A part of me always wished I’d grown up surfing. Everything about the sport screamed hip people and hot bodies. I’d watch all the tanned surfer babes in bikinis at the beaches of Orange County; their blonde hair flowing in the wind as they rode crystal blue waves to shore, only to dry off on a towel under the warm sun. It seemed the perfect southern California hobby.
The sport I’d been born into was not quite as conducive to being a teenage girl. Instead of the beach, I’d go to Yosemite or Idyllwild armed with hat, harness and hiking boots. The summer sun never gained me a perfectly symmetrical bronze bikini tan… try rather an embarrassingly lop-sided, frumpy farmer tan. Unfortunately, a harness is unbearable in anything other than near knee-length cargos.
Since moving to Santa Barbara, I hadn't spent much time out of short shorts and flip-flops. The proximity of the ocean put me in constant beach mentality. I found myself on approach hikes for the numerous climbing areas flipping dirt up the back of my legs and nursing chafed inner thighs on the walk back. It was pretty clear I was in need of a sport that could satisfy my intrigue for the mellow surfing culture and my love for climbing rocks.
The sport I’d been born into was not quite as conducive to being a teenage girl. Instead of the beach, I’d go to Yosemite or Idyllwild armed with hat, harness and hiking boots. The summer sun never gained me a perfectly symmetrical bronze bikini tan… try rather an embarrassingly lop-sided, frumpy farmer tan. Unfortunately, a harness is unbearable in anything other than near knee-length cargos.
Since moving to Santa Barbara, I hadn't spent much time out of short shorts and flip-flops. The proximity of the ocean put me in constant beach mentality. I found myself on approach hikes for the numerous climbing areas flipping dirt up the back of my legs and nursing chafed inner thighs on the walk back. It was pretty clear I was in need of a sport that could satisfy my intrigue for the mellow surfing culture and my love for climbing rocks.
There were other things attracting me to surfing. The ocean is something that has always both captivated and terrified me. Being able to ride it, to control something over it, was a feeling I could only imagine. It was also the exotic places surfing could take you…
The sense of exploration and adventure is inherent in both sports, but I tend to prefer light and low-maintenance travelling. When getting ready for a surf trip in my mind, you pack for tropical islands with abandoned beaches and warm climates. No need for goose down and Gore-tex or extra pairs of socks and pants.
Imagine then my state of ecstasy while packing for a climbing trip to Mallorca, the largest of the Balearic Islands off the east coast of Spain. I'd spent my 21st birthday dancing on bar tables with ocean views in Ibiza, its world famous counterpart. It was such a blast, I made a pact to come back two years later for something more. This time I thought should be a different island and experience. As I would be older, it should be more responsible, more sophisticated and less crazy.
I thus decided to spend my 23rd exploring Mallorca's abundance of climbable sea cliffs. If climbing around the island like a giddy monkey isn't sophisticated enough, then at least it might be less crazy than going to some of those Ibizan clubs.
The sense of exploration and adventure is inherent in both sports, but I tend to prefer light and low-maintenance travelling. When getting ready for a surf trip in my mind, you pack for tropical islands with abandoned beaches and warm climates. No need for goose down and Gore-tex or extra pairs of socks and pants.
Imagine then my state of ecstasy while packing for a climbing trip to Mallorca, the largest of the Balearic Islands off the east coast of Spain. I'd spent my 21st birthday dancing on bar tables with ocean views in Ibiza, its world famous counterpart. It was such a blast, I made a pact to come back two years later for something more. This time I thought should be a different island and experience. As I would be older, it should be more responsible, more sophisticated and less crazy.
I thus decided to spend my 23rd exploring Mallorca's abundance of climbable sea cliffs. If climbing around the island like a giddy monkey isn't sophisticated enough, then at least it might be less crazy than going to some of those Ibizan clubs.
Rock climbing had been the thing on my mind for this trip, yet all I found myself packing was a bikini, some sun block, a synthetic pair of climbing shoes and a chalk bag. From my previous travels, I knew to expect lots of sun and Mediterranean temperatures. I remember hearing that Mallorca was a little less developed than Ibiza and more preferable to nature lovers and mellow-minded beach dwellers. If I had known there was rock, I'd have swam there! And, of course, no need for a harness, a rope or any other gear; Mallorca is one of the world's best locations for Deep Water Soloing.
Free solo climbing is going above and beyond without the security of a rope to protect you from a ground fall. Deep water soloing still involves climbing unprotected, yet over deep water instead of solid ground. The fatality factor is significantly less, but the exhilaration is definitely still there. Instead of broken limbs and/or death, the potential consequences of a bad fall in this case are ass and thigh bruises, rough waters and encounters with whatever might be lurking below.
In my excitement, I managed to recruit an entourage for the trip, first persuading an old climbing buddy from England to catch a plane over for a long weekend. He enlisted a climber and travel partner of his own and my summer travel companions (4 non-climber girlfriends) agreed to come just for the island appeal.
Much to my delight, yet another recruitment was made on the actual flight to Europe. I sat next to a cute surfer on the plane from Los Angeles. We spent hours talking about our respective sports. He hadn't brought a board and wasn't hopeful of finding waves to begin with, so spending a week jumping in and out of the Mediterranean Sea sounded appealing enough. He decided to add a last minute leg to his European adventure and met us in Valencia, from where we would be taking the overnight ferry.
After seven non-sleeping hours in an inclined passenger seat, trying desperately to drown out the excited bunch of Italian elders, we came upon Palma de Mallorca at sunrise-- A lively town, with a spectacular cathedral, several quaint little restaurants serving traditional Spanish or international cuisine and, we would come to find at the end of the trip, a decent nightlife.
Free solo climbing is going above and beyond without the security of a rope to protect you from a ground fall. Deep water soloing still involves climbing unprotected, yet over deep water instead of solid ground. The fatality factor is significantly less, but the exhilaration is definitely still there. Instead of broken limbs and/or death, the potential consequences of a bad fall in this case are ass and thigh bruises, rough waters and encounters with whatever might be lurking below.
In my excitement, I managed to recruit an entourage for the trip, first persuading an old climbing buddy from England to catch a plane over for a long weekend. He enlisted a climber and travel partner of his own and my summer travel companions (4 non-climber girlfriends) agreed to come just for the island appeal.
Much to my delight, yet another recruitment was made on the actual flight to Europe. I sat next to a cute surfer on the plane from Los Angeles. We spent hours talking about our respective sports. He hadn't brought a board and wasn't hopeful of finding waves to begin with, so spending a week jumping in and out of the Mediterranean Sea sounded appealing enough. He decided to add a last minute leg to his European adventure and met us in Valencia, from where we would be taking the overnight ferry.
After seven non-sleeping hours in an inclined passenger seat, trying desperately to drown out the excited bunch of Italian elders, we came upon Palma de Mallorca at sunrise-- A lively town, with a spectacular cathedral, several quaint little restaurants serving traditional Spanish or international cuisine and, we would come to find at the end of the trip, a decent nightlife.
We walked from the main port to Plaza Real, a meeting point established by Andy the Englishman. I took delirious pleasure in two men shearing palm trees on either side of a 'Palma' sign along the shoreline road. They had climbed up with the aid of a leather seat strap… I automatically started scanning the area for things to climb.
Andy and Joe had sorted out the rental car for the week. I was expecting to find them waiting in the plaza with a tiny Euro mobile, ready to sweep us and our packs off to the climbing. Instead, they were sitting on a bench with their bags, just as pedestrian-bound as we were.
Turns out Joe had forgotten the email confirmation, resulting in an antsy 45-minute wait for an Internet café to open. They ended up giving us a larger car for the trouble, which proved a worthwhile delay later on, when we would have to cram eight people into it. But I was anxious to get to the east side of the island, where we’d find our coves.
Picture this: an island with all the wonders of Spanish culture, its perimeter lined with hidden coves, white sand beaches, and solid limestone sea cliffs hovering over clear deep blue waters. Mallorca still has many climbable areas to be established and explored. A few years ago, one of the world's top rock climbers put the island on the American radar with a project on the inside of a huge archway just offshore from Cala Santanyi. I heard word that he'd be there working it and had connections with the film crew trying to capture the first ascent in action. And so, on the day of our arrival, that is the first place we went.
We passed the main entrance and embarked on a muddy hike to catch our first glimpse of the cove. Just as I'd imagined! From this view, Cala Santanyi had a somewhat majestic appeal-- quiet and enticing. Directly across the water was Chris Sharma's foreboding arch amid a swirling tide. That was where our Pro should've been, but our quest confirmed failure. The setback with the rental car held us captive in Palma a little too long. But in the midst of sadness, I soon found other means of joy…
Admittedly, Cala Santanyi is one of the larger coves infested with topless tourists baking in the sun and screaming kids splashing in the water. But the crowds on the beach didn't bother us knowing we were going somewhere for a selected few; Darwin's Theory of Climber Segregation says climbers go where greasy ground folk can't follow.
We checked the guide for routes, strapped on our shoes and chalk bags, and started a traverse over the roof of a sea cave. Kevin, the surfer from Cali, took the first plunge. AAwwoooo! He came up gasping and laughing, squirt some water from his mouth and floated on his back to look at the moves from a different angle.
He climbed out, slapped his shaky wet self on the rock face again, this time finishing the route with shoes squishing and all. "Whoo! That was awesome," he yelled as he topped out. You could tell he was hooked.
Andy and Joe had sorted out the rental car for the week. I was expecting to find them waiting in the plaza with a tiny Euro mobile, ready to sweep us and our packs off to the climbing. Instead, they were sitting on a bench with their bags, just as pedestrian-bound as we were.
Turns out Joe had forgotten the email confirmation, resulting in an antsy 45-minute wait for an Internet café to open. They ended up giving us a larger car for the trouble, which proved a worthwhile delay later on, when we would have to cram eight people into it. But I was anxious to get to the east side of the island, where we’d find our coves.
Picture this: an island with all the wonders of Spanish culture, its perimeter lined with hidden coves, white sand beaches, and solid limestone sea cliffs hovering over clear deep blue waters. Mallorca still has many climbable areas to be established and explored. A few years ago, one of the world's top rock climbers put the island on the American radar with a project on the inside of a huge archway just offshore from Cala Santanyi. I heard word that he'd be there working it and had connections with the film crew trying to capture the first ascent in action. And so, on the day of our arrival, that is the first place we went.
We passed the main entrance and embarked on a muddy hike to catch our first glimpse of the cove. Just as I'd imagined! From this view, Cala Santanyi had a somewhat majestic appeal-- quiet and enticing. Directly across the water was Chris Sharma's foreboding arch amid a swirling tide. That was where our Pro should've been, but our quest confirmed failure. The setback with the rental car held us captive in Palma a little too long. But in the midst of sadness, I soon found other means of joy…
Admittedly, Cala Santanyi is one of the larger coves infested with topless tourists baking in the sun and screaming kids splashing in the water. But the crowds on the beach didn't bother us knowing we were going somewhere for a selected few; Darwin's Theory of Climber Segregation says climbers go where greasy ground folk can't follow.
We checked the guide for routes, strapped on our shoes and chalk bags, and started a traverse over the roof of a sea cave. Kevin, the surfer from Cali, took the first plunge. AAwwoooo! He came up gasping and laughing, squirt some water from his mouth and floated on his back to look at the moves from a different angle.
He climbed out, slapped his shaky wet self on the rock face again, this time finishing the route with shoes squishing and all. "Whoo! That was awesome," he yelled as he topped out. You could tell he was hooked.
The next day gave us rain and again no Sharma at the arch, so we succumbed to a day of non-climbing activity. Santanyi has a rural Mediterranean vibe that only a town of this lazy unoccupied island can achieve. There was a surprisingly large flea market winding its way down the narrow streets. We ventured through it, getting lost and separated along the way, but managed to reconvene with enough time to search out a "proper English bar;" England would be kicking off into the World Cup in an hour's time.
After the game, Joe and I collected the last of our entourage at a bus stop in a nearby town. The rest of the night would consist of pizza, beer, a gnarly boys vs. girls game of beach rugby at a secluded cove, and sangria back at the villa.
Now, you always read of backpackers and climbers having to eek it out in dirty hostels and barren campsites through their long profitless voyages. But thanks to Andy's snobbish persistence, we scored an unheard-of last minute deal on a 2-bedroom villa with a balcony and a pool. It didn't seem right at first, but then again, why shouldn't world class climbing necessitate high-class accommodation!
The rain left the island with that fresh, newly clean feel for the rest of the week, making the water clear as day and the rock perfect for climbing. It was time to get back into sunscreen, swimsuits and sticky shoes.
We roped up for a steep bolted sport climb the next morning. It was conveniently based on a large platform of the same stone (a weird instance of geology if you ask me). There was one other person on the rock shelf with us; a Kiwi dockworker by the name of Brodie, who just so happened to have climbing shoes and a harness in his bag, thus proving Darwin's Theory of Climber Segregation. This was the perfect place to warm up, chill out and climb the morning away with sun and sea at your back.
The opportunity to do some sport climbing offered a close comparison to the deep water soloing we were about to do. Free soloing is considered by many to be "the purest form of climbing." You don't have to worry about metal gear clanging against the rock or a harness constricting your movement. I almost detested the sight of our quickdraws and rope contaminating the view of the gorgeous line we were going up. However, it only took Brodie falling three times at 60 feet to bring me back to reality.
After the game, Joe and I collected the last of our entourage at a bus stop in a nearby town. The rest of the night would consist of pizza, beer, a gnarly boys vs. girls game of beach rugby at a secluded cove, and sangria back at the villa.
Now, you always read of backpackers and climbers having to eek it out in dirty hostels and barren campsites through their long profitless voyages. But thanks to Andy's snobbish persistence, we scored an unheard-of last minute deal on a 2-bedroom villa with a balcony and a pool. It didn't seem right at first, but then again, why shouldn't world class climbing necessitate high-class accommodation!
The rain left the island with that fresh, newly clean feel for the rest of the week, making the water clear as day and the rock perfect for climbing. It was time to get back into sunscreen, swimsuits and sticky shoes.
We roped up for a steep bolted sport climb the next morning. It was conveniently based on a large platform of the same stone (a weird instance of geology if you ask me). There was one other person on the rock shelf with us; a Kiwi dockworker by the name of Brodie, who just so happened to have climbing shoes and a harness in his bag, thus proving Darwin's Theory of Climber Segregation. This was the perfect place to warm up, chill out and climb the morning away with sun and sea at your back.
The opportunity to do some sport climbing offered a close comparison to the deep water soloing we were about to do. Free soloing is considered by many to be "the purest form of climbing." You don't have to worry about metal gear clanging against the rock or a harness constricting your movement. I almost detested the sight of our quickdraws and rope contaminating the view of the gorgeous line we were going up. However, it only took Brodie falling three times at 60 feet to bring me back to reality.
Free soloing is simply suicidal. Even if you are convinced of your skill, strength and competence beyond a shadow of a doubt, there are still objective dangers you cannot control-- loose rock, other people and weather to name a few. Having deep water below gives the saner of our breed a way to shed the dangling ropes, heavy gear and bulky harnesses, and just do what we love… climb.
I left my flip-flops and hat floating in a small dry bag on a squishy tide pool shelf. My feet left the horizontal surface and I realize it’s now just me and the rock. I turn a corner onto a pockety face and can hear the water gently splashing against the base of the cliff. It is more background music than a menace. I am faintly aware of the height and the water below, but keep focused on the climbing in front of me. I come to a good rest and look down. "Holy shit!" Whyyyy do I do that?! I giddily climb on, top out, and take a nap on the cliff's edge to calm my nerves.
Provided you meet the prerequisite of being somewhat comfortable with heights, deep water soloing can be extremely low key. If the weather is nice, the water clear and the tide tranquil, you're set for a mellow day of leisurely bliss. Of course, climbing over crashing currents, jellyfish invested waters or even low tide can quickly change the name of that game. Be sure to read up on the special safety ratings and information for each climb!
Some routes are impossible to start without first entering the water. Others necessitate a down climb or traverse often rated at the top level of your ability, and if you're fortunate enough to finish a hard line, your celebration is cut short by thoughts of now how to get down. Sometimes the only way off the top a cliff is to just jump; which to some defeats the purpose of sending the route and to others, it’s mixing business with pleasure. :)
On our last day, we took a dirt road to what seemed like nowhere for awhile. The hilarity of cramming eight people into that tiny Euro rental car was still there, especially with Kate taking her normal seat in the "trunk." Good thing we didn't have to pack in massive amounts of climbing gear!
After about an hour of bumbling along, we reached the trailhead to a surprisingly well established and populated beach. Andy, Joe, Kevin and I automatically veered off on a road less traveled to the more remote side of the cove.
Cala Sa Nau has some of the bigger, more epic looking climbs. I started feeling nervous as I thought we were getting closer. Some bush whacking and backtracking later, we skirted the bluff's edge above our climbs. The only difference between what was pictured in our guide and the beauteous cliffs below was the stormy weather's obvious effect on the tide.
We found a diving board-like rock ledge on which we inched out to hang our heads over the sea. The tide would go slamming into the cave beneath us and splash out in a massive wave that we could almost touch from fifty feet up. "I'm not going in that," declared Andy the Englishman. I'm glad I didn't have to be the one to say it.
I rejoiced in this conservative decision made upon returning to the United States and reading about a drowning death of a climber near that same area. We are, after all, only land animals at heart and should probably take lessons from surfers on how to stay strong in rough waters… especially if you’re like me and learning to swim came incredibly late in life.
Slightly defeated, we turned around and bush whacked back to the crowded beach. Low and behold, across the cove was a perfect face for a long, low traverse with calm waters below and small caves offering technical difficulties. I looked to Andy, his mouth naturally curled into a boyish smirk. We wouldn't have to lay idle on the sand after all.
As our plane took off the next morning, lofting itself over Mallorca, I got a bird's eye view of all the cliffs we had yet to explore. There is so much there! I began thinking of all the coves we could have gone to and all the climbs we could have done if the weather and waters had been a little more in our favor. Then again, it’s always nice leaving something to come back for anyway.
I left my flip-flops and hat floating in a small dry bag on a squishy tide pool shelf. My feet left the horizontal surface and I realize it’s now just me and the rock. I turn a corner onto a pockety face and can hear the water gently splashing against the base of the cliff. It is more background music than a menace. I am faintly aware of the height and the water below, but keep focused on the climbing in front of me. I come to a good rest and look down. "Holy shit!" Whyyyy do I do that?! I giddily climb on, top out, and take a nap on the cliff's edge to calm my nerves.
Provided you meet the prerequisite of being somewhat comfortable with heights, deep water soloing can be extremely low key. If the weather is nice, the water clear and the tide tranquil, you're set for a mellow day of leisurely bliss. Of course, climbing over crashing currents, jellyfish invested waters or even low tide can quickly change the name of that game. Be sure to read up on the special safety ratings and information for each climb!
Some routes are impossible to start without first entering the water. Others necessitate a down climb or traverse often rated at the top level of your ability, and if you're fortunate enough to finish a hard line, your celebration is cut short by thoughts of now how to get down. Sometimes the only way off the top a cliff is to just jump; which to some defeats the purpose of sending the route and to others, it’s mixing business with pleasure. :)
On our last day, we took a dirt road to what seemed like nowhere for awhile. The hilarity of cramming eight people into that tiny Euro rental car was still there, especially with Kate taking her normal seat in the "trunk." Good thing we didn't have to pack in massive amounts of climbing gear!
After about an hour of bumbling along, we reached the trailhead to a surprisingly well established and populated beach. Andy, Joe, Kevin and I automatically veered off on a road less traveled to the more remote side of the cove.
Cala Sa Nau has some of the bigger, more epic looking climbs. I started feeling nervous as I thought we were getting closer. Some bush whacking and backtracking later, we skirted the bluff's edge above our climbs. The only difference between what was pictured in our guide and the beauteous cliffs below was the stormy weather's obvious effect on the tide.
We found a diving board-like rock ledge on which we inched out to hang our heads over the sea. The tide would go slamming into the cave beneath us and splash out in a massive wave that we could almost touch from fifty feet up. "I'm not going in that," declared Andy the Englishman. I'm glad I didn't have to be the one to say it.
I rejoiced in this conservative decision made upon returning to the United States and reading about a drowning death of a climber near that same area. We are, after all, only land animals at heart and should probably take lessons from surfers on how to stay strong in rough waters… especially if you’re like me and learning to swim came incredibly late in life.
Slightly defeated, we turned around and bush whacked back to the crowded beach. Low and behold, across the cove was a perfect face for a long, low traverse with calm waters below and small caves offering technical difficulties. I looked to Andy, his mouth naturally curled into a boyish smirk. We wouldn't have to lay idle on the sand after all.
As our plane took off the next morning, lofting itself over Mallorca, I got a bird's eye view of all the cliffs we had yet to explore. There is so much there! I began thinking of all the coves we could have gone to and all the climbs we could have done if the weather and waters had been a little more in our favor. Then again, it’s always nice leaving something to come back for anyway.
Further Reading on DWS:
www.dwsworld.com
Climbing Magazine, February 2007 (Sharma’s Golden Piton Award)
Rock & Ice, October 2006
Climbing Magazine, October 2006
Rock & Ice, May 2006
www.dwsworld.com
Climbing Magazine, February 2007 (Sharma’s Golden Piton Award)
Rock & Ice, October 2006
Climbing Magazine, October 2006
Rock & Ice, May 2006