Life As Canvas

“Me llamo Charlie,” he said with a grin, and the name fit him well. Half Indian, half California surfer man, Charlie wore big hip silver police sunglasses but his lips were wide and flat, betraying his indigenous roots. His hair fell to his shoulders in streaming brown waves which he tucked behind his ears when he nodded “yes” the way that only real surfer dudes do. He had streaked it blond and I couldn’t help imagining him among adolescent girls in the supermarket, picking out just the right color and then applying it in his cinder block bedroom back home, grinning all the time.

Charlie was a fun guy, or dude, really. He turned the music up in his beater car and sang along. He rolled down the windows and shouted at the people we almost killed as we sped past. Then he’d sit back in his chair and giggle. Charlie made me laugh but he was by no means a good surf instructor.

The typical land lesson came first. Our boards in the sand of la Playa Linda, we paddled, stood, and rode those waves! Then it was time to get in the water. La Playa Linda is a long, rare stretch of restaurant and umbrella-free beach lined by a seemingly endless grove of palm trees.

From the shore Charlie pointed to the waves, his long hair blowing in the wind, and into the rough waters we plunged. The boys made it past the breakers with ease buy I found myself fighting with each wave, dragging my board into the rushing foam which would knock me down and then my board would be dragging me back to shore by the leash around my ankle. Charlie helped me by enthusiastically miming swimming motions with his arms from afar.

Soon enough I made it out there and watched from my bobbing board as Charlie pulled the boys into the waves, one by one, and yelled “arriba!,” which meant “now stand!” Most of them flopped, rolling in the sea foam. Cyril stood, of course, and then decided to go off on his own to catch some bigger waves. Charlie pulled my board into the waves a few times and yelled “arriba!” and I stood! And I fell. Once, twice, five times I fell and let the waves toss me around.

“Now try on your own!” Charlie said, and went off to help someone else for the rest of the lesson. I looked to him for mimed advice as he tossed his hair in the waves and I wondered why surf lessons cost $25 an hour.

We thought we’d give Oaxaca a try but when we got to the bus station, the woman at the counter shook her head. You can’t go all the way to Oaxaca. You have to go to Puerto Escondido first. Ok. Puerto Escondido, then.

Tickets in hand, we shuffled acrost the station, big packs on our backs, little ones in front, ever the turtle-like curiosity for the locals lazing in their plastic chairs. You could almost hear our skin sighing as the chilled air of the waiting room washed over us. Two men, tan, lithe, blonder than blonde, sprawled in the corner in front of the television, their surf boards leaning against their chairs. We asked if they’d been to Puerto Escondido and, as it’s a popular surf spot, turns out they had. In a thick Australian accent, they suggested Hotel Buena Onda, or “good vibe,” and told us where the waves were good, which doesn’t really help us, as we only stand on the board about once every eight waves. We’re that good.

Night bus, dirt road, lots of bumps. 8am – Puerto Escondido. It’s nice to get into town when it’s already light out. Taxi to the hotel way out on the outest of outskirts of town – 2 bucks.

Buena Onda is run by Pierre and Olivier, a pair of French fraternal twins. Seems all French people who make it to Puerto Escondido stay there. It’s one part Gilligan’s Island, one part Swiss Family Robinson, two parts summer camp, shaken with a dash of France. There’s one two-story building with paintings of waves and aincient gods inside and out, windows with no glass, right on the beach, no other hotels around. Also: huts out back with thached rooves, hammocks out front, mosquito nets on the beds. It’s perfect. We paid 35 bucks each for the entire week.

Puerto Escondido holds a nice balance of locals and tourists. I don’t feel like I’m bumping into gringos in hawaiian shirts around every corner, but I don’t really stand out, either. During the day we take Spanish lessons for two hours and maybe a surf lesson or hang out at the beach swimming and doing our Spanish homework. At night we walk along the beach back to the hotel, little blue plankton glowing at our feet as the waves wash them around on the shore. It’s some kind of magic, being here.

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