Adjusting to surf time

We stop at Barra de Nexpa to take in the pounding surf. Only a handful of short-boarders are attempting the rough, muddy wave. The rest of the town is deserted. Up and down the beach, empty palapas that should host throngs of sunny, euphoric tourists stand, dark and unwelcoming. Without the distraction of lively people, it’s eerie and strange. We leave promptly.

The next stop is another small beach-side village. The magic wave we’ve heard about fulfills all stories and peels down the line for minutes on end. It’s mind-blowing. We greet two surfers. They happen to be from Bellingham, WA. They drove all the way down and are “stuck” until their van get’s fixed. How long have you been here?

Saltwater bloodshot eyes look at us. What day is it today?

He asks the question like one might ask you your name. With casual indifference, because it doesn’t really matter whether you respond with “john” or “joya”, it’s a mere technicality. I have a hard time remembering. Jen and Eric left yesterday the 22, Sunday.

Nic chimes in with today’s Monday the 23rd.

We look at them, eagerly. As they look at eachother, assessing time that's come and gone between morning beach swells, high tides and afternoon siestas.

Five weeks? We’ve been here five weeks.