Where's Lizzy: Episode 4

Next, we had to find a way from this town to the break. On the sweltering walk up the hill towards the main road, we'd take whichever came first-an innocuous-looking ride or a passing taxi. By the second day we agreed not to waste our money on taxis, and found ourselves bouncing along in the front of a bright orange Doritos delivery truck. After a brief stop to restock the local gas station with a day's supply of chips, Armando and Juan Carlos kindly took us out all the way out the dirt road, delivering us a skip away from the point. As we dismounted our marmalade-colored magic carpet, the guys already perched at the restaurant just shook their heads in disbelief. The local police also became a staple “go-to” option. Pablo set us up with them the first afternoon, and everyday thereafter, they stopped at the sight of us, all three of them motioning for us to jump in. They always made a pass down the dirt road before heading back to the main town where Swell was anchored, so we'd throw our boards in the back and jump in with one of the policia, his A-K slung casually across his back. Due to our incomplete Spanish vocabulary, the conversations with our drivers were usually quite similar: “What's your name? What do you do? Have you lived here all your life? Do you have any children?” And then we'd follow it up with the brief rundown of what we were doing in the back of their vehicle. At the notion that we had sailed there on a boat all by ourselves, they'd raise an eyebrow in disbelief and take on the job as our happy tour guide/guardian.

On the last leg of our daily journey we'd find ourselves on the shore looking out at Swell after jumping out of the back of a truck or out of Jeff and Clark's slick rental minivan. It was generally around midnight, and we were sunburned, aching, and exhausted. We'd left our boards at the spot for the next day. After a “there's no alternative” sigh, we'd walk out on the breakwater and throw our dusty clothes into the dry-bag. On the rise of the surge, I'd dog-dive into the black abyss off the rocks to make sure it was deep enough. Shannon would then slide in behind me. One night a group of 14 year-old boys watched in disbelief as we plunged in off the rocks into the dark sea. Shannon said she felt like a Charlie's Angel. Hair wet yet again, we'd swim the 200 yards back towards Swell's faithfully swaying anchor light. There was always a bit of negative anticipation while we were still dry, but actually these were magical swims. Surrounded by darkness on all sides, the lights of the town flickered from shore, the stars were smeared across the overhead blackness, and glowing flecks of phosphorescence trailed our motion through the black water. By the time we heaved our fluoro-speckled bodies up the side of the boat we were laughing and reminiscing the events of the day. (Shannon was breaking hearts right and left!)

Okay, I saved the best for last: the waves. If you are a surfer and sitting in a cubicle under a flickering fluorescent light, save yourself the agony and don't read on — I was a kid in a candy store, a fat guy at an 'All-you-can eat', a mosquito in a room full of lightly-clothed gringos, a cow in a green pasture-in other words, I was hungry. Between the hours of daylight I was possessed by the waves that constantly caressed the point. It was overhead all week long. I'd surf a morning session and eventually straggle in to the restaurant. While sucking down a mango-banana licuado that would put Jamba Juice out of business, I'd try to hang with the group of surfers recalling the waves of the morning. Just as one would launch into a story, my eyes would stick to a set lining up through the inside. My mind would wander as it rifled across the empty bay. I'd loose my focus and start to twitch. I'd roll and squirm in the hot sand and try to convince myself that I needed some shade and some rest. Then another set would wash across the bar with no one on it, and that was it, I couldn't take it anymore. I'd cave and run for my board, rub on some more sunscreen and sprint back up the point. They all thought I was nuts, but how could I sit there? There was nobody out and I was amidst an intimate self-tutorial to get in touch with the mechanics of my backside surfing! Over and over would come a wave I could put 10 turns on! I'd crank the next one a little more vertical, drop in a little deeper, drive around a section a bit faster and smoother-mad with excitement, energy, and creativity. I was in love with surfing, the warmth, the freedom of my new life, and the victory of each small progression. It was high I'd prior experienced in fleeting flashes, that was now around long enough to almost get comfortable in. As I dropped into a wave on the evening of the fourth day, the sun's reflection was hung up in the lip. I placed my feet with the perfect angle and glided down the glowing face. It all came together. I set my rail hard, went straight up into the pocket, and cracked the lip above me. Fortunately, for both peace of mind and a break for my body, the swell finally faded, greatly easing our departure from this unreal locale.

On our last day in the area, we arrived back at Swell's cove midday with a heap of goods from our week on land. We'd left everything overnight at the break and had accumulated quite a pile. It was Easter Sunday and the pangas weren't heading out to fish, so I paddled a load out to Swell and grabbed the longboard for the next pickup. Upon returning to the beach Shannon had lent her board to a little boy playing in the water. He clung to it like a long-lost friend, floundering happily in the ankle-deep whitewash. I walked up to little Herman with the longboard and asked him if he wanted some help catching a wave."Quieres ayuda? Soy una maestra de surfear," I gently tempted. His eyes lit up and he excitedly plopped his belly square on the stringer where I patted the board. I launched him out over the incoming waves, reverting to my days as a summertime surf instructor in Del Mar. He looked at me with wide-eyed trust. "Listo?" I asked. He nodded with slight reluctance as I pushed into the momentum of the incoming swell. In my rush back to the beach I had neglected to put the fin in the tail of the board, so I held on as we rode towards the shore, doubling as the board's rudder. He didn't stand up for the first three waves, but on the fourth Herman rose and planted his grubby little feet beneath him…and with style. His face glowed as he dismounted that first wave and I slapped him a congratulatory high-five. He immediately wanted his buddy to try, and so for the next hour Herman and Octavio took turns popping to their feet as we rode together toward the sand. It felt good to share the joy I'd felt all week. Finally I had to pull the plug on the fun…we would be sailing all night and needed a bit of time to get Swell ready for sea. So Shannon strapped on her infamous water backpack and we waved good-bye to the new little surfers. I almost felt guilty as I looked back to see Herman, dripping wet, carrying on to his dad on the beach about what had happened. Surfing can change your life.

Tomorrow, Shannon and I set sail on a 50-hour passage to Puerto Escondido. We just spent nearly five days in Zihuatanejo running errands, checking emails, and resting our muscles. Pablo hitched a ride on the passage here, and with his energetic guidance along with our new friend Rick's abundant aloha, we've checked nearly everything off the latest list…including a lime squeezer, two machetes, 3 baskets and teal twine for the creation of a tiered fruit tower, anti-freeze to flush the engine's cooling system along with oil for another oil change, and plenty of Zihuatanejo's finest gelato.

Check out previous episodes of lizzy's adventures:
Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3

 

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