Spider Soup and Mexican Tubes
Ages ago (~1986) my dad asked what I wanted for my birthday. I responded,
“a plane ticket to Puerto Escondido, Mexico”. After a bunch of standard
guff, I got what I wanted. He asked… Dave D., Bruce and I went down
there in late July after hearing the stories and seeing the pictures. After
sleeping on the floor of the Mexico city airport for our 7 hour layover, we
barely make the plan because Bruce tried to get more cash but couldn’t speak
Spanish and was subsequently ignored. Even though his watch was in English,
we ran with escort to the plane as they were closing the door. I said I
would eat my hat if our boards made the flight. Out the window I could see
some ticket agent walking on the tarmac with some poor surfer even later
than us. Our boards made it so I took a bite of my hat.
Dave had been there before and spoke the best Spanish so he was in charge of
finding us a Hotel while we sat in the shade. A small spider jumped out of
a tree, landed on my arm and started leaping up my arm towards my throat but
I flicked him off effortlessly before he had a chance to eat his biggest
‘bug’. Disgruntled, he left while we gathered our bags and set out for our
first hotel.
Our first place was kind of far from the beach but you could see the waves
looking to the southeast. They looked small from far away but I noted how
the splash would go higher than the original wave. That afternoon, we were
amped, as you could imagine, to score some waves. The beach break wasn’t
that great so we headed to the point at the south end of the beach. The
point wasn’t too hot but it was all us so we went out and got a few. Since
it was small we were stuck taking off in front of a big rock and turning at
the last minute. The closer you came, the better the ride. The take-off
point was a boil and on the edge a crew of curious baby sea snakes had
gathered to watch. The slight current from the boil kept them safely 5 feet
away. The walk back was about 3 miles through the hustle and bustle of
the ghost crabs with their sideways strides and glances.
We upgraded to a place right on the beach that was great. We met our
neighbors. The guys from Texas helped us with the camera, to no avail. The
Brazilian elite surfers allowed their women to venture outside wearing very
little. The guys from San Clemente were endless entertainment. Ruben
surfed and spoke Spanish really well. He later used his skills to scare
some other guys by pounding on their door and yelling like a federale doing
a drug bust. Shawn King told stories about how girls enjoyed his large
tool. (I am not making any of this up). One guy fell off the balcony but
landed like a cat because he was all coked up. Another guy caught a
swordfish and we ate one of the 3 good meals of the entire trip.
The first day out at the beach break was looking promising with 6-10′ waves
(Calif. scale). I waded out in 3 feet of water and jumped over 2′ of
whitewash right off the shore. I was knocked underwater, tumbled, and lost
my board. OK, I get it. This stretch of coast like other famous beach
breaks owes it power to a deep offshore trench that allows the swells to get
close to shore before losing their energy. They then take this saved energy
and deposit it on your head and hand your ass (arse) to you on a tortilla
grande. I made it out and got some waves with the help of my trusty Morey
Mach 10! In general, if the surf is head high, it is called flat. The surf
is super hollow, with a decent chance of making it down the line for a while
with all limbs intact, just like the mag. When you get beat, the next wave
crushes you, pushes you in, but then sucks you back out into the impact zone
for more drubbing. Now I see why golf is such a popular “sport”. At 10:30
it blows out until 3 when the wind switches offshore. The afternoon session
is often associated with thunderstorms, which I enjoy. On the way to dinner
the lightening cracked so close overhead that I hit the dirt like a cowering
child. RAD. The rainwater had broken through a berm and washed a bunch of
junk into the line up. The surf was firing so that when some pale dude
claimed a shark just ate something off the surface next to him we swam
slowly away from him for more pits.
Bruce paddles over to me one fine morning with a desperate, panicked look in
his eye. All he can say is “It’s pregnant and it won’t leave”. Back in the
room a petite little girl came by with her wares of tamales and set up shop
on Bruce’s bed. He feels obligated so he buys one and torches his mouth
with its fiery chilies. Later, a mangy pregnant dog strolls in and lies
down. The thing is so pathetic and dirty you don’t want to even look at it.
We make a trail of tamale bites leading out the door like some TV kid’s show
and it works. The dogs down there are used to getting kicked by the human
animals and run when you speak English to them.
During our stay we were on the “Binge-Fast Diet Plan”. We would surf, eat a
big breakfast of crappy food, nap and then surf to starvation at night and
eat again. We head out to dinner in our sandals through the pouring rain.
We find a place and order some tacos. I think it would be nice to have some
beans with my chicken tacos and order “frijoles charos”, whatever that is.
They bring out 2 bowls of a strange soup and call it frijoles charos. Bruce
declines out of fear, but I devour mine, mystery meat chunks and all. At
about 4 in the morning, I am suddenly awake. Odd, I think since it is dark
out and the others are still sleeping. I feel fine but figure it was
something I ate. I go down the list of food from dinner and rule out stuff
we both had. Suddenly a vision appears of a bowl of soup hovering against a
radiant, sky blue background, slightly tilted towards me, revealing its
contents. Instantly, I reveal the contents of my body to the world with
great force, flow and vigor. I am a bug under a giant boot. I am a
double-ended filth geyser. I am a whirling hall of knives. I retire to my
bed and sweat while hallucinations of spiders falling from the ceiling,
crawling in my ears and nose and exploding out of my chest, entertain me for
hours. 24 hours of my life are torn to shreds and flushed down the drain.
The next day I am ‘fine’ and go for some surf. Getting caught inside by a
wave I feel doomed until I see the 5-foot long sea snake coiling in the lip
about to land on my head. I duck dive with one hand on the board, the other
shielding my face from this torment. My last day it is flat, head high,
indicating it is a good time to leave. On the flight home, a gorgeous
nightclub singer sits down one seat away. My Spanish is ripping now and we
have a nice chat. Consistent with the theme of the trip, some American
businessman sits between us and starts hitting on her like a ham. Good
luck, Gringo. Can I offer you some soup?
