In the lineup.

The first couple mornings of surfing were like no other I've experienced.

A procession of pristine green swells roll through the bay at measured internals. I’ve never seen such an over-abundance of perfect waves or better riders.

My favorite riders are the old ones. They’re each withered, white-haired and perfect candidates for languishing in idle retirement – but instead they dance on waves with an energy and grace that could only result from decades of practice. Shrill laughs, jokes, and loud submarine-style “aah-ohhh-gaww” cheer anyone on a wave. I’m surfing amongst 60’s surf legends and they’re making submarine calls with every wave they catch?! It’s ridiculous and refreshing. Before leaving town, my bro and sis, Axel, and Anya, had told us some colorful stories about them. Now to see them in person is like seeing a favorite cartoon brought to life. Corky Carroll, with a tuft of hair and bulbous balloon navel (the result of some old-age deficiency) pulls his red rash guard up to his neck in defiance. He surfs the biggest wave yet, with complete comfort. Tim Dorsey, follows suit in a speedo. A woman, with white-blonde hair that radiates against her leathery brown tan, rides a flowered board that matches her husband’s and catches waves that make them holler even more. They yell that she looks like Ms. Venture County 1968. She smiles slides down the wave, red toenails tapping down the board to the dangle over the nose.

They don’t let anything stop them – nature, age, youth, or otherwise. It’s like finding out that, all this time, Peter Pan’s vacation home is in Mexico. While the bodies are old, there’s a youthful spirit, goodwill, and positive energy to the group, that is unlike any other and it’s contagious.(It strengthens my resolve to surf till I die, even if I never get past mediocre.) Everyone in the lineup, walking on the beach, drinking Corona from sweating glass bottles from enramadas are some of the friendliest we’ve met. It’s the aloha spirit of the 60’s, says the most talkative of the bunch, You don’t find that around anymore, but in special places. We keep it alive here.

He’s pleased that we appreciate it. He rattles off stories of building beach houses, surfing at Middleton when it meant dodging military police to catch the perfect wave, the broken neck and Vietnam, ancient southwest narratives, and the book he’s going to write.

Later that night, we see Dorsey, walking the beach at sunset in only a navy blue Speedo and straw hat. He’s followed by a pack of neighborhood dogs of all shapes and sizes, all panting and jumpy, joyfully clamoring for his attention. He talks to them lovingly as he herds them along. He throws a stick and 5 or 6 dogs tumble into the surf after it. As he walks towards his beachside casita with a couple resident goats complacently chewing the front vegetation, he honks the rubber horn (“ahh-oohh-gaww”) on the top of his straw hat, as the happy hounds chase after him.

Getting Settled...

In one direction it’s vacation casitas and rustic cabanas. In the other direction, there’s a handful of two story vacation villas, in various stages of completion. In every direction, but west, there are coconut palm trees.

In the west, the ocean lives. It rolls and breaks at one point, but is otherwise relatively flat. During the day, mellow waves steadily deposit woody bits of the inland along with all sorts of plastic refuse. It collects in piles that cover the beach. In front of enramada Illianet’s, to clear a path to the beach, they rake the wood in long piles and burn it throughout the night, giving the dark sand an even darker charcoal black finish in the morning. Here we talked to Mario, the short, stout, gruff overseer of the new two story casitas behind Illianet’s about renting the top floor with a gorgeous oceanview for the next week after making up our minds that it would be worth the extra pesos to spend the rest of our vacation in relative luxury.




When we return from a trip to Xtapa to get cash, I detect Mario’s grumpiness softening to something like indifference. He makes a point to introduce us to Humbert, who we talk into renting us boards for $10/day starting in the morning. That night the sun sets and cows, one burro, and ponies (real wild ponies! after some heated debates, even Nic had to eventually agree, these are wild ponies.) graze beneath the coconut trees.

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.

Thank you, Marc Anthony!

The next town, 20 miles away, down a dirt road is a collection of shacks and one out of place two story hotel. It’s peaceful and welcoming in a simple and white-washed way. Its pool dares to actually glisten in the evening light and a tiny restaurant serves a couple guests – a stark contrast to the previous place. On a huge outside wall is written the hotel's slogan, un lugar differente por jente differente. Literally, a different place for different people.

We head to the office and find nothing but a Spanish sign to interpret. We head to the restaurant to inquire about a missing office manager. I explain we’re looking for a room for the night. The waitress rattles off a response I can only capture bits and pieces of. But I understand she wants me to try the office, there is someone there to help you.

I look at her, how to explain she must help us as there is no one else! Oh the drama!

Before I can blink, out pop the words, “Pero no hay nadie…” It’s part of the refrain of my favorite Marc Anthony song, with a hot latin beat that makes you want to salsa what your momma gave ya: No hay nadie como ella, tan dulce, tan bella...!(There is no one like her, so sweet, so beautiful...!)

She repeats it, “No hay nadie?”

I nod.

I can hardly believe the day has come when Hispanic pop culture is going to save the day! Her brow furrows, she gets it. She walks off to track down the office manager who helps us to a simple room complete with air conditioner, sans evil spirits.

Thank you Marc Anthony!

Escape from Michoacan

Driving at night in Michoacan is not recommended, per the Lonely Planet. So we pull off at San Illu…, a small beach puebla outside of Manzanillo. Off the one main dirt road through town stand an assortment of brightly painted hotels, with dark windows, and empty enramadas with table upon table set for dinner with no one around. The place is deserted. Not sure what to do next, I pick the white hotel with the pretty pool. (it was such an oasis in PV). As we drive by a woman with dark hair and blue eyes waves us in to park. Behind her, in the doorway of her personal house, sits a boy who just stares at us. She overcompensates for his moroseness and greats us with such Spanish enthusiasm that I have to ask her to repeat slowly as my travel tired brain can hardly translate. Yes, she has rooms.

Excitedly she leads us past an algae-green pool (not quite the refreshing oasis), half finished palapa, surrounded by half-finished tile, and stacks of dusty shuttered table umbrellas and down a tall (twice Nic, I swear) but narrow hallway with no lights or windows. In the dark, there’s light once she opens the door to a gigantic, musty white room with a tiny window and the only decoration of two big beds. It was simple, it probably would have been fine. But there was no accounting for the strange feeling of being there. She looks at us expectantly when she asks for 600 pesos. Nic asks to see the other room, she looks at him funny. I try to ask to see the other room and she takes us to see something more strange. A maze of 3 or 4 rooms all connected through dark corners, more tiny windows musty smells and ill-placed beds (including one single bed in the main entrance). We’re both trying to imagine sleeping here. Later Nic notes it’s all like something out of a bad remake of The Shining. But he politely tells her we will go to see other hotels first. She looks at him funny. I try to tell her we want to go look at other places first. She lowers the price on this, her finest room to 700 then 600 then 400 pesos and waits. I thank her as we escape. She continues calling out after us after we’re in the car.

Her son still sits on the doorstep and stares at us as we drive away.

Sorry to disappoint but so happy to escape the strange, deserted dark town.

Through Michoacan

We leave Nayurit, for the sparsely populated state of Michoacan. The jungle grows to the very edges of the shoulder-less two lane road. Butterflies float on white-wings, the size of my hands. Every shade of green in existence seems to grow on the rugged mountainsides, accented by Fanta-orange colored blossoms of something exotic. The common mode of transportation is to hop in the back of a pickup truck and hold on! Workers, families, schoolkids, even the policia can be seen cruising this way, around corners, up hills and at top speeds on the carreterra. The area becomes increasingly remote and the jungle stretches on forever. The sky grows dark as it births the next tropical storm. Empty enramadas (the wall-less palapa shelters) are the only sentinel for miles upon miles of rugged beach break. More often the occasional simple house is made from woven sticks and coconut tree slabs. Rotund vacas and brown-eyed burros stand alongside the highway, chewing back the abundant vegetation, while merely side-stepping cars, if they make a move at all. As navigator, my eyes routinely search the sidelines and I see my first of many “sleepy” burros (as in “ah, look at the burro not moving—he must be very sleepy!’) on the side of the road, bloated and upside down, with now-leathery cartoon legs sticking straight into the air. The desperate image branded on my mind the rest of the journey.

Children and workers walk along the white lines of the highway-turned-sidewalk, on their way to something. Our car approaches and, as if on cue, they all take a step off the road to simultaneously and completely disappear into the jungle. Where people were, only stalks of 5’ jungle grass wave. Our car trundles down a newly deserted road. The villagers only reappear and resume their walk after we’ve passed. It’s a strange sight that re-plays again and again as we cruise along.

We glide through Manzanillo, a big shipping port surrounded by row after row after row of cement track homes, compact, sunset-pink or colorless-gray, with the universal black water bins on top.

Buen Provecho y Banos

Armed with a couple maps that say conflicting things about the path ahead, we triumphantly buzz out of Puerto Vallarta, through the cliff-side town of Mismaloya and Boca de Tomatlan, past Mediterranean-inspired estates and cinderblock shacks. We stop for food at a roadside town. The way the lady never volunteers English but waits for me to use my Spanish makes me think that they don’t seem many tourists this way. The way she quickly rattles off a response makes me realize that my Spanish has been mistaken for fluency. It’s exciting to rely on the words we’ve only used mostly for fun, up until now. We sit in a small back room, off the highway. Cement walls are painted turquoise with large pinatas for decoration (A traditional horse and Shrek?) Almuerzo of delicious chicken, soft corn tortillas and rice is conducted completely in Spanish. While eating, an older Mexican cowboy walks by and wishes us buen provecho. A second follows with a dignified limp, a curious look, and a doff of a cowboy hat as he wishes us buenos dias.

Another part of the small-town experience: el bano. A promising sign points to a door, that heads outside. Walking through the door, I’m expect to see another sign that leads to another door, but instead find myself surrounded by four cement walls of the neighboring buildings, with only a thin, low-hanging, hole-ridden tarp sheltering my activities from the heavens above and world around. I look around me and feel like I’m the subject of one of those brain-teaser jokes: a girl’s in a cramped, outdoor bathroom, with only a toilet with no handle, a barrel of rainwater, and a small bucket. How does she flush the toilet?

Answer: fill the bucket with rainwater, dump the water in the toilet, and the toilet auto-magically flushes!

I felt like a winner washing my hands and encourage Nic to try out the bano.