the horizon.

DAY FIVE

Meatgrinders comes to life. Glassy, below-sea-level barrels reel down the reef. The hardships of a 5 a.m. start are immediately negated by the sight of barrel after barrel spitting down the reef. An expat is on it. Then another. And then us. That's the crowd. Three goofyfooters and one regularfooter get barrels left and right. Every set spits and grinds and gurgles with mutant features. Nate rides a smaller, foam-balling wave through the lineup. It's only waist-high, and yet from the channel I can barely see the top of his head. It's like baby Teahupoo! We surf all day long and the sunset of all sunsets basks the last barrels of the day in the most brilliant light. The air is cool with a soft breeze, blowing offshore from the dark mountains looming inland.

DAY SIX

The clouds go wild today. A Wassily Kandinsky painting has more conformity than the sky overhead. The sea blisters under the brilliant sun as we sit among long lulls and schools of sea lice. The river pumps cool water into the beachbreak, and no current runs underneath the oily water. Today feels like paradise. Swimming with my waterhousing makes me wonder why anyone would ever need to go to a spa. The lulls get longer and the clouds get heavier. We return to Meatgrinders and get a beautiful farewell session for Craig. Barrels are ridden into darkeness and we precariously do the rock-dance in over the sea urchin-stained reef.

DAY SEVEN

Utter flatness. Ping Pong. Breakfast. Ping Pong. Lunch. Swimming pool. Check surf. Ping Pong. Foosball. Ping Pong. Pool. Beer. Lunch. Beer. Pool. Ping Pong. Foosball. Check surf. Ping Pong. Movie. Nap. Beer. Pool. Ping Pong. Beer. Dinner. Foosball - Nate and Dave vs. Morgan and Sterling. Sweat, blood, and glory. Sterling lets out a battle cry that can be heard in Bolivia. Defeat. Victory. Defeat. Victory. Victory. We retire to the sound of thunder. No power tonight. Wild dreams in the humid heat. Thank god for that stupid game.

DAY EIGHT

It's flat again, but we know it will be rideable before dark. We wait. And wait. And wait. And it comes. At first it's knee-high, and then waist. And then head. The low tide makes it grind below sea level. Everyone gets barreled. The water is glowing brown from last night's storm. The sun sets in a blood-red ball of fire. Beers in the pool keep us talking late into the night. A long, hot, bumpy car ride and sweaty flights are the only things on tomorrow's agenda.