Words by Nathan Myers
Photos by Dustin Humphrey
Surfing by Hank Gaskell and Granger Larson

Their catch is humble. Tiny fish, no bigger than your finger. They sell ’em for the local equivalent of two cents each. The fishermen spend their entire day this way, perched on their stick, baking in the relentless sun, harangued by the shifting tide… All for a few little fish.
After some 40,000 coastal residents died in the catastrophic tsunami of 2004, the stilt fishermen of Sri Lanka almost didn’t return to their posts. For a year or two, the ancient practice was all but abandoned. But slowly, the tradition has returned. Time wore smooth the jagged edges of disaster. And life, however odd, however humble, carried on. This is how these people survive.
On a few hours notice, Maui surfers Hank Gaskell and Granger Larson perched upon their tiny, economy-class airplane seats for three straight days to reach this island. Five airports. A 20-hour Bangkok layover. And a gut-busting 12-hour drive to finish it off. All for just three days of riding waves. A surf trip no bigger than your finger.
And we think stilt fishing is odd.

The island goes by many names. In Sanskrit, the words mean “sacred island.” It was Ceylon until the 70s. Taprobane in ancient times. In Arabic, it’s called Serendib, meaning “serendipity” — the accidental discovery of something fortunate.
Perhaps it could be considered serendipity that keeps this island so serene, but only by a twisted definition. More than two decades of brutal civil war between the incumbent Sinhalese government and the revolutionary Tamil Tigers has long discouraged large-scale tourism. Big game hunters hold their fire, leaving herds of water buffalo and elephant to roam unmurdered. Countless military checkpoints and a restaurant décor that includes exterior netting (you know, to keep out grenades and such), tends to dissuade the package-deal bus-tour types. And the recent tsunami headlines certainly didn’t do any favors for the beach bungalow scene either.
Only the surfers keep coming. Aussies and yanks, Euros and Israelis — they’ve been traveling here since the ’60s, and a few errant AK-47s and uninvited tidal waves wasn’t going to stop ’em. Hank and Granger found the lineups nearly empty and the few locals entirely welcoming. One of Parko’s boards — maybe ten years old — was lying in the camp near a stack of brittle surf mags, and the weathered lineup shots on the walls of their thatched hotel made it clear this wasn’t virgin grounds. But with a full playground of long, user-friendly sandpoint rights nearby, it’s still a bit surprising the hippie-trail surf town of Arugam Bay still manages to feel like Kuta Beach in the 70s. Unjaded. Unhurried. Undeveloped.
And if the occasional convoy of tanks and AK-wielding teenagers happens to disturb the peace now and again, just remember that “peace” is what they’re fighting for.

The real battle is the heat. The sun mounts a daily, inescapable siege here. A constant, assaulting presence. Even the night is hot. Even the food is hot. Sluggish ceiling fans and lukewarm beers mock the resistance. Sweat glands run dry. Shade gives up. And then the electricity goes out.
Granger was just cracking the seal on his first non-boat-trip adventures, so this trip was a bit of an eye-opener. “Everywhere we went people would stare at you for, like, an hour,” he explains. “And pretty much all the surfers there were kooks.” (Well, at least he’s honest.)
But for a savvy traveler like Gaskell, Sri Lanka only reiterated what he already knew: “Surfing is one thing that doesn’t discriminate. No matter where you go, you can always find a young grom, an old geyser, and everyone in between. It’s always nice to see people doing it in war torn third world countries. It feels like there’s hope.”
Check out SURF TIME MAGAZINE for full story