Out Here in Mexico, Chapter 7: Surf Jail. by risa
I was greeted by one of the few other surfers who had found this place with “Welcome to surf jail”. I didn´t know what that meant and didn´t care since the sun was going down and I wanted to get wet. After stringing up my hammock under a palapa and leaving my valuables with a potter from Oregon who seemed trustworthy, I was paddling out for the evening glass off. A really nice session followed by a week more to come.
The surf jail guy was a carpenter from Montana named Cole. He called it surf jail because the only less than filthy cabanas for rent on the beach had four concrete walls and no windows. Who cares when there are glassy aquamarine bombs peeling into the front yard? It really was like jail. There were so few people there that you knew when everyone came and went, showered, slept, and surfed; and there was little to talk about except what the other inmates were doing and women.
5 days passed. Wake early for offshores. Drink cowboy coffee with Cole. Surf. Eat. Read. Eat. Siesta. Surf evening session. Eat. Drink some beers or rum. Sleep.
Repeat.
The waves turned brown then green again. The swell dropped then rose again. I feared for my life a few times and got held down a few times. Surfed some little waves and some big waves.
Nothing really broke this cycle except skinny-dipping with German backpacker girls (some of the only women in jail) and nearly getting destroyed by some 30 stampeding cows running down the beach at night. We still don’t know who the cows belonged to.
After the cow incident I awoke feeling really unhealthy but blamed the rum, drank some coffee, sucked it up, and paddled out.
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