High expectations make for poor travel companions. –Alex Oliver, aka Lex
One day, I was lounging around the hostel at La Punta when Lex walked by. His timing was serendipitous; feeling bored in Puerto Escondido, I was ready to move. I had been planning on returning to Salina Cruz, but the approaching swell had just been downgraded, and another, cleaner and more powerful swell forecast for two weeks out. Given this development, I figured I would head north for a bit and then backtrack for a strike mission on Salina Cruz just before the big swell arrived. All morning, I had been soliciting information about breaks to the north, deciding what my next move should be. Lex was heading to one of my target areas in approximately one hour. I wanted in. Hurriedly, I began to pack.
The logistics of where we were going turned out to be more difficult than I had anticipated. Luckily, Lex had done his homework and was on the budget travel plan. We boarded a bus from La Punta to the city of Puerto Escondido, then a shuttle to northern Oaxaca, followed by a colectivo, or group taxi, to the coast. Next, we hopped on a small boat used to transport food and goods to a tiny beachfront town situated on the edge of a national park. We wove through a network of estuaries bordered by mountains and mangrove trees, then docked and transferred to an open-ended truck with rough wooden planks for seats. Packed with boxes of food and a group of other passengers, there was scarcely enough room for all of us, so Lex and I opted to hang out the back, holding on to the rusty metal cover overhead as we jostled through rivers and over sand dunes.
Lex had heard that we could camp for free at one of the beach front palapas, provided that we bought our meals from the restaurant of our selected host. Turns out, he heard right. We set up camp under the open air palm fronds of Marta’s restaurant, which was really her house from which she sold homemade food. Lex pitched his tent, and I hung my hammock and mosquito net, dragging a table alongside it so that I had a place to put my things other than on the sand floor. The shower consisted of a concrete stall with a pink frilly curtain and a large plastic tub of water inside. Floating in the tub was a small bowl used to scoop water and pour it over one’s head. Next door was an identically sized concrete stall with a wooden door, and a string which affixed to a nail in order to close it. Inside was the base of a toilet, minus back and seat, which one flushed by pouring a bucket of water into the bowl. Both stalls were clean and functional; I was happy.
After we settled in, we looked at the dinner menu, which was an unproductive way to order, since many of the items had to be requested (and purchased) in advance. Instead, we simply asked what was available. Lex had pulpo, or octopus, and I had pescado, an entire fish served with skin, scales, bones, and all. Feeling very full, and very free, I slept peacefully in the hammock, with starry skies for walls and the moon peeking through the slat in the thatched roof overhead, lulled by the music of the ocean just a few yards away.
The next morning, we decided to go looking for beach break as the wave out front looked pretty small. Marta’s son, Agustin, also a surfer, told us that the beach break didn’t have a name. The locals just referred to it as el otro lado, or the other place, and usually surfed the left on the north end. We set off looking for adventure, and not expecting much in the way of waves. After crossing the river and locating a footpath which led over the hill to a more exposed beach, we emerged from the bushes and were greeted by a spitting barrel.
Lex started hooting, and ran across the beach to the large rock formation in the center, ascending rapidly to get a bird’s eye view of the peaks. Before I divulge this next part, know this about Lex: He is a 22 year old Australian. And though he’s a solid and respectful travel companion who is perfectly capable of having a mature conversation…did I mention that he’s a 22 year old Australian?
As I approached the base of the rock, he started making self-pleasuring motions with his hand, which I took to mean that he liked what he saw. He was quite the sight, screaming at the top of his lungs, engaged in a wild air-masturbation dance.
Once he calmed down, we decided that we would surf the right hander on the south side of the rocks, and got down to the business of figuring out how to paddle out. We started toward the edge of the rocks, planning to jump straight into the empty lineup, but after a crashing wave nearly swept us into a much less amusing, and much more painful rock dance than Lex had just engaged in, we decided to paddle out from the beach.
After we made it out safely to the peak, we looked around ourselves in awe. Other than a few fisherman, there wasn’t a soul around for as far as the eye could see. We were surrounded by warm ocean, smooth as glass, with just a faint hint of offshore breeze. All this against a dramatic backdrop of green hills and the faint silhouette of mountains in the distance. We looked across the rocks at an adjacent sandbar as a beautiful peak reared up, the sun mirrored and glistening in shiny tendrils on the wave’s face as it threw out broadly, forming a wide tunnel that we could see all the way through.
Broad smiles beamed from both of our faces; the place was surreal. “We have to name this wave,” Lex said. “When you score epic surf all to yourself, in a spot with no name, you get to name it.” He thought for a minute. “We could call it ‘The Dream.’ Or is that too short?” I considered his lewd dance on the rocks. “Wet dream,” I said. And so the wave was christened.
By conventional standards, the wave was not perfect. There were a lot of closeouts, a lot of lulls. But after the crowds at Puerto Escondido, it was a dream come true. I’d been eager to practice my barrel drops and this was the perfect opportunity. Since many of the waves weren’t makeable, I didn’t have to worry about blowing a long ride – might as well pull in. There was no one to compete with, to worry about burning or running over, other than Lex. And after his display that morning, I was certainly not worried about embarrassing myself in front of him; I was free to get tossed on as many waves as I liked. The lulls, too, were welcome. They meant I could paddle back out without getting completely obliterated.
We surfed the wave every day that we stayed there, and every morning it was more or less the same. Sometimes a little bigger, sometimes more or less consistent. But always glassy, always barreling, with never another surfer in sight.
The second day we brought a dry bag with snacks, water, and clothes. I also brought shoes to protect my blistered feet from the flaming sand that I’d had to run across, eyes tearing, to make it back to the trail. The dry bag didn’t turn out to be so dry. As I paddled it across the river, it took in at least a quart of water. Oh well. We hung our sopping wet clothes on a log and they were dry by the time we finished surfing. The sand was an inferno. Thank god I brought my shoes.
After we dressed and ran across the beach, we went looking for crocodiles. I had heard that there was a crocodile sanctuary farther down the path, and I had been anxious to see one ever since Esteban gifted me with a crocodile tooth in Costa Rica. We walked for about a kilometer, deeper into the pungent, slimy mud of the mangroves, until we found it. And we saw crocodiles all right – big ones, small ones, short ones, tall ones, some with their jaws open and teeth bared, fixing us with evil eyes. Lucky for us, there were viewing platforms where we could observe them in relative safety, though I felt a twinge of disappointment that I couldn’t truthfully say I’d seen a crocodile in the wild.
Be careful what you wish for. One day, I was on my way to surf Wet Dream with Lex and Agustin when, midway across the river, I saw bubbles accompanied by a strange motion in the water, like a current that didn’t belong. I thought it might be a fish – until I saw the scaly lumps of two predatorial eyes about five feet away. “Crocodile!” I screamed, as the ribbons of water started snaking toward Lex and Agustin. Lex looked back as a spiky reptilian tail surfaced a few feet behind him. Then he paddled for the shore faster than I have ever seen any human being paddle, like he was being chased – well because he was being chased, by a crocodile. Amazingly, the crocodile disappeared and we all made it to shore safely. But it gave us quite a thrill.
Another animal that made an unwanted appearance that day was the octopus. Let me explain. Recall the first night, Lex had eaten octopus for dinner. I had tried a bite and was surprised to find it was delicious. The only catch was, Lex had been plagued by diarrhea and a loss of appetite since our first day there. He said he’d had it on and off for months, so I didn’t give it much thought. And given the limited menu options, I had ordered octopus the previous night. I was just preparing to enter the shore pound at Wet Dream when my stomach lurched and the telltale urge hit.
Some rules of thumb when you have diarrhea on the beach are: do it in the water, away from everyone else, in an area that is turbulent enough to quickly dissipate it into fish food. This is much more conscientious than burying it underneath a rock way back on the shore, where it will remain indefinitely, drawing flies, stinking horribly, and possibly resulting in a devastating surprise for a beachgoer with an affinity for kicking rocks.
Given my proximity to the pounding shore break and the convenient fact that Lex had already paddled out to the peak, I was in a pretty fortunate position to get hit with a bout of diarrhea, if such a thing can, in fact, at any time, be described as fortunate. God damn octopus. I chuckle at the irony it is called pulpo in Spanish.
Luckily, I wasn’t too sick to surf, and was able to pull myself together and resume my barrel drop training. On my last wave, I pulled into a wide, reeling tube which eventually closed out and drilled me a few seconds later. But I was happy with the knowledge that I had tried my best, that I didn’t chicken out and dodge it, that I saw and committed to the elusive high line I’d been striving to find. I surfaced to a vision of Lex on the beach, arms raised in a cheer.
When he headed back to Puerto Escondido, I decided to stay on an extra day. The place inspired me. Rough, raw, rich in waves and crocodiles, lacking in amenities, it certainly wasn’t what I was expecting. In fact, I hadn’t known what to expect. I hopped on a bus, on a whim, with no time to formulate expectations.
Expectations are a wall built of things from the past – things I’ve heard, other people’s experiences, my own hopes and past ventures. And the thing about the wall is, it imprisons my mind in the future, going over different outcomes, the way I want things to be. Free from this trap, the present is boundless, vast and rich with the fullness of the moment, so tangible I can hear the roar of the ocean, see the spit of a barrel, smell the stagnant water in the mangroves, feel the burn of the hot sand, taste the meat of that fateful octopus, and love every minute of it.
Dear Aloe,
I think what you are doing is amazing! So inspiring. I was writing because I was also dreaming of adventuring through the coastal surf spots of Mexico. I had been thinking about Baja, but then also thinking about starting in Sayulita and heading down to San Blas, San Pancho, Troncones to Zihutanejo. Do you have any insights? Safety? Good waves spots? Are there others that you liked better, nice towns, people and beautiful waves? Thanks Aloe, I hope you are having a time of you life. With lots of love, hope to see you in the waves of Santa Cruz again soon.
Ana
Hey Ana thanks so much for the kind words! I will send you an email with some questions and detailed info 🙂