Day 4

The new food rules:

Eat when you are hungry.

Eat what you are hungry for.

Stop when you are full.

It had been over a year since my last intentional vomiting episode. But I was still deeply suspicious of my hunger. It seemed not to matter how much I ate. I remained hungry. I couldn’t imagine what would happen to my weight if I gave up all the food rules entirely. I went through periods of eating plenty, but I always stuck to “healthy foods.” And then, I would go back into periods of mistrust and restriction. Assuming my body was too messed up to speak clearly, I would force myself to endure the hunger.

By day four, eating on the road was already becoming challenging. Back home, I ate the same safe foods everyday. Shopping at the grocery store took me less than eight minutes, since I never ventured from the same shopping list. I cooked twice a week and prepped everything days in advance. I declined every invitation to eat out because it would bring too much temptation to eat unsafe foods. Leaving my food safety zone was nerve racking. Everything in Mexico was fried in lard, covered in cheese and wrapped in a tortilla. But I didn’t eat grains, saturated fat or dairy, because everyone “knows” those are bad for you. I needed at least a hundred grams of protein a day. A few measly pieces of chicken in my taco wasn’t going to cut it. I would certainly lose muscle if I didn’t get more protein. Maybe a little dairy would be okay–there is protein in dairy, after all. Maybe Mexican dairy had fewer hormones. Maybe the corn in the tortillas wasn’t GMO, and wouldn’t be quite so bad if I just ate one or two. Maybe…Oh my gosh! I could feel my thighs getting fatter with each forbidden bite. It wasn’t about weight, it was about health. I was no longer a slave to weight, I just wanted to be healthy! At least, that is the excuse The Voice employed to keep me in my disease.

No Longer Alone

After meeting Sean in Guadalajara, we set off to spend a few days surfing as we worked our way down the coast toward my final destination. With Sean by my side, things suddenly got much easier. Sean had lived for six months in Peru, and not only was he a savvy traveler, but also he spoke Spanish. Our first stop for real surfing was La Ticla. Sean was an experienced NorCal surfer, and my smallest board was bigger than his biggest.

La Ticla

According to Sean, the waves looked “fun.” Only four days into the road trip, coming straight from the mellow and gentle waves of San Diego, the waves looked anything but fun to me. They looked like monsters, waiting to bitch slap me should I annoy them with my pathetic attempt to slide down their faces. It turned out, we were both right. I watched Sean paddle out, effortlessly duck dive a set and place himself at the peak without ever breathing hard. I grabbed my longboard and managed to get swept four hundred yards down the beach before I ever made it past the white water. After a grueling, thirty minute paddle battle, I finally made it to sit on my board near Sean. He could see I was already frustrated, and he felt badly for encouraging me to come out in conditions in which I wasn’t comfortable. Hooting me into the next medium sized set wave, he attempted to cheer me up, but failed miserably. I didn’t want anything to do with that wave, but he yelled for me to go, letting me have a wave that rightfully belonged to him. I hated it when dudes did that to me! I went, I wiped out. I thought I might die. I surfaced and opened my mouth in a meager attempt to survive, but another wave stacked up. Down I went, back into the black ink. With another two set waves, the current pulled me hundreds of yards down the beach. I was exhausted already, and knew the waves were above my skill level. But my ego wouldn’t admit defeat. Sheer determination fueled another ten-minute paddle battle before I made it back out. In the meantime, I saw Sean get barreled and perfectly kick out of a head- high wave. I was thoroughly pissed at myself. There was no reason he should get good waves while I couldn’t. My anger fueled me long enough to get me pummeled two more times before pure exhaustion made me quit.

I climbed the cobblestone beach and sat on a rock to catch my breath. Being a good friend, Sean rode in his next wave. I was crying when he reached me. He found it comical that a bad session could make me cry. It wasn’t a bad session that made me cry. I was a bad surfer. I sucked at surfing. I sucked at life. I was a bad human. What a stupid, ignorant little bitch, Melanie. I was the most arrogant person ever for thinking I could surf in Mexico, and I was a complete fool for coming at all! Shut up, stupid Voice!

Tacos

Sean was famished after the session. I was constantly famished, surfing or not, and very suspicious of my hunger. My body translated pretty much every emotion as hunger.

I had been beating my body into submission since 1998, when my butt made its first appearance.

We found a lady selling tacos from a cart along the side of the road. We sat at one of three plastic tables in the dirt. Our waiter, an eight year-old boy, came to take our order. Sean ordered three tacos and a beer. I wanted three tacos and a beer too, but the unwritten food rules state that boys should eat more than girls, and beer had gluten, and gluten is bad, so I ordered two tacos and a bottle of water. The tacos were, of course, phenomenal. I savored each bite because the food rules say you should eat more slowly if you are really hungry. I was still hungry after I washed down the second taco with a sip of water. Of course I was. I was always hungry. But I had eaten my meal and the food rules now dictated that I should wait at least three hours before eating again. Sean commented on how good the tacos were, waving the kid back over.

“Tres mas tacos de carne y una mas corona para me, y para ella…,” he questioned me with his face.

WHAT? I was dumbfounded. I understood his words, but their meaning bewildered me. He had just ordered three more tacos and another beer. He ordered seconds…at a restaurant! And he expected me to do the same!

I fumbled for words, unsure how to respond. Of course, I wanted more food, but that broke the rules. But we had just undergone the same workout. Actually, my session was more strenuous than his, and we really did have about the same amount of muscle, and muscles require more calories…

“Uno mas taco, por favor.” I could justify one more.

I sat in silence, savoring every last bit of greasy steak in my taco, being sure to throw away the tortilla (refined carbs are against the food rules), pondering an insane culture in which people ordered seconds at a restaurant. Mind blown!

What happened next befuddled me even further.

Sean once again waved the kid over. I assumed he would ask for the check. Instead, I heard him say, “Uno mas taco de pollo y una Coca.” Turning to me, he asked, “You want anything else? How about a beer after all that surfing? You deserve it!”

My jaw dropped. My mind tried to process what had just happened. Not only has Sean ordered a seventh taco, but he ordered a Coke as well. SODA?!?! With HIGH FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP! And now he was offering me a beer.

I guess he interpreted my confused look as the need for a beer. He told the child to bring us another Corona, too.

I searched for words. Beer. I can’t drink beer. Beer has gluten and carbs! My food rules conflicted with my never-say-what-you-really-want-because-someone-might-be-hurt rules. Sean was buying me a beer, and it would be rude to turn down a gift. The deed was done, the beer was ordered. I was going to have to drink that beer!

Ah, I know. I will share it with him. Then I’m only sinning a little. And then I won’t eat any more tonight, and I will surf on an empty stomach in the morning, when the only fuel I have is stored fat. Ok, cool, I can enjoy the beer now without gaining weight.

But then Sean suggested we grab some beers for the cabaña, and enjoy the stars and the waves with a six pack. Something didn’t add up. Sean was a man in his forties, very fit, not fat at all. How could Sean eat seven tacos and drink soda and beer and look like that? Maybe Sean was on to something.

We went to the corner store, and I searched for the beer cooler while Sean looked for something we could eat in the morning. We met at the counter, me with a variety pack of Mexican beer and Sean with…gulp…a roll of cookies…for breakfast…dun dun DUN!

Cookies, for breakfast. Gluten and GMO sugar and artificial ingredients and no protein, for breakfast! I quickly scanned the store and found two bananas and an apple, adding them to the pile on the counter. Still no protein and way too much sugar, but at least better than cookies!

The following morning, I woke before Sean. I was starving. I scarfed down an apple and a banana and went outside, starting to wax the board I wanted to ride. The door cracked open.

“Whoa…do that inside, chica. You’re gonna wake up the other surfers with that sound!”

I felt stupid…and hungry.

We surfed that morning, then drove to our next destination. Pasquales. This stop is known by surfers for its big, heavy, barreling waves. We arrived in the evening, just before sunset. The surface was glassy and the waves were living up to their reputation. I saw a female in the lineup, and anxiety gripped me. I had no excuse to stay on the beach if other girls were out on the water.

Pasquales

Sean examined the waves. He concluded that they looked fun, but he was already exhausted from the drive and from surfing that morning. He didn’t want to push it, risking injury or illness. The idea that the waves would be good and we had time to surf, but our energy level would prevent us from surfing, shocked me almost as much as eating seven tacos at once. Listening to your body when it is tired? But Sean was a really good surfer. How had he achieved that level without forcing himself to surf every spare moment, no matter how he felt?

In the morning, the waves were no good. Sean conceded that he slightly regretted not surfing the night before. See! I knew it! We loaded the car and headed south for Rio Nexpa. After another day of getting beat down while Sean got barreled, and feeling too guilty to eat enough while Sean ate like a king, we finally arrived at my destination.

Where are the waves?

Entering Troncones, we located the resort I would be working at. Sean helped me unload all my stuff into my new home. It was twice the size of my San Diego apartment, had an ocean view, a deck for doing yoga and a gorgeous jacuzzi tub. The Princess Cave just got a serious upgrade.

Next order of business: check out the waves. On our way down to the beach, we passed a beautiful pool with swim-up bar. Several people lounged there. Every one of them was over sixty and speaking English. A super nice, heavyset woman introduced herself, offering to share a package of doughnuts with me. Her husband looked at her like she was crazy, and said something about how I didn’t look like the doughnut type. He then proceeded to offer me a cigarette or a beer… apparently because I looked like the beer and cigarette type? Several other people waved the smoke from their own cigarettes away from us as we walked by. Bright white fat rolls, glistening with sunscreen, filled the lounge chairs. Glossy processed food wrappers were everywhere, shimmering like tiny waves in the sun.

“Where do you think all the other surfers are?” I asked Sean.

“Maybe in the water?” he replied hopefully.

We rounded the pool to look out over the ocean. It was flat, like a lake.

“Maybe it’s between sets?” He was still trying to be optimistic.

One guy sat, motionless, atop a longboard next to the point where the waves should have been. Other than him, the water was empty. We waited and watched, watched and waited. Eventually, a tiny ripple popped up. The man on the longboard paddled as hard as he could for fifteen yards before finally standing up. The wave abruptly mushed out and the ride ended as soon as it started.

“Maybe the swell just isn’t hitting here at the right angle?” Sean suggested. He could clearly see I was crestfallen.

We made our way back to my apartment, passed the doughnut-eating, cigarette-smoking, American retirees. I plopped down on the bed, and Sean sat beside me. I had just rearranged my entire life to come stay at the equivalent of Winter Haven Florida, where my retired grandparents owned a trailer home to escape the Michigan winters.

Sean finally broke the silence, “You can’t stay here.”

“But I committed to it. They are planning on me.” I felt trapped. Just the thought of bailing out on my commitment made me feel sick with guilt, and hungry.

“You are on a surf trip. You want to surf three times a day. You don’t owe anyone anything. You can still say no.”

The concept blew my mind. I could say no. I could change my mind. I could do whatever I wanted. I didn’t have to stay and suffer. I could end it. I wasn’t trapped. I could eat seven tacos. I sat in silence.

“You can’t stay here,” he repeated.

He was right. I was going to be miserable. I was going to resent the people to whom I was supposed to be showing hospitality. If I didn’t take care of myself first, I would end up causing more harm than good. And the whole point of the trip was to take care of myself.

We made plans to take a boat the next morning to a secret surf location. There was a fast, zippy left, which thrilled Sean, and a slow, mushy right, perfect for me. We both had epic sessions. Energized by the session, I knew what I had to do.

I still felt overwhelmed with guilt when I talked to the manager the next morning. I informed him I would not be staying. But as soon as it was over, I lit up with energy at the release of the emotional weight. I dropped off Sean at the airport that afternoon. I was now on my own, with absolutely no plan, no income, no companion and unable to speak the language. I cried when he left, but I quickly stanched my tears, stopping at a restaurant to eat as much as I wanted, unworried about what anyone thought.