“Falling in Love”

            I awoke before dawn, grabbed my board, and walked out to the beach in San Blas – just a few hours drive south of Mazatlan. I had opted not to drive down the Baja peninsula from California, as I couldn’t afford the ferry.  So I spent a few days driving down the mainland east of Baja – a boring ride for a surfer on a surf trip. San Blas, then, was my first bonafide “Mexican surf spot.”

            With all this in mind you can understand how I was stoked even though the surf was tiny and unrideable. Actually, that was perfect, because I hadn’t learned to surf yet.  Other than a couple blown out storm days on Florida’s east coast, this was my first time.

            So I paddled out on flat water and sat on my board. I looked back to shore at the palapa roofs on the beach surrounded by palm trees, and the mountains in the distance. The sun peaked over the mountain A ray of gold shot across the sky. The golden orb continued to rise, spilling gold across the Mexican morning. The sky turned gold, the mountains and palapas and palm trees turned gold, even the water was a deep flowing gold.

            Only a few times in my life had I been so excited. I laughed like a little girl – sat  on my board giggling like an 8 year old, thinking, “I’m surfing in Mexico, I’m surfing in Mexico.” The fact that I had yet to catch my first wave was insignificant to my joy. And that’s when I fell in Love…with surfing.

“Playa Mojo”

            I’ve been in love for months now, with Mexican girls, German girls, American girls, and waves. Puerto Escondido has become my new hangout. Surf travelers and backpackers from around the world come to surf, party, and find fleeting romance here.

Though there’s been no shortage of lovely surf bunnies and backpackers, the waves still hold sway in my heart. After a few months, however, a little exploration is in order. My buddy Matt and I had heard about a secret little break, Playa Mojon. All I’m going to say is that it's somewhere in southern Mexico. If you wanna find it, the rest is up to you.

            Well, at the risk of arousing the contempt of the Gods of the South Swells, I will tell you that there is a sign. You probably won’t see it anyway. It’s about as small as a road sign can be. It once said, simply, “Playa Mojon.” Some mischievous surfer scratched out the “N,” so the sign now reads “Playa Mojo.”

            We made it down the road, thankful for four wheel drive and a long travel suspension all the way. We arrived at a lone, worn out palapa with not a soul in sight except for Pacha Mama – the Mother Earth.

            The beach is situated at one of the almost infinite number of rocky points in this part of the world. The waves right in front of us, however, were closing out and looking like about as much fun as mowing the lawn.

            But we had insider information. Paddle around the point. Walk down the beach to the next one…and score a brilliant, peeling, shoulder high right-hander. We checked it out, and sure enough, it was just as we had been told – an unrivaled spot with high waves and a long curl.

            After exhausting ourselves, we went back to the rig and set about dinner and Piña Coladas. A couple more bros showed up with more food and drink, and it became a party.

Drinking games are fun: hot coal juggling was the main event for the evening.

            At sunrise, I was hurtin’. I had been knocking back rum like a pirate, but I powered through the Piña Colada fog, grabbed a board and paddled around the point.

            I was rewarded.

            My prize was a solo session with not a man-made thing in sight, ‘cept for the foam and fiberglass beneath my feet, as I dropped in and grabbed rail on right after perfect right.

            Then I went back to camp and gave my bros plenty of shit for missing an epic morning. Course, I was actually glad no one else overcame their hangover. Those solo sessions can be few and far between, especially on the best surfing beaches.

“Earthquake”

            I awoke with a start.  Did the ground just shake?  Yeah, there it is again.  Not violent, just a little tremble.  “Cool,” I thought thru my morning mental haze, “My first earthquake!” Then it stopped. My first earthquake hadn’t amounted to much. But wait, there it was again – a subtle vibration in the earth.  Then, again, it stopped…and again it started!

            “Strange,” I thought.  Then I heard it: BOOM!CRASH!RUMBLE,rumble,rumble.

My ears hadn’t registered the sound. Slowly it began to make sense in my pre-coffee brain. “That’s no earthquake, kemosabe, those are the biggest, heaviest waves you’ve ever seen in your young life.” And when I went to the rooftop to observe these monsters, I knew that if I paddled out, they would be the last waves of my young life.

            I was mesmerized for some time there on the roof. I lived two blocks up the hill from the beach and had a great view of these beasts marching to shore:  20 – 25 foot faces, rearing up and seeming to pause for an instant before curling into massive triple overhead shacks, then slamming down to the sand so hard I could feel my rented little room tremble like a mouse in front of a hungry lion.

            I broke the spell and ran down to the beach.

            That morning, I witnessed the definition of “cojones.” I sat on the beach and watched guys disappear in huge, sucking barrels, and then come flying out with both arms in the air, claiming it.

            I also saw board after broken board come washing in to shore, each time, followed by a surfer swimming hard.

            Then I saw one of the most beautiful combinations of wave and man that I may ever see.  It wasn’t a long ride, or a sick tube, or any fancy lip bashing.  It was a guy who dropped in on a close out with artistry given of the surf gods. He dropped into a left and bombed almost straight down the face, leaving a long white fin trail behind him. He made the bottom and looked up to see the wave breaking in the other direction as well, white-water coming at him fast. He laid into a super-tight bottom turn and shot up the face at an impossible angle. He cleared the lip and disappeared gracefully behind the beast just as the approaching right reached him. And for an instant, there on the face of this monster, was carved a perfect, white “U.” The wave seemed to pause for a split second to let me admire the sight, before swallowing it forever.

            Surfer after surfer has told me that what draws them to surfing is the experience of never surfing the same wave twice. Each creation is unique.

            Well that afternoon the waves were still consistent in size but the onshore wind had a massive chop going and no one was in the water. Lots of us hung out on the beach, drinking and cheering wildly for the sets.

            Then a Puerto Rican body boarder came walking up the beach with his gear. He chatted to the Salvavidas (life guards) and then walked back down the beach. The longshore current was ripping north, so he walked a good 10 minutes down the beach before starting a long paddle out.

            I watched him disappear under what was about a ten-foot wall of whitewash, pop up and keep paddling. Then again, but this time his board came rocketing out into the air and his head bobbed up. His board washed into shore right in front of me, so I walked down and grabbed it out of the sea. Our hero was swept much farther down shore before he finally made it to dry land. He casually walked back toward us. As he passed, I handed him his board. With a nod and a “Thanks, Bro,” he kept on walkin’ and after 10 more minutes, paddled out again.

This time he made it out. He was a little speck out there among the choppy monsters.

            Then the horizon disappeared and a massive clean up set loomed on the horizon. 
Everyone on the beach collectively sucked in their breath, as fear gripped us in the pits of our stomachs.

            For the uninitiated, a clean up set is a set of waves larger than the average for the day. That means, if you’re sitting out there in the water, with just your little board and soft, human body, you see a wave that’s a lot bigger than the 20 – 25 footers that have been the order of the day, coming at you. You have to paddle like mad straight at it to avoid being pummeled to death or perhaps having it dislocate your shoulder.

Well, we all assume that paddling like hell is what our hero is doing, but where is he? Anybody see him? The Salvavidas are doing that slow, tense walk towards the water with eyes straining to the horizon like, “Oh shit, oh shit, puta madre, I do not wanna take the ski out in this surf!”

BOOM! One massive waves crashes. No sign of our hero. BaBOOM! The second as big as the first. Still no speck on the horizon, and…BadaBOOM!  The third and final wave meets the sandy bottom. And then…YES!!!  THERE HE IS!  HE’S WAAAAY THE FUCK OUT THERE, MAN!

The entire beach erupts into a cheer to rival the Seattle stadium at a Seahawks game. People are jumping up and down. The Salvavidas are discretely letting out sighs of relief.

He catches a couple big shoulders and comes back to shore. I wasn’t there to greet him, but the next day I run into him on the street. Our Hero. He’s got a big mop of curly black hair and a huge upper body with skinny little stick legs. 

“Dude,” I gush, “I saw you out there yesterday!”

“Hey,” He solemnly intones, lookin' into my eyes, “I was paddling for my ASS, Bro!!!” And we broke up into that nervous laughter that always comes to thrill seekers after a brush with death. I’d call it being elated and scared shitless at the same time.

            So everyone might say that they are enamored with the uniqueness of each ride, but I say it’s those adrenaline filled moments of do or die…the chances of getting really fucked up, that make surfing my numero uno love and addiction.

December 2007