Day 36

After a few weeks in Acapulco, binging at the buffet of male attention, the pull for the road and new adventures was getting to me. I packed up and headed deeper south. The farther south I traveled, the more wild things became. I heard whispers of an island, accessible only by boat, blessed with great waves. I was told that local families rented cabañas on the beach, and opened their homes to serve food to the handful of backpackers and traveling surfers who found their way there. My guidebook listed the surf break as well, but warned that the road to the boat launch was washed out and only accessible by 4×4. It seemed like an invitation to me. I had heard rumors of this place from other surfers. Fabled to have perfect, barreling waves of up to four hundred yards, the tiny island was surf lore, recounted in quiet whispers, uttered over post-surf beers. One always employs hushed tones to describe the uncrowded wave.

Five hours after leaving Acapulco, I encountered a small sign, pointing down a dirt road off the main highway. The sign bore the name of the town I wanted to find. I pulled over to check my map. This seemed to be it. A little old lady waved at me from a corner store. I waved back. She picked up her woven basket, full of market purchases, and headed for my passenger door. She opened the door and hopped in. Apparently, waving at old ladies gets you hitchhikers in this town. My Spanish was still pretty basic, but I was pretty sure she said she lived in the town where the boats were launched to go to the legendary island. She said the road was passable, and she would show me the way. Score!

When I dropped off La Abuela, she insisted I sit for a while in her hammock. She showed me around her homestead, a thatched-roof bamboo hut and a yard full of dogs and chickens. She gave me avocados from her yard as a thank you, and directions to the boat launch.

As I pulled up to the launch, several young men waved me into parking areas, hustling for boat clients. I went with the first one, parking behind the gate. I was informed that my car and belongings would be watched, 24/7, at a price of $2 per day. At least that is what I thought he said. I hoped I wasn’t about to get all my stuff ripped off. I asked if there was surfing on the island, but I couldn’t comprehend the response. I asked if there were accommodations on the island, and understood none of that answer, either.  I would later find out that the islanders spoke an afro-influenced dialect. They were impossible for me to understand. I tried asking another kid, but again found the reply unintelligible.

So, I grabbed all three of my boards, camera gear, dog food and a backpack. I loaded the tiny ponga with way too much stuff. We made the crossing and I paid the $0.75 toll as I was dumped on the shore with a pile of bags, a yapping puppy and no clue what to do next–or if I was even in the right place. I loaded myself up like a sherpa and headed across the soft sand, carrying a hundred pounds of gear and the dog (the sand was too hot for her paws), pushing through sweltering heat.

I crested a dune, sweat dripping into my wide eyes. BOOM! There, on the other side of the beach, a massive, perfectly formed, hollow wave raced before me. The winds were blowing straight offshore, the good direction. Only two surfers inhabited the water. An uncrowded hollow wave almost doesn’t exist any more. My heart raced. I continued my trek across the beach, arms so full I was unable to swat at the mosquitos who undoubtedly smelled fresh gringa meat and swarmed around my legs. Finding a clump of cabañas, I dumped my stuff in front of the first one. The proprietor came out to negotiate a price with me. I had no idea what she was saying. It might as well have been Arabic. I was clueless. Eventually, through sign language, I understood the room was $5 per night and there was no bathroom. I assumed that meant that the bathroom was shared. It did not mean that. There was indeed no bathroom, unless you counted the bare toilet bowl (no tank or seat), screened on two sides by a piece of aluminum siding and flagrantly open on the other two sides. A large drum, filled with fresh water, was provided for rinsing. The idea was that you would squat, and after you had done your business, you would locate the 50-gallon drum full of water and use a bucket to “flush”. It was the same bucket and the same water you used to “shower”. Completely unaware of the the  “flushing” protocol, I skipped this step a couple of times and eventually was given a polite demonstration by the proprietor.

The woman showed me to my room, which was behind her restaurant. Nominally a restaurant, it was really just an awning made of palm fronds, an extension of her own kitchen, where she served a traveler or two per day. As we walked to my room, the stench of rotting fish filled the air. Looking down, I surmised that we were walking through the area where she dumped her food waste, for the feral chickens to pick through. My dog, Mika, exuberantly held half a dead fish in her mouth. The reality of my situation was sinking in. I literally was giving up every bit of control over creature comforts for the sake of surfing. And it didn’t bother me in the least.

I paid the woman for a week, and tried to cram my nine-foot longboard into a room that was itself about nine feet by nine. I waxed up a board and headed out to catch some empty waves.

The rip current was strong. It took me almost no time to reach the breaking waves, about a third of a mile offshore. I got myself in position, and took off on one of the smaller sets. It closed out–breaking all at once, leaving me no exit. I plunged into the depths and relaxed my body as I waited for the impact of the next wave to pass. Resurfacing, I reeled in my board by the leash. I climbed on top just in time to see another wave coming at me. This was not one of the smaller waves. This one was as tall as a house and was about to hit me with all its force. I knew there was no getting over or under this wave with my board, so I ditched the board and dove under. Once again, I waited for the impact to pass. When it did, still underwater, I searched for my leash to climb my way back to the surface. I found the leash and gave it a tug.

The feeling of no resistance when you pull on your leash is one of the most sickening things I’ve ever experienced. My heart drops into my stomach and sits there, burning in stomach juices, making me want to vomit. It is like standing naked in an open field, surrounded by snipers. You just know you are going to die, you just know it.

With nothing to pull me to the surface, I kicked my way up and gulped in air. I could see my board, bouncing in the white water, a hundred feet in front of me. There was no getting it back before the next wave would take it away. I could see another massive wave about to drill me, this time with no floatation strapped to me. I spied another boardless surfer, also white faced and wide eyed. The same wave had broken both our leashes. BOOM. The next wave drilled us, and the next two waves behind that one. Control? What control?

I body surfed the best I could. The rip was strong and the waves kept coming. The swim in took about twenty minutes. I have no problem swimming laps for twenty minutes in a pool, but when when you have to hold your breath for fifteen seconds out of every thirty while getting ragdolled under water, it makes for a feat of athleticism. I was in survival mode. As I swam, I noticed a young Mexican man, standing on the beach with my surfboard. His eyes were fixed on me. He stood like a statue, ready to come to my aid at any moment, but giving me the dignity to save myself. His gaze gave me confidence.

Finally putting my feet down onto the sand, I saw that the gazing man was handsome and chiseled. He smiled as I approached, coughing and exhausted. He handed my board back to me and pulled out two beers from the sand, buried to keep them cool. The beers had been  waiting for me to conclude my battle.

“Felicidades,” Oscar congratulated me, handing me one of the beers. “Esta bien pasado hoy. Buen hecho.”

He said the conditions were heavy today and that I had done well. I felt a little embarrassed, but his massive smile made me feel better. He invited me to join him that night for another beer at the lone bar on this island of three hundred inhabitants. I agreed.

In the bar, I spotted a ten-foot vinyl poster of Oscar, getting the barrel of his life. A major surf brand logo was emblazoned across the bottom left corner. My personal lifeguard was also the pride of the island. The bar was packed, and every head lifted at Oscar’s entrance. Or perhaps they were looking at the tall, thick blond with him. The sound system blasted traditional music of La Banda and people were dancing. Oscar introduced me to everyone. It was too loud to hear, and I couldn’t understand anything anyway. It didn’t matter. Control? What control? He passed me from dance partner to dance partner and, before I knew it, it was 4 am.

Something about that night I will never forget. Maybe it was getting to be a part of the local culture, or getting to be the belle of the ball with the hometown hero. Maybe it was the near death and resurrection experience. Maybe it was giving up control completely, and being born into something new.

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*some names have been changed to protect privacy

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