Dude, where's my beach?

I have to admit that my reasons for coming to Fiji aren’t completely unselfish. Shocking as it may seem, I have ulterior motives for travelling to this tiny Pacific island. Although my craft – journalism – did lure me 12,343 km from the comforts of my home, there was another reason I came to Fiji. I came here to do something I couldn’t do in any of Canada’s ten provinces or three territories: surf.
While Canada may have Rockies, plains and unexplored terrains – it doesn’t have a single surf beach. Although Ontario does have some great beaches, I’ve yet to see anyone hang ten at Grand Bend, carve the concave in Port Stanley or wipe out on a Wasaga Beach wave.
So when I heard about a journalism grant to work in a developing country, I figured I could kill two birds with one stone: The award would let me gain some international reporting experience, represent Canada abroad, and maybe hit some waves while I’m at it. Wait, that’s three birds. Okay, this award would be a really big stone.
After arriving at the airport in Nadi, Fiji, I strike up a conversation with who I think to be a fellow Canadian. The man, who actually turns out to be American, asks me what I am doing in Fiji.
“A little of everything,” I respond. “What about you?”
“Well, the wife thinks we’re on our honeymoon, but this is really a secret surfing trip,” he says with a smile.
As he finishes his sentence his wife walks around the corner and he shoots me a look that says “don’t even mention surfing.”
“Well, good luck with everything,” I say, knowing that his marriage clearly needed more than just luck to survive.
But the encounter just reinforced my belief that surfing had to be the greatest pastime in the world. After all, here was a young man – he couldn’t have been more than 26 – willing to risk starting his marriage on a terrible note just so he could catch a few waves.
I jump in a cab to Suva with surfing on my mind.
Upon arriving in Suva I discover that the Pacific Ocean is pretty much a stone’s throw away (granted you weren’t throwing one of those huge stones I used to kill the three birds earlier).
I am ecstatic.
However, being a responsible person, I realize that I need to find an apartment before I even stepped foot on the beach.
Surfing wasn’t on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs – though if you asked that American from the airport I’m sure he would have said it should be.
After a few days in Suva I find a great apartment. And what better way to celebrate a successful apartment hunt than a relaxing day at the beach?
Suiting up in swim trunks and SPF 30, my travel companion and I head to the ocean. We ask a cab driver to take us to the nearest beach. After a short ride we pull up to the ocean. We step out of the cab speechless. But it wasn’t the beautiful scenery that stole our ability to speak, nor was it the enormity of the waves that silenced us. Instead, we are shocked at the sight of what this “beach” really is. First picture those screen savers that show white-sand beaches lined with crystal clear water. Now erase that image and picture this: choppy, grey, debris filled water washing up to a shoreline of grass, dirt and rubbish.
Welcome to the beach.
No sand, no people – and definitely no waves.
Were we even in Fiji anymore?
Thinking there must be some mistake we approach another cab and ask the driver where the nearest “beach” beach is – like the type with sand, nice water, and other people.
He assures us that it was just a ten minute drive away, and we pile into his car.
A few minutes later and I was standing on a new beach. The tide was out, revealing a sandy area roughly the size of a football field. There was no path down to the sand, only a rocky embankment. The water still looked cold, grey and dirty. Cargo ships could be seen in the near distance. However, there were a few people in the water at this beach. No, wait, that’s just an old washing machine.
Trying to make the best of the situation I suggest going in the water. After conceding that there’s nowhere dry to leave our stuff, we start to trek out into the intimidating ocean. Walking is painful because the ocean floor is lined with rocks. Where’s that white sand when you need it? After venturing out 20 feet we decide to head back to shore – if you can even call it that.
The day is a write off and we head back to the apartment.
What a waste of a day. I’m all sunscreened up with no place to go.
Back at my flat a neighbour informs me that there aren’t any beaches in Suva – the nearest one is 45 minutes away.
It looks like I’m surfless in Suva.