OINK BREAK

Surfing Pigs of the Andaman Islands
by Ben Millar Cole

I stumbled off the rusting ferry into a wall of humid air and betel nut smoke. The Andaman sun was a hot brass disc above, and the jungle buzzed with life. I had come chasing a rumor, a half-drunken tale shared by a backpacker in a Goa beach bar: pigs, actual pigs, were surfing out here on these far-flung islands.

No guidebook mentioned them, but the locals at the port knew. A toothless old fisherman with skin like tanned leather squinted at me and grinned: "You here for the surfing pigs, na?" He didn't wait for my answer. "They out there every dawn. God's honest truth."

Determined to see it for myself, I trekked to a hidden cove known only as Oink Beach (locals pronounce it "Oo-ink" with a strange reverence). I arrived at sunrise. Through the pink haze, I saw them: three stout pigs paddling out beyond the break, broad snouts cutting through the glassy water. I rubbed my eyes. This was no hallucination.

Arif, a local surfer with bleached dreadlocks, threw his head back and laughed. "That pig surfs better than I do," he exclaimed, shaking his head in amazement. "Swear on my mother, man, he even tubes when the swell is right."

I scribbled furiously in my notebook, trying to capture the scene's absurd majesty. The pigs took turns on the waves, sometimes two sharing one—tandem surfing pigs! Their joyous snorts mixed with the crash of surf. The atmosphere felt charged and surreal. Was I witnessing a simple animal trick, or something mythic?

"They learned from the sea," an elder named Madan told me over spicy chai one afternoon. His cataract-fogged eyes stared into the past. "Spirits of drowned surfers, maybe, took pity and taught 'em."

As the sun set, I approached a pig lounging in a lake boat, nose pointed towards the horizon. My heart pounded with the giddy energy of a journalist on the brink of a scoop. How does one interview a surfing pig? I crouched down and addressed the pig like an old friend.

"So, why do you surf?" I asked softly, feeling slightly ridiculous. The pig — a sandy-colored sow with intelligent eyes — snorted and nudged the board. Was that an answer? A challenge? A surfer’s shrug? Next to me, Arif translated with a smirk: "She says it's easier than learning to fly."

Arif recounted a particularly epic swell last monsoon season when the biggest boar, nicknamed "Bodhi Pig", rode an impossible 12-foot wave while a cyclone loomed offshore. Some swear lightning struck the water as he kicked out, and the pig stood on the beach after, bellowing triumph at the stormy sky. Legend or truth? In the haze of heat and drink, it hardly mattered. The surfing pigs were real enough, and I was content to ride their story wherever it would take me.