I arrived in Manzanillo to greetings from old friends, all the fixtures that I met when I was here last year are still rooted firmly to this place. Edgar, the owner of the hotel where I stay. Guero, the mischievous Mexican with a twinkle in his eye who starts off each day with a 40oz bottle of Corona for breakfast. Esperanza, originally from Washington, who consistently charges whether the waves are big or small.
The days passed, the waves kept pumping, and before I knew it, two weeks had slipped away. I could spend a lifetime in the little town by the river, surfing with my friends, watching throngs of birds come to feed and nest, peeling sunshine-colored mangoes, sticky and sweet. Maybe someday I will shed the skin of my old life and return here, reborn. That is what I told myself in consolation whenever I thought about leaving.
One of my favorite places in the world is a point break that sits at the base of a wide river mouth, tucked away beneath a canopy of palm trees. In the shadow of mountains that sparkle in shades of emerald and jade, the harlot river rages many moods. Sometimes tranquil and blue, she offers her cool bosom to heat-heavy bodies that bask in the shade of her banks. Children jump from a rope swing on the riverbank and cannonball into the water, just shallow enough to stand, just deep enough to dive. Sand piles lazily at the mouth of the river, the water lapping playfully at the shore, seeping into the ocean as gently as a sigh.
On Elaine’s last day, we explored Saladita, a small town to the north with a well-known surf break. Since that was the direction I was headed, I packed my things, planning on finding a place to stay for a few days after Elaine left. We chartered a taxi for the day, and were soon headed down a bumpy dirt road, winding among colorful hand-painted signs advertising surf hostels and restaurants. Through the trees, we caught glimpses of the ocean, where a cluster of long boards floated amidst small, neat lines of waves peeling down a gentle point break.
As my time in Puerto Escondido drew to a close, I eagerly anticipated my aunt Elaine’s upcoming visit. She’s like a second mother to me; I moved to Northern California to live with her when I was fourteen. And even after I went off to college and embarked on life as an autonomous adult, I felt that I always had a home to come back to.