“You know what’s funny?” I asked my brother Vince. “No, what?” he replied. We were lounging in a post surf daze under the palapa at Chi-Cho’s Restaurant on the beach at Rio Nexpa, waiting on our mango smoothies and juevos con jamon. A high-tide set wave had just crested the concrete and cobblestone slab rinsing the sand from our bare feet. To the left in our field of vision the next set of waves appeared off the tip of the point with the classic shading of parallel ridges. The first wave pitched and began peeling down the point toward us. Mesmerized, we watched as one after another the waves, groomed by the light offshore wind, reeled by with staggered precision. The set passed directly in front of us, then into the bay to our right and the area known as the “liquadora” (or blender), where the wave’s considerable remaining energy would rear-up into a 6’ wall of water and slam onto the sand and cobbles with a loud roar.
Things quieted and with his eyes still glued to the ocean Vince asked “What’s funny?” I had completely lost my thought.
We squinted in silence as several more sets rolled through, left to right. I reflected on the morning session and each wave ridden, and how my outlook had swung 180 degrees just at the wind was starting to do. Our food came and perhaps the salsa Diablo jump started my brain.
“It’s funny how one wave can change you from “hunted” into “hunter” out there.” “How’s that?” he asked.
I explained that the previous night, I listened to the swells exploding on the rocks below my room and could see, from behind my closed eyes, the intermittent flash of light from the lighthouse next door, and was filled with a unique mix of emotions comparable to a child on Christmas Eve and a death row inmate after his last meal.
In the morning we were on the beach checking the conditions in the pre-dawn light. I gauged the size of the swell - big, and assessed my physical state – jet lagged and slightly groggy, and asked myself “Am I ready for this?” I don’t get to surf much. Locals were calling it "a solid 6' swell", but back when I lived in Florida these conditions would have us frothing about the “double overhead” waves for months afterward. The wind was light and offshore with only our host, Juan, in the water. “It’s very important to be the first ones out” he’d told us the night before.
I plunged into the water anxious and a bit tentative. Just off the beach you encounter a powerful side-shore rip that pulls you toward the “liquadora”. Time to wake up and paddle hard. Unfortunately my paddle out was ill timed and I was thrashed by a large set just as I was exiting the impact zone. Duck diving, like riding a bike, is a skill that once learned is mostly retained through periods of inactivity. That said, a good duck dive is no match for a 6’ set unloading just in front of you. I bear hugged my board as the whitewater rolled and bounced me until I popped up in the foam and boils gasping for air. I would stabilize, paddle a few strokes and repeat. By the time I’d made it into the line-up I was cautious and drained. I felt stalked by the waves. Hunted. I paddled past several well formed and catchable waves and stroked toward the horizon as a large set appeared.
Then a beautiful wave rose in front of me and I instinctively spun around, paddled hard, jumped to my feet, dropped down the face, leaned into a bottom turn, and accelerated down the line. There is a physical sensation and a euphoria generated while in the act of riding a wave that is so agreeable and strong that once you’ve tasted it, you crave more. The better the wave - smoother, faster, hollower, the stronger your response. It is the pursuit of this sensation that motivated this landlocked middle-aged man with a wife, 3 kids and a mortgage to impose on my family, travel great distance, spend considerable dollars, and risk bodily harm to experience mere seconds of it. By the time I kicked out of that first wave, I was buzzing with energy – the definition of stoked. “That one paid for my trip!” I yelled to Vince as I paddled back up the point. Now that I had gotten a fresh taste I would paddle harder, sit a little deeper, take off later, stay out longer, and ignore the “wax rash” forming open wounds on my stomach to hunt more waves.
I don’t feel like a “middle-aged” man on most days, but I’ll take it if it means making it to 84, and yeah I guess “mid-life crisis” is an apt description for my obsession with surfing while residing in the “mountain state” of West Virginia. When we arrived here 15 years ago I was taken by another obsession, – snowboarding, that would also strain my marriage and wallet as I blew-off work on powder days and booked trips west to get the real stuff. I could not get enough, constantly checking the weather, tuning my gear and planning trips. I also began dabbling in whitewater kayaking and rock climbing, of which this state has world class locations for both, but pulled back before obsession took hold. My passion for mountain biking is deep and unwavering, but never in danger of graduating to true obsession status. Yet all of these pursuits are local, indigenous, and therefore more easily justified. A surfing hillbilly – how’s that?
Most mornings I check the surf in Florida, Puerto Rico, Nicaragua, and now the Michoacan coast via the internet. Why do I torture myself, knowing that it’ll be months or years before I’m in the line-up at any of these spots? It only makes it worse when I see, through the miracle of streaming video, that it’s “going off” and I start imagining the waves I’m missing. The only time I check our mailbox is when my internal, two month calendar tells me it time for the arrival of next issue of The Surfer’s Journal. Yes I’m obsessed. Is it possible for someone who lives an 8 hour drive to the nearest wave and only gets the opportunity to surf once or twice a year to be a "surfer"? That first wave at Nexpa gave me the answer I was looking for.
I scraped the frost from my windshield this morning and briefly fantasized about a good winter of heavy snow. Then I recalled that a south swell was forecast to hit Rio Nexpa today, and I could picture the palm lined shore with the lush mountains behind, and see a set wave peaking right in front of me. I bet the wind is offshore too.
Todo bien, ch
