Initially featured in Issue 603 of our mag but now available to read for free below. Photography by Ryan Craig.
If fortune finds you flying over the Solomon Islands, do this: grab a window seat. A window seat for the incredible views, half a Valium for the rattling small plane nerves, and a psychedelic playlist to soundtrack the experience. Beneath you lay a kaleidoscope of islands, lagoons, reefs, and jungle-fringed beaches. Stare a while and patterns emerge: faces, punctuation marks, talismans. Some sections are as lovely as Tahiti’s outer isles yet appear entirely unmarked by humankind. You twist your head in acute angles and imagine pleasing intersections of swell, reef, and island. The mind races. It’s like you’ve found a new planet.
Eventually, the plane bumps down on a grass runway and you emerge, blink twice, and breathe in thick Solomon air. Your senses ping with unfamiliar portents. Things are happening or are about to happen. A storm builds blackly. A rooster crows murderously. A platoon of soldier crabs take the beach. A man with black skin and red teeth grins a welcome. You are here. But just because you are here doesn’t mean you know where you are. Only hours ago, you were in a shiny Brisbane airport, swimming in convenience and artificiality. You could have been in any modern globalised city. But when your twin prop comes to a rest on jungle-crowded Santa Isabel you know right away you’re in an untamed corner of planet Earth.
Where are we again?
“The natives of the Solomons are a wild lot, with a hearty appetite for human flesh and a fad for collecting human heads. Their highest instinct of sportsmanship is to catch a man with his back turned and to smite him a cunning blow with a tomahawk that severs the spinal column at the base of the brain….Heads are a medium of exchange, and white heads are extremely valuable. Very often a dozen villages make a jack-pot, which they fatten moon by moon, against the time when some brave warrior presents a white man’s head, fresh and gory, and claims the pot.” – Jack London, 1911.
London’s vivid account of his time in the Solomons was published under the ghoulish title, The Terrible Solomons. The American adventure writer had cashed in his substantial cheques for writing ‘The Call of the Wild’ to buy a boat and explore the Pacific on a seven-year jaunt. After visiting Hawaii, he penned one of the earliest first-hand accounts of surfboard riding, which helped its popularity leapfrog to California. But London’s love of a good story may have led him to exaggerate the dangers of the Solomons at the turn of the 20th century. Certainly, he never witnessed any head-hunting or saw jack-pots bobbing with human heads, despite spending six months specifically seeking such atrocities.
Misunderstanding the Solomons is an unfortunate tradition that continues to this day. Spaniard, Alvaro de Mendana, the first European to find the islands, arrived in 1568 and got it spectacularly wrong from the get-go. After finding alluvial gold he quickly decided he’d found King Solomon’s lost treasure and named the islands accordingly. Solomon’s coveted riches included the Ark of Covenant and a cache of golden musical instruments, but it almost certainly never existed. So the Solomons are named after a fake treasure belonging to a mythical King of Israel, while other prominent place names are in a language – Spanish – that has barely been spoken in the islands since Mendura sailed north 428 years ago.
Missionaries, colonial administrators, and various entrepreneurs have tried to tame The Solomons over the centuries with very mixed results. A few mining and plantation ventures succeeded and Christianity eventually took root, but the archipelago remained a barely known backwater right up until World War Two when thousands of troops from America and Japan converged on the Solomons to fight for control of the Pacific.
More recently, The Solomons are again making global headlines for their potential military significance. China’s recent investment uptick in Melanesia is seen as a potential threat to Australia. A controversial and secretive security deal between China and The Solomons in 2022 could be a step towards establishing a Chinese military base in the islands, according to some experts. In any case, geopolitics, cannibalism, and future wars are miles from my mind when my son and I disembark our plane, grab our bags and boards, and head for the jetty. We’re here to surf.
An Island of Your Own
Peter Blanche, retired builder and tropical island owner, likes a shandy at his waterfront bar when the sun has lost its sting and resort guests return from fish and surf expeditions. His lovely wife, Margie, will join him for a sundowner when she’s not organising staff or fussing over guests. Sixteen years ago, the couple – then in their 60s – were running a travel agency on the Gold Coast when they were asked – begged, says Margie – to start up a surf resort on Santa Isabel, in the Solomons. At the time, the remote district’s total annual visitor numbers were thought to be just four very keen bird watchers.
And so, at an age when most Australians are contemplating golf swings and cruise holidays, Peter and Margie Blanche packed up their lives and headed for the jungle. With their adult children – all keen surfers – they flew to the tip of Santa Isabel, joined a charter boat, and went looking for paradise. They found surf and fish in abundance but when they motored into Papatura the Blanches knew it was the place. It had everything going for it: a deep lagoon and freshwater streams, endless fishing and diving spots, a nearby airport, and, most importantly, a bunch of quality empty waves.
How the Blanches managed to build a beautiful surf resort from scratch in such a remote corner of the undeveloped Pacific is a tale best enjoyed over a few beers at Papatura itself. Phone use in the bar area is discouraged, and the art of storytelling reigns king. Peter and Margie have a catalogue of classic expat yarns to regale guests as the sun sets. Now in their 80s, the couple have no plans to return to Australia and will become Solomon Island citizens later this year. It’s a family affair at Papatura: daughter Kym manages the resort, helped by her brother Nick, and the grandkids often visit.
“There’s 10 waves nearby that we can access by boat and we never have more than 14 surfers at a time, so we can pretty much guarantee uncrowded surf,’ Nick Blanche explains shortly after we arrive. Uncrowded surf is a highly sought-after commodity in the modern era, and the Solomons are blessed with plenty of it.
My son and I arrive in time for a pre-dinner drink or a late surf and choose option two. Jimmy, our boat driver and the best surfer in Santa Isabel, speeds us out over the lagoon and around the corner to a playful left-hander. It’s only head high but mirror-glassy, perfectly shaped, and empty. A dark storm thunders on the horizon, and the light is bruised purple as we surf our brains out, exchanging wave after wave until the light goes.
Surf photographer, and semi-regular visitor, Tony Harrington, offers the following assessment of Papatura’s surf. “Although big surf is a little few and far between, it’s the smaller to medium-sized waves that barrel over the coral reefs that are fairly consistent in the summer months caused by trade winds blowing east from Hawaii that send shorter, mid-period energy to the Solomons. Decent-sized swell will occasionally drop down from the North Pacific created by storms traversing the Northern Hemisphere’s Pacific Basin during the northern winter months. These can produce longer period energy and solid heaving barrels if you score them just right.”
That evening, we met a group of middle-aged mates from Sydney, some of whom were on their seventh return visit. They call Papatura the poor man’s Mentawais, and it seems a fitting moniker. They’ve only had to share waves with strangers a couple of times in all their visits. Usually, you motor to a surf break for the morning, and it’s yours until you’ve had your fill. There aren’t many places still like that anywhere in the world.
When the swell backs off we find an open ocean reef pass with overhead waves. Each day we surf it by ourselves, blissing on our good fortune. The water is so clear you can study the reef between waves and spot circling game fish. The only decision each day is whether to surf, fish, snorkel, or scuba. I spend quality hammock time between boat trips, reading war books, and daydreaming about leasing a tropical island. Any stress I’ve brought from home vanishes by day two.
One day, we visited Jimmy’s village to give some old surfboards to two local kids, Carlos and Lawrence. We help them wax up and take them out to the local reef, in front of the village. If they’re excited or nervous the boys manage to hide it behind blank faces until they hit the water. Paddling away from the boat, I catch them grinning and sharing a joke. After much splashing about, Lawrence, the older of the two, catches a whitewash and gets to his feet while we hoot our approval. A surfer is born.
Four days fly by, and our timing isn’t great. We arrive the day after a good swell has all but fizzled and leave two days before the next significant bump arrives. And yet, we surf fun waves every day. Nick is all apologies. “Usually, if you stay for a week, you’ll get one good swell and lots of smaller days.”
Helmet for a Pillow
The surf season is also the wet season in the Solomons, and it rains every day during our stay. Although “rain” doesn’t cover it. It blasts down like a tap at full blast, like the sky is broken. One night, I was awoken by what sounds like Iguazu Falls thundering outside my window. Each sunny morning is just a prelude to the next storm’s arrival. The air is thick with humidity but cooled by ocean breezes and ceiling fans. We surf early and late and lay low during the heat of the day.
Between surfs and downpours, I read war books – ‘My Helmet for a Pillow’ and ‘The Thin Red Line’ – and thank my lucky stars I wasn’t here in 1942. U.S. marines were shipped to the far side of the world to fight and die on an island they couldn’t pronounce – Guadalcanal – against a brutal enemy who’d rather die than surrender. The intense fighting lasted six months, and thousands of lives were lost. Historians say it was one of the two major turning points of World War Two.
Eighty-two years later and history hounds are still finding planes, bullets, dog-tags, and unexploded bombs in the Solomon jungle. Signs in the airport warn you to be careful what you pick up. In the Gizo district, we free dive on a Japanese cargo ship and an American hellcat fighter plane. On a no-surf day we visit Kennedy Island, named after John F Kennedy, who earned his war hero reputation right here. Kennedy’s patrol boat was rammed and sunk and the man who would be America’s 35th president swam to a nearby island, towing a wounded crew member. They hid out in enemy territory for three days before being rescued.
A Gizo Surf Mystery
After four days at Papatura we board another tiny plane and fly to Gizo (via Honiara). The Gizo district also gets great waves but is less consistent than Papatura. We stay at Fatboy’s Resort, which, we’re excited to learn, was recently purchased by Ethan Ewing’s older brother, Brody. Unfortunately, Brody isn’t setting up a secret jungle training camp for WSL relatives. He’s not even planning on marketing directly to surfers. Fatboys is more for travellers who are into diving, snorkelling and exploring the local villages and culture, he tells us. But then he shows me some photos of perfect empty barrels – left and rights – and I wonder if he’s throwing curve balls.
To find out, the next day we motor across gin-clear water to a small village to meet local Gizo surfer, Jeremy Baea, co-founder and president of the Western Solomon Surfing Association. I’m hoping Baea can fill in a few blanks, especially on a recent surf mystery.
In January 2024, remarkable footage emerged of Nathan and John Florence not surfing in the Solomons. They were not surfing because, somewhere in the island chain famous for its mellow waves; the Florence brothers had found a freaking monster. A wave that was too much for even their unfathomable skill set. It looked like a Teahupoo in reverse but gnarlier, way longer, and much further from hospital. “I couldn’t tell what it was doing,” Nathan conceded after an aborted attempt to tame it. “All those waves are paddle-able except for the really big ones. That was so gnarly… it was too big, too unruly, and too much water moving. Maybe the wave of your life for about 10 seconds, and then maybe dead on the reef.”
It was like finding a Bengal tiger in your garden shed. But was it legit? Baea has studied the clips for clues and thinks – based on vehicle plates and beer labels – the beast-wave in question may be in nearby Micronesia and not the Solomons. But he’s not sure. No one really knows the number of A-grade surf spots in the Solomon chain or how much swell they might occasionally get. It seems a fair guess to say that there are more waves that haven’t been surfed than waves that have. Baea shares a story that only highlights the untapped potential.
During the Covid global lockdown craziness of 2020, legendary surf charter captain and Mentawais pioneer, Martin Daley, rocked up to Gizo with just his crew aboard the Indies Trader Three. Baea was lucky enough to join the surf explorer for a thorough reconnaissance. “We found heaps of waves but most of them were super remote. You could only get to them on a charter boat. We found like 30 waves in three weeks,” says Baea.
Whether or not the Sollies are consistent enough to support a surf charter business remains to be seen (Martin Daley spoke of returning but hasn’t). In any case, the next influx of frothing surfers will likely be locals. Baea, 32, got his start when a visiting surfer/shaper from Mullumbimby gifted him a blue single fin. The tradition continues and today all the groms are using boards, legropes, and wax donated by overseas guests. The generosity is very welcome. “One of the main objectives of the surf association is to get local kids involved in a healthy fun activity so they’re not tempted to get into drinking or trouble,” says Baea.
We get one chance to surf near Gizo on our last day. The swell is just big enough to break at low tide and we join a dozen local kids on the village left at Titiana. Even at waist height, it runs quickly down the reef and barrels in several sections. I body-surf and practise my pigeon on the local kids. It’s the opposite of a great surf session in so many ways but I return to the boat buzzing and yet strangely sated. Imagine this place at four-foot! What would it do at six-foot?
I don’t have to wait long to find out. Three days later a solid long fetch swell lights up the Solomon Archipelago. The left at Titiana pumps. The right at Paeloge fires. I know this because, on request, Brody Ewing sends me some mouth-watering photos of himself having a hell time in what appears to be an empty lineup. I jump on the Papatura social sites and see more of the same: enticingly empty barrels.
I should be grinding my teeth to a jealous nub but I’m weirdly ok about missing one of the best Solomon swells of the season by three days. Weeks later whenever I’m trying to sleep or stuck in a tedious conversation, I drift off and return to that window seat. I keep honing in on that amazing view: all those islands, all those reefs, all those possibilities. No one knows how many waves there are in the Solomon Islands or how good they get on their day, and in this day and age, I figure, that’s a very good thing.
