Mexico Surf Trip 1985

A few years ago I came across a Surfer Magazine in a bookstore near my house in Oklahoma City. I did not realize how much time had passed and how much had changed since my surfing days. It had been over 20 years since the last time I had paddled out or opened a surf magazine. I felt like a character in a movie that had been cryogenically frozen then thawed out many decades in the future. All the familiar names and faces were gone. No mention of Cheyne, Buttons, Richards, Rabbit, or Tompson. Thank goodness for Mark Occhilupo. He was the sixteen year old surfing prodigy from Australia. Now he's the old man of the ASP tour. I also read about the latest developments of tow-in surfing, Kelly Slater's world championships, the Irons brothers, and much more. Even the surf culture had changed. Surfing movies are now for sale on DVD. Back then you could not watch a surf movie in the comfort of your own home. You had to wait for one to be shown in your area. Then you'd have to squeeze into a room full of surfers in a local library or cafeteria somewhere. We would all hoop and holler at the screen as Jerry Lopez soul arched his way through giant Pipeline barrels. As I continued to read on, something suddenly struck me like a bolt of lightning! I couldn't believe my eyes! It was a picture of Puerto Escondido in an advertisement for beach wear! What the Hey?!? Are you serious? Then I ran across several other pictures and mentions of Puerto throughout the magazine. Could this be true? Has Puerto Escondido become mainstream like Banzai or Bell's? That’s sure as hell not how I left it so many years ago. It was anything but mainstream. It was underground, very underground. It had only appeared in magazines a handful of times. And it was usually referred to as some far off secret spot. There were no advertised surf villas or online travel packages. Hell, there wasn't even an airport. Don't get me wrong, surfers did travel from all over the world to get there, but in much smaller numbers. You really had to work to get there. In 1985 I had just graduated from Corpus Christi State University. While my fellow graduates were preparing for their professional futures, I was preparing for my 1st trip to Puerto Escondido. I had been hearing the tales of freight train barrels and spitting tubes for years. I was ready to take my shot at it. Puerto Escondido had long been a poor man's surf trip for Gulf Coast surfers, as long as you were willing to make the journey. All you really needed was a small amount of money, a big wave board, and persistence. You needed at least a 7 foot big wave gun and enough money to get there and back. However, big wave boards did not grow on trees in Corpus Christi, Texas. I found my board almost by accident. A friend of a friend's older brother had it stored in his garage. It was not seven feet but a 6'10” pintail Town & Country. It was shaped and signed by someone named Jesus in Hawaii. It was a little undersized yet built for speed and stability. It was an amazing board. I had no idea how it ended up in Corpus Christi but it was mine. After buying my board, I had exactly $250 left to get to Puerto, stay about a month, and then get back again. It seems impossible now, but the exchange rate was ridiculously low and every thing there was dirt cheap. Our journey began in Corpus Christi, Texas and ended at the southern tip of Mexico. I was traveling with three of my surfing buddies from Corpus Christi; Todd, Conrad, and Alberto. I was the only Puerto virgin. They had all been at least one or more times. Alberto's family was from Spain. He spoke fluent Castillian Spanish, which is a much different than the Spanish dialect spoken in Mexico. The people there loved his European Spanish accent and treated him like royalty. Todd and Conrad were both blond haired-blue eyed surfers that stuck out like a soar thumb. Not ideal for blending in when traveling across Mexico. My dark hair and brown eyes were a little less conspicuous. We drove to the border town of Nuevo Laredo in Todd's '72 Ford Mustang. We parked the Mustang in a church parking lot where Alberto claimed his family knew the preacher. The preacher was nowhere to be found so we left a note on the windshield saying we would be back in about 4 to 6 weeks. (ARE YOU SERIOUS?!? I get on to my kids if they leave their coat at a friend’s house.) From there we headed on foot to the border; four travelers with four duffel bags and six surfboards. We went through customs where we showed them our travel visas. They dug around in our bags a bit then sent us through into Mexico. Border towns on the U.S. side of the border give you a very strong taste of Mexico. However, it’s not quite the same as once you actually cross the border. It hits you all at once. The sights, sounds, and smells are unique only to Mexico. Everything there runs on diesel fuel. That smell is always in the air along with fresh tortillas and other aromatic foods being cooked by the

street vendors and cantinas. The language, clothing, colors, and culture hit you all at once; bombarding your senses from 1,000 different directions Once we crossed the border our first stop was the train station. Train stations in Mexico are much different than those in the states. They are very big and very old with lots of elaborate old world architecture and design. But most of all they're busy. People don't travel as much by cars or plane. They go by train or bus. They also travel in large groups with aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, and grandparents. When they have layovers or delays they do not go to motels or to the movies. They stay at the train station. They sleep, eat, bathe, and whatever else in the train station. It’s quite a place. My friends had been grilling me on my Spanish for several weeks. "Learn your numbers, foods, and directions." they had instructed me. “Do not waste your time with conversational Spanish 101.” Numbers, food, and directions will get you a lot further than "como usta usted"or " Llamo es Ricardo". This was the first test of my Spanish training at the ticket window. I had studied and knew my numbers and directions fairly well. However, when they started coming at me rapid fire for the first time it was a bit much. Luckily, Alberto was there to bail me out. So with tickets in hand and about two hours to burn we headed to the cantina for tacos and cervezas. It wasn't long before the tacos and cervezas turned into tequila and lemon slices. The train to Mexico City must have been about 12 or 13 cars long. The last two cars of the train were the private sleepers that were staying in. They were just like the ones you see in old movies. It had bunk beds on the right and a bench bed on the left. It had a tiny bathroom with a toilet and sink. I thought we were roughing it until I saw the 10 or so cars in front of us. They were like cattle cars. They were wooden cars with slats and no air conditioning. They had 100's of Mexicans packed together like sardines on wooden benches. We were traveling like kings. One thing you become familiar with while traveling through Mexico in the rainy season is mudslides. We encountered our first mudslide about 1/2 way to Mexico City. So there we sat, stuck in the middle of the desert in the middle of summer in the middle of nowhere. So, we did what any group of young red blooded American surfers would do. We drank tequila. All I remember of that was Conrad standing on a hill in front of the train extremely drunk waving the empty bottle of tequila over his head yelling "Gringo el loco! Gringo el loco!" After about 6 hours of waiting, we got great news! A crew of workers was on its way to move the mudslide. Finally, we were saved! We pictured a line of earth moving equipment speeding its way toward us to dig us out. About two hours later a small single platform car with a small electric engine came puttering up the tracks. On it was about 15 Mexican men with shovels and pick axes. More tequila! Somewhere in the middle of the night the train began to move and we were on our way again. Next stop: Mexico City. If you've never been to Mexico City or don't know much about it there's one thing you should know. At this time it was the most populated city in the world. THE MOST POPULATED CITY IN THE WORLD!! As you come in from the north you are coming in around the base of a mountain. You are elevated so you get somewhat of a birds eye view as you come in around the mountain. My God! Extreme poverty spread out in every direction as far as the eye can see! I had no idea. Just on ocean of poverty beyond anything that I could imagine. As you get closer to the downtown train station conditions actually get a little better. Mexico City is old, old, old. The train station there is also quite old and 10 times busier than the last station. We bought our tickets from Mexico City to Oaxaca. With about 6 hours to burn we decided to explore some of Mexico City. I could write a whole separate story just on the sights and sounds of Mexico City. I'll just say this, very old, very busy, and the smell of diesel fuel is stronger than ever. The next stop on our journey was Oaxaca. (Or so we thought)The train makes occasional pit stops in tiny little towns that sell cold soda, food, and yes, tequila. As we go further south the terrain suddenly changes from desert to mountains and jungle. There were long tunnels through the mountains. The tunnels were crazy. Pitch black; you could not see your hand in front of your face. The holes did not look big enough for the train to fit through. To this day, I swear the top of the train was hitting the sides of the tunnel as it swayed. By the time we hit our third mudslide we were deep in the mountains. There was nothing but jungle and mountains for miles. There was no telling how long we'd be stuck here. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was going down. Sooo what to do? Well we had just gotten a full bottle of tequila at the last stop, so we drank and we drank and then we drank some more. The

next morning at the crack of dawn we heard a lot of commotion outside the train. Outside our window we saw a long line of Mexican people going away from the train straight into the jungle. They looked like a line of ants heading off into the foliage. Alberto asked them what was going on. They told him it was going to be several days before help could get to us. They also told us there was a road just through these woods where we could catch rides to Oaxaca. So hear it was-Decision time--Stay or go? Without hesitation we all said “go.” We figured whatever was out there could not be any worse than waiting here for untold days. "How far to the road?" we asked. We got several vague answers, such as "just ahead" and "not far". All relative terms coming from people who live in these mountains and don't own cars. Just standing up was difficult as I looked down at the empty bottle we had finished just a few short hours ago. So once again we gathered our bags and surfboards and headed off on foot. Only this time we were headed into the jungle in the middle of summer with a mammoth hangover. (But it’s okay ‘cause the roads just ahead). Three hours later in the heat of the day deeper and deeper into the jungle we went. Severely dehydrated from puking tequila and what little body fluids I had left. I deeply regretted our decision to leave the train. The only comforting part was, the people we were following didn't seem to be the least bit concerned. It’s hard to imagine how this large group of people, including kids and old women, just headed out into the woods without even a second thought. We finally made it to the road. Pavement sweet pavement! It wasn’t much of a road, but it was definitely a paved road. Some of the people had been telling us about a town with a store at the paths end. So where was the town and where was the store? It turns out the store was the town and the store looked more like an outhouse. But as soon as we stepped in the door, right there in front of us was the most beautiful sight. A pop machine completely filled with semi-cold sodas. After downing several bottles of semi-cold soda and eating some crackers, we were ready for our next move. Our next move turned out to be, standing by the road and waiting for a ride. We were waiting for farm trucks traveling through to stop and give us rides. We waited patiently as several groups of people were loaded onto trucks before us. Apparently it was a popular road for farm trucks. We didn't have to wait long until it was our turn. The truck driver's were charging people a few pesos each for their rides. He charged us 300 pesos each because we had luggage, surfboards, and we were from the United States. We had about 18 to 20 people, 6 surfboards, and a fair amount of luggage crammed into the back of the farm truck. As we traveled through the winding mountain road, there was much silence and a lot of blank stares. These people were different than most of the people we had encountered before them. They had much sharper facial features. They were darker skinned and looked more Indian. We started to realize we were probably the first white people they had ever seen. For about the first hour or so not a word was spoken. The silence was finally broken when some of the smaller children started to make funny faces at Conrad. Of course Conrad being a master of goofy faces began to contort his mug into a series of wild maniacal faces. He was able to answer every wild expression they gave him with one of his own. The children laughed uncontrollably. Suddenly the stoic stone like expressions on some of the adults turned into smiles and eventually laughter. It was so ridiculous it was impossible not to laugh. The ice had been broken. Soon Alberto was translating back and forth in his Castilian Spanish. We learned that most of them were mountain farmers and lived in the area. They were very curious about the strange contraptions we were carrying with us. They had no idea what a surfboard was. We explained that we were headed to the ocean to ride these boards on the ocean waves. Well, we might as well have had antennas sticking out of our heads. The next few hours actually went by rather quickly as we talked and joked with our new friends and their kids. It was late in the day when we arrived in Oaxaca. We said good bye to our newest friends and headed straight for the market. The Oaxacan market is one of the most famous markets in the world. Tales of the market go back centuries. Exotic fruits and vegetables, hand woven blankets, garments, hammocks, sandals, hats and hundreds of other items were all available. All were handmade with the highest quality. It was late and some of the vendors were already shutting down. We quickly made our way through the market and found what we were looking for; hammocks and sandals--in that order. I had been schooled on the importance of getting a good hammock and the importance of bartering or haggling the price. I was ready for both. I knew it as soon as I saw it; the perfect

hammock. It had a good thick weave, but not too thick with strong attachment ends. And now the moment of truth, my first crack at bartering. I squared off with the little ole Mexican woman ready to do barter battle. It began-PRICE--OFFER--COUNTER OFFER--COUNTER OFFER TO THE COUNTER OFFER--SOLD! I walked away with my head held high, realizing that instead of paying four times the actual value, I only paid double. The last leg of our journey was a bus ride from Oaxaca to Puerto Escondido. We bought our tickets but the bus did not leave until the next morning. We ate a good meal at the cantina, washed it down with some cold cervezas, and of course; bought another bottle of tequila. But we did not drink it that night. We slept on some benches at the bus station and boarded the bus the next morning. We are now into day 5 of what should have been a 2 day trip. The bus ride turned out to be another dramatic event in a long line of dramatic events. If you pay close attention to the international news you will occasionally hear about a bus full of passengers going over the side of a cliff. Now I know why. As it turns out, some of those incidents occurred on this very rout. It’s easy to understand once you've experienced it. Imagine steep winding mountain roads with no guard rails and giant cliffs that drop off to God only knows where. Now throw in an old unmaintained piece of crap bus with a death wish driver on a very tight schedule. Picture the driver cranking on the steering wheel like a mad scientist through hair pin turns as the front of the bus swings wildly across the edge of the cliffs. If you looked out the front all you could see is blue sky across the windshield. SCARY AS HELL!! Luckily we saved that bottle of tequila. Along the way the bus made several stops in small towns and villages. Most of these places looked like they had remained unchanged for many generations. We picked up many passengers along the way. Some of them actually boarded with a variety of animals. We had several chickens and a goat on board. At one point I was sitting next to a little old lady wearing a traditional dress and blouse wrapped in a turquoise blue shawl. She was rubbing her rosary beads while praying and crying. For some reason she seemed really scared and I had no idea why. We were on flat ground at the time so it wasn't the ride. Then one of my friends said "I think she's scared of you." Oh my God! He was right. I don't know what kind of preconceived notions or stories she'd heard about white people from the United States, but I think she thought she was sitting next to the devil himself, "El Diablo". The bus was full or else I would have moved to another seat. Instead, on we went, rubbing, praying, and crying. Finally! Finally! We arrived at Puerto Escondido. After almost a weeks worth of travel we were here. It was late at night and pitch black outside. The bus dropped us off at Carmelita's where we were staying. It is located on the cliffs overlooking the beach break. We unloaded our board and bags. Then the bus drove away. As the roar of the bus engine disappeared in the distance it was replaced with another sound. A sound I will never forget. Over the cliffs from below in the distance came a deep concussive sound. "Ka-kooosh!' I had heard plenty of waves crash at night on the beach before, but this was different. It had a heavy deep thud. You just knew it was something special. Carmelita came out in the middle of the night and greeted us. She immediately recognized Alberto from his previous visits and gave him a big hug. That was a good sign and we were due one. I layed down on my cot exhausted from the journey. But with each concussive sound my thoughts would race ahead to what the morning would bring. Morning came and the waiting was over. The time was here. We grabbed our boards, stuffed some crackers in our faces, and headed for the cliffs. At the top of the cliffs we met a group of surfers from California. They were just sitting and staring at the beach below. Looking very disappointed "Its flat" they exclaimed. “It was huge yesterday and went flat overnight.” We could see waves breaking on the beach below but it was hard to gauge from this distance. We proceeded down the goat path to the beach below. From the shore you could see waves forming and peeling both ways. They were wrong it wasn't flat. We quickly paddled out. In all my years of surfing I had never experienced anything like it; perfect big beefy waves. We rode wave after wave after wave. I was so stoked. I had just ridden the best waves of my life. It was worth everything we had gone through to get here. I had conquered Escondido. "Son, you didn’t conquer squat” my more experienced friends told me. “What?” "Didn't you notice we were the only ones out?" they asked.

"True…where were they going with this?" "That was the inside shore break. The outside wasn’t breaking because there wasn’t enough swell.” “OUCH! “ That day we walked into town. Back then, Puerto Escondido was still a sleepy little fishing village with a rich surfing heritage. Surfers still came in from all over the world, but in much smaller numbers. There were small groups from California, Hawaii, Australia, Brazil, Florida, & Texas. It also had a fair amount of non-surfing tourists from Europe. Most of them were French. How they knew about it and how they got there I'm not sure. It was kind of strange. It was busy little town with lots of activity. There were all kinds of shops and restaurants up and down the main street. We ate lunch then went to the market for some supplies. We bought a Coleman stove and some food then headed back to camp. The next morning we met the same group of guys from California at the top of the cliffs. Only this time they were waxing up and seemed a lot more animated. "It's pumping! - double overhead!" were the descriptions they gave us. So for the second time in two days we waxed up and paddled out. Only this time it was much different. We paddled out together to the place I had conquered the day before. Only this time we kept paddling past it toward the outside break. I noticed everybody began to paddle faster once we got past the inside break. Once you past the inside break the next thing you encounter is the white water from the outside break. It’s a long line of foamy white water just like I’ve had to get past thousands of times before. As it got closer I noticed it kept getting bigger and bigger. Then it hit me. BAM! The force of the whitewater was 10 times greater than the strongest wave I'd ever felt. I got tossed like a rag doll. I went tumbling and bouncing backwards. O.k. did not see that coming, at least not from the white water. “Welcome to Escondido!” Now my heart was really pumping. I began to paddle back out fueled on adrenaline and fear. I finally made it past the whitewater; looked up and there it was. I was face to face and up close and personal with my first real Puerto Escondido wave. I probably would have had plenty of time to paddle over it, but every second counts when paddling out and I just lost several as I looked up in shock. It was only a couple of seconds but it was seared into my memory forever. A mammoth mountain of power was surging straight up in the sky and blocking out everything. I snapped out of it and began paddling. I remember clawing my way up the giant face of the wave as it was bearing down on me. It was so steep and I really thought I was screwed. I made it to the top just as it was starting to break. I went over the top just as it cut loose. But I wasn't free yet. The force of the wave was pulling me backwards. That might have been the scariest part. I kept paddling like a mad man and it finally let go. I made it over the next couple of waves with much more time to spare than that first one. I finally made it to the line up and joined my friends. One by one I watched them catch their own waves. First I saw Todd drop into a freight train. I watched the back of the wave peel its way down the beach as Todd popped up and over the back about 100 yards down the line. Next was Conrad then Alberto. I guess it’s my turn. I must have paddled for about an hour trying to get in the right position to catch one. Suddenly, there it was, a massive frame heading right for me. I paddled into perfect position right at the peak of the wave. My friend Todd had been giving me plenty of advice before now. "The most important thing when catching a wave here" he told me "once you feel the wave grab you and you would normally stand up--Don't!- Take several more paddles down the face of the wave before you stand up. If you don't, you will likely get sucked over the falls." I should have tattooed that on the back of my forearms. That's right, as soon as I felt the wave grab my board, I instinctively did what I had done a thousand times before. I stood up. Of course, I got caught at the top and over I went. What a horrible-sickening feeling. Completely helpless, I was now part of the wave. You really can't describe the force of the thick lip as it powerfully drives you into the shallow impact zone; it’s impossible. But I can tell you this, ”it’s not a place where you want to be.” I remember thinking, “I’m going to die on my first wave.” Needless to say, I got worked. If the impact zone wasn't bad enough the aftermath was even worse. I felt like an ant in a front loading washing machine. Being churned and bounced around like a rag doll. Not to mention being held underwater for what seemed like an eternity. Puerto Escondido snaps boards like matchsticks on a daily basis. My leash had broken and I was sure my only board had been worked over just like me. I made my way into shore and found my board quite a distance down the beach. It was still in one piece. I had swallowed about

half the ocean and had enough sand packed in my ass to start my own beach. I was done for the day. I sat there on the beach recovering physically and mentally. One by one people began to walk up to me and ask if I was alright "Are you okay?” That was a pretty bad wipe out." Did every surfer on the beach see me go over the falls? The next day I did remember to take those extra paddles to get down the face and I caught my first real Esco wave. I shoulder hopped it a bit but that’s o.k. It was big and fast. I remember flying down the face of the wave. When I finally kicked out I looked back at my friends. I could not believe how far I'd gone in such a short amount of time! Wow! Gimme some more of that! I was no longer a Puerto virgin. I could go on and on with Puerto Escondido stories. But I'm going to hold it to three more -1. The Legend of Billy Pells 2. My Brush with Death 3. My Best Ride 1. The Legend of Billy Pells: The second night we were in Puerto we met a guy named Billy. He was such an odd character that he's kind of hard to describe. He was a wheeler and dealer. He always had some kind of deal going. He seemed to know all the locals pretty well and he could get you just about anything you needed. We started hanging out with him quite a bit. He was a bit of a rogue. Not someone you'd leave your money and girlfriend with, but he was always entertaining. He was such a bull shitter we never knew when to believe him. He said he was a surfer, but he did not look like one. He looked more like a cop with his short black hair, mustache, and stern looking mug. He had a cast on his foot because he had broken his ankle jumping over a fence in L.A. He was running from someone. He never would say who or why, just that he couldn't go back to the states for awhile. He also told us that there was a picture of him in Surfer Magazine and that the locals called him "El Tubo". But of course he could not show us his surfing skills because of his ankle. Wow, what a load of crap. "El Tubo"?!? C'mon. Surely you could have come up with something better than that. One day we were walking down the beach when we came across a group of surfer's from Pales Verdes, Ca. They immediately recognized Billy and started talking to him about L.A. and Orange County. It was kind of weird because they were acting all giddy and hanging on his every word. They were acting as if he was some kind of rock star or something. We figured he must have just been some older beach guy they looked up to from their home; besides those guys were all a little strange anyway. After surfing Puerto everyday for about three weeks we were getting pretty good. After each surf session we'd sit around and talk about the waves we'd caught, our awesome bottom turns, and how deep in the tube we'd gotten. Well, I think one day Billy had finally just heard enough. He told us he was going to paddle out. He was no longer wearing a cast, but was still walking with a limp. He didn't even own a surfboard! None of us wanted to loan him one of our own boards. Conrad finally gave in to Billy's persistence and his own curiosity. We were all curious. "What in the hell was this crazy bastard up to now?" In the days and weeks we had been surfing there, we had witnessed some amazing surfing by surfers from all over the world. Well, on a borrowed surfboard, with a bad ankle, on his very first wave, Billy Pells blew them all away! He late dropped in on a huge double overhead bomb and then went way too far out in the flats. We thought he was going to get creamed. Then, with the wave already starting to break behind him he carved an ungodly 180 degree bottom turn straight back into the already breaking wave. Now he and the lip are on an unavoidable collision course right toward each other. Then, as the wave was fixing to break on his face, with perfect timing he slipped under the lip just as it fell over him where he completely disappeared. It seemed like forever; maybe it was. We stood there silent on the beach, completely fixated. Waiting and wondering if he was still in that tube. Then the answer came. As the wave started to close the tube started spitting. Suddenly a figure shot out of the spraying tube like a missile and kicked out over the back of the wave. I've tried to keep four letter words to a minimum but, I'm going to have to use one here. "Holy Shit!" Then just to prove it wasn't a fluke, he did it three more times; each time going further into the flats and deeper in the tube; all on a bad ankle. I'm sure that day he added several weeks of healing time to his ankle. But I think he had something to prove or maybe he just felt like we should know. 2. A Brush with Death: After surfing Puerto for almost a month, our confidence was building. Unfortunately, we got over confident. One day it was raining and storming. You could really see the storm clouds out over the ocean. Todd and I really wanted to surf, so we stood on

the beach and looked for ride able waves. We thought we saw a few here and there, so we decided to paddle out. It was a very long and difficult paddle. The waves were breaking all over the place. It was huge and out of control. And we were the only ones out. "I don't think we should be out here. Do you?" I asked Todd. "Definitely not." he responded. It was too crazy to try to paddle in. So we decided to try to catch waves and ride them in as far as possible. It took me almost an hour to catch a wave because it was like a washing machine with no real line up. The wave I caught was an out of control monster. It closed out and exploded on my head. Because of the out of control currents and surges, the under tow was stronger than anything I'd ever felt before. The wave worked me over good. It seemed like it was rag dolling me under water forever. The wave finally passed by, so I started stroking for the surface for some much needed air. I was a very strong swimmer back then and I was stroking it with everything I had. However, I was being sucked backwards by the undertow. I've never been one to panic in the water but this was not good. I needed at least one good breath before the next wave comes and it looks like I'm not going to get it. The next wave came and it was another big one. I got worked hard for the second time, only this time with no air. It seemed like forever, tumbling and bouncing like a sock in the dryer. Now things are getting a little hazy. Once again the wave finally passes and I'm stroking for the surface in desperate need of air. However, once again the current is pulling me backwards. If I don't get a breath this time I'm done! I can't survive another beating with no air. Boom! It hits me. These waves were some of the biggest, meanest, out of control storm swells imaginable. And I'm fixing to get ate up by my third one with no air. I truly thought this was the end for me. I really had no idea how much time had passed since my last breath of air. I just knew it was way too long. Things were different on this third wave. I wasn't fighting any longer. There wasn't anything left to fight with. It started getting dark and I felt my body just go limp. I remember having some strange thoughts. Some personal stuff you think about when you think your time is up. I'm pretty sure I was passing out when something strange happened. I popped to the surface. Nothing to do with anything I was doing. It was either just pure dumb luck or a miracle. I don't know which. It just happened. I just popped up like a cork. And I was no longer in the impact zone. So I made limped my way into shore. Once I made it to the shore I layed down on the sand and sort of blacked out. I really don’t know how long. Eventually I got up, made my way down the beach, and found my board. A little further down the beach I found Todd. He was looking just as dazed and beaten as I was. It turns out he had an experience similar to mine. It was obvious we just had our asses handed to us by the ocean and we were both lucky to be alive. 3. My Best Ride: Well this is it; my final story of the journey. If you surf Puerto Escondido every day for any amount of time, you are going to have plenty of memorable rides. A good many of them I can still remember quite well. This is the one that stands out the most in my memory. It was a big day and I had paddled into one of the bigger ones of the day. I rode through a complete section of the wave, drove off the bottom and then straight up the face to the top. I was way up high on the wave and I could see a long section down the line starting to pitch. It barely looked makeable. But I thought I might be able to generate enough speed dropping in from such a high point on the wave to make it through. I dropped down into the wave but instead of shooting across the face, I dropped all the way to the bottom and stalled. Normally I would never stall this far back with such a large section about to throw. But something just told me to stall. So when I hit the bottom I pushed back on my tail just enough to lift the nose and stall for a split second. When I did the whole section began to throw over my head and down the line. Next thing I knew was deep in the barrel and standing straight up. Instead of closing out on my head the wave held up and peeled. I surfed all the way through the section completely covered up. While looking for the exit I noticed a whole new section was starting to throw even further down the line and I was still in perfect position. With the just the slightest adjustment I pulled into the next section still buried from the first section. The wave is still barreling. I've been in the tube so long now, I’m scared of not making it out. Finally I stepped forward on my deck for more speed and dropped the nose a bit. I shot forward out the mouth of the tube, onto the face, and over the top. Now I know there are plenty of surfers who get those kinds of rides on a regular basis. I'm not one of them. I have my moments, but for me this was something special. I quickly looked around to see who had witnessed my extraordinary ride. It would have collected hoots from even

the most hardcore surfers. Nothing. Nobody saw it. Not one witness. I go over the falls on my first day and every surfer on the beach sees it. I was consoled in six different languages. Three and half weeks later I get a ride that would be candidate for tube of the year at the surfer polls and nobody saw it! That's ok, I was so stoked. I would not have been able to make that ride my first or even second week there. It was just a progression of daily surfing that led to it. I have no doubt that Puerto Escondido is still an awesome place. In some ways it's probably even better. However, with its new fame and accessibility, I can't help but wonder how much of its ruggedness and old world charm still exists. I noticed the surf camps and huts that once lined the cliffs have been replaced with hotels and condominiums. I wonder if the interaction with surfers from all over the world is still the same as it was back then. The Brazilians spoke horrible English and stood way too close when they spoke to you. But they were so funny. And nobody was cooler than the Australians. I remember battling for position with one of the Aussies on a large right hander. Instead of giving me the "stink eye" or cutting me off, he said "Go for it mate!" There's something so cool about hearing "Go for it mate!" in that thick Australian accent. But that's how they always were. In and out of the water, they always represented there country very well. When Carmelita's daughter got married, Carmelita invited us to the wedding reception. We ate her unbelievable home cooking, sang with the mariachi band, and drank moonshine with the men. We became friends with her sons, who took us fishing and oyster hunting. When we were finally going home and saying good bye, Carmelita’s eyes actually teared up. I wonder if those kinds of interactions with locals still exist when so many surfers come and go in such mass quantities. I seriously doubt that many people, if any travel across the country by land to get there. I wouldn’t. Even though I wouldn’t trade my travel experience for anything, I’d fly. The beach is now lined with cameras and video equipment. I must admit I own a copy of Puerto Underground on DVD. But I’ve yet to see anyone (even the pros) ride Esco the way that Billy did. When we got home Conrad found the issue of Surfer Magazine that Billy told us he was in. There he was peering out of an Escondido tube. The caption read, "Billy Pells, the locals call him 'El Tubo'." Conrad stayed in contact with Billy for awhile. He even came to visit us in Corpus Christi. A few years ago Billy’s father called Conrad and told him that Billy had died from an accident while cliff diving in Hawaii. I wonder how many people around there would still remember his name. Rest in peace Billy, you were “El Tubo”. While so much has changed, the main attraction stays the same. No matter how you get there or where you are staying you will always remember coming face to face with your first Puerto Escondido wave. Whether you’re getting pitched over the falls or pulling into a double overhead barrel, it’s going to leave a lasting impression. Over twenty years later I still dream about it. I always assumed I’d return there, but never did. Even though I never made it back, it left a lasting impression on me. “Conservar en la memoria para siempre”. translated: preserved

in the memory forever.