“Where I go, I just don’t know, I might end up somewhere
in Mexico…” lyrics from The Red Hot Chili Peppers sparked another song; that of
the Mexican sea’s voice among others I couldn’t ignore. Like the lullaby of smooth cobblestones. They crawled up the sand only to have their
progress stolen by crashing shore-pound that created a soothing beat as they
collided and washed over each other, the water sifting, rushing through any
spare space. Craig’s words, “Never seen
a shark in these waters, but been chased out by a crocodile,” came next. The cawing roosters made their debut at dawn,
replaced later by cooing geckos and chirping parakeets. I hear the belly of the rental car being
itched on large rocks in the dirt road and on the crests of potholes. Wild dogs howled at dusk, while warning barks
were launched from the lungs of lesser wild dogs, our nocturnal security
system, that lived among us on the beach.
“It’s what happens when the squid disappear,” Craig said in his
matter-of-fact manner. His deep voice
faded to mingle with sounds and memories that twirled through my thoughts; the
substance of a wanderlust mind.
Right
before our departure, the news reported a fatal shark attack in mainland Mexico
on a surfer from San Francisco. I knew shark attacks were such a freak
occurrence, so they actually made me feel safer. I believed the odds were against me. A local, who lived in Troncones for thirty
years, where the fatal attack occurred, remarked this was the first attack he
heard of. Attacks were so rare there that a
surfer had a much better chance of getting food poisoning or even chased out of
the water by a crocodile. In fact, it is far more dangerous driving to the
beach than getting in the water. Craig Carroll, the owner of the surf school I
worked for, averaged three trips a year and knew these facts firsthand.
May 2008 marked my second surf trip to
Mexico, and I felt prepared. I just
completed a Spanish course, exercised and conditioned, and knew the waves I
would be contending with. But during my
first surf of the trip, I
was not prepared to chat in the line-up with two guys from California who lost
their friend to a great white two days prior.
We
talked about the various breaks in the area when they told me why I should not
surf Troncones. They were sharing waves
with their friend there a few sessions ago, and now he was gone. I had no words to speak, only sullen silence
until finally, I said I respected for them for getting back in the ocean. I
wasn’t sure if I would be brave enough to do the same. I told them I was sorry.
“He
would have wanted us to finish out the trip. We’re surfing for him.” They were
the first ones in the water and the last ones out.
We
slept in cabanas on a remote beach that offered a stellar view of the world-class
left point. The subliminal calming repetition of the ocean’s pulse never left
our heads.
Early one grey morning, I pulled myself out of bed to peek at the waves. The point reeled, and only two other people were out. I remembered it was the California boys’ last morning and knew it had to be them in the water.
When I got to the outside, I realized we were still the only ones out. The waves were thundering in bigger than they had before.
“WHEWWWW!” I shrilled as I watched them take turns on the set waves. These waves were the biggest I’d surfed so far in my life, being easily double overhead. I kept holding back. I watched the boys in awe as they disappeared into the wave and then reappeared twenty seconds later way down the beach. At one point, I was in the perfect spot to ride the approaching mountain of water, and they both yelled for me. I knew I couldn’t think about it, no hesitation allowed; just go for it.
“GOOO!”
One of the boys cried.
“Yah, yah, yah, get it!” The other one screamed.
Their
encouragement gave me the confidence I lacked. I paddled boldly in full force
and threw my body into the wedge of the wave and made the drop. I flew down the seamless, peeling left. I carved up and down the face, racing faster than ever. I cut back to the pitching
mouth of the wave and continued sailing down the line. The biggest rush of
adrenaline I’d ever experienced pulsed through my veins as I paddled back out,
yearning for another wave just like that. Even though I caught more waves that
day, I knew they called me into the best wave I ever rode in Mexico. I was in love; with Mexico and the endless
walls of water produced by point breaks.
A few weeks after I returned to Florida, a newspaper reported three other shark
attacks that occurred days after I left. Bruce Grimes, a surfer, artist, and board shaper from central Florida
was one. He was attacked at Playalinda,
a beach where I surfed alone for hours. For
some unexplainable reason, scientists found that a cold water current flowed
south from California bringing many giant squid. The great whites and tiger
sharks were in hot pursuit of their prey, making mainland Mexico dining grounds
for countless hefty predators. I am glad I did not learn this information until
we were home!
I have proof of what happened when the squid disappeared
that spring of 2008. The glossy,
laminated newspaper story with Bruce’s photo and the facts are tangible
proof. Proof, so when memories take
flight in my mind and the colors and sounds of fact and fiction begin to mingle
as they often do over time, the facts are preserved. I hear the cobblestones calling, beckoning,
luring, me back.
