Soft Top Destination: Day 1

Soft Top Destination, Day 1

With a 11 days off, I wasn’t sure where Bri and I should go. It wasn’t long enough for Indo, and my flight benefits wouldn’t cover the costs to catch the little puddle jumper flights. Better to fly direct… Puerto Vallarta became an option, but the idea of going to some country I haven’t been to before was too hard to pass up. So the options came down to a remote location in El Salvador or something more touristy like Costa Rica’s Tamarindo. After including my wife in the process, we decided we’d hit a tourist town. Crowded lineups or not, we were willing to catch foam waves with the crowd and hit some beer and tacos after.

#

The flight…First class was a nice surprise. With the flight being wide open, and my wife and I the only standbys, calling it luck would be an overstatement. Another surprise was the other family sitting across from us. A fifty-something dad who was drunk and covered in tattoos was being loud and obnoxious with his wife and daughter. And of course, his wife was equally buzzed, and everything she said was accompanied with flailing her hands and arms. It was high drama for a red eye.

When the customs forms were passed out, I used my own or, and when I heard them ask the stewardess for one, for which they rarely do, I tapped him on the shoulder to give him my own. When the sun came up about five hours later, I was still penless. I asked his wife for the pen, since she was the one using it, and she pulled it out of her bun and handed it to me with the cap missing.

Upon deboarding, I heard her complaining to her husband how she wanted her pen back for her hair. Wow…she had even thanked me last night when I handed the shit over to them. Lesson learned, don’t give up your pen unless asked. The customer is the enemy.

#

The host of my Airbnb place informed me not to pay over $60 for a taxi into town. Right when Bri and I exited customs, we were aggressively corralled towards a line of taxis by this dude. “How much is it?” I said.

“Right this way, Sir, and I’ll tell you.”

Motherfucker. Here we go again. I may as well be in Jakarta. I’ve always been a terrible bargainer, but when I pushed for he price he finally said eighty dollars. In my shitty Spanish we went back and forth, me lowering he bar at forty and he not budging.

In the humid morning air, I walked further down the curb to get a second opinion from some workers. The woman told me it was a hundred dollars. Get the fuck outta here. The other guy told me eighty, and then he flagged down a taxi driver who said he’d do it for sixty. “A todos,” I said, pointing to me and my wife. He agreed. All looked well. Then he pulled up to another taxi, told us to hop into it, and then another guy hopped in. From there I restated the sixty dollar agreement. “Si, si,” he said. “Sesenta con propina. Ochenta dolores.” He smiled at me through the rearview, brandishing a gold-capped tooth.

Bri could tell I was losing my shit. “Did he get us?” she said.

I told him to stop the car. Bri seconded. “Autobus,” we said. With the car in motion, I opened the car door.

“Sesenta es okay,” said the driver, but Bri and I were not. It was a tense hour long drive. The guy made two phone calls bitching out the other guy about why he’s taking us to Tamarindo for such a small fee. But when we approached town, the driver kindly asked where we wanted to be dropped off, and gave us an enthusiastic, “Pura vida!” As we left.

The breakfast in front of the beach was classic tourist cliché. It was a slow morning with a cool offshore breeze but humid. Out check in time was at 1300 and it was only 0800.

$27 later we were walking the south end of the beach where we saw a small crocodile at a small river mouth. At the very end there were a ton of people getting surf lessons. The wave itself was small, but the water so tropical that I wanted to jump in there myself to get relief.

As we started our trek towards the north end of the beach, our backpacks started getting heavy. My arms were shiny with sweat, and my farts were getting moister each time. We watched the main peak by the northern river mouth. The waves here were better but three times as crowded. After cruising around and checking about surf rentals, we stopped at a bar and ordered a pitcher with nachos. By the time we were done it was time to check in.

The lady at the Airbnb site said no one had told her we’d be coming. Of course, the whole conversation was in Espanol, which means I sounded like an idiot. After that hurdle all that mattered was the AC in our room. My tank-top tan was legit. Cold ass shower was perfectly fine.

#

After a solid nap we walked out in time to catch the sunset. A Euro couple approached us and attempted their best Spanish in asking me to take a picture of them. It was the second time that day someone assumed I was fluent. Now the sunset…it was gorgeous. With the low tide runners breaking in shallow water with the fire in the sky engulfing everything, I knew this trip was something special. Even more special was the fucking sweaty ass humidity even in the night.

“You like weed, blow?” said some local in a baseball
cap, long curly hair spilling out over his ears. That was the mantra of the night, weed and blow offered to us in every dark corner. Right on.

And with the tourist season officially dying, the hosts for the restaurants seemed desperate to lure us into their venues. And yeah, I’m a cheap fuck, so all those restaurants on the beach were fucking expensive. I came for tropical water, fun-sized surf, and cheap beer and tacos. Fuck the bullshit. So we went about a block into town and found some small outdoor eateries lined up next to each other and settled on a large $11 pizza that stuffed both of us.

#

First impressions? Thank God our Airbnb joint has AC and a kitchen. The kitchen is going to save our asses from spending money to eat 3 meals a day out on the local economy. Pay with your credit card as much as possible because the exchange rate from your bank is better than what the vendors/shops will give you if you pay in cash. I’d have more to write, but this is only day 1. Tomorrow, we surf.

180

It's easy to fall out of things. It's easy to just settle in to work, spend your free time dicking off, and to find excuses for the things you've let fall to the wayside, whether it's finding ways to use your creativity, surf, workout, and be a better human being for yourself and those around you.

I convinced myself that where I've landed myself was enough, nothing to prove to anyone. So long as I'm happy and the wife is happy, there was no need to answer to anyone else.

But seeing posts about what everyone else is doing makes me feel like I'm short changing myself. I'm not trying to live to anyone else's standards, but I know that deep inside I can do more, like how I used to do more. Instead of listing them, I'll end with this... I've procrastinated long enough on a lot of things. The fact that I've opened up this blog page for the first time in months and even wrote something down, that's a damn good start for me. I'm hoping this continues. Behind the scenes, I need to get back on track.

My best friend, who's a sober drunk, used to tell me about "taking away from yourself," I took the lecture as contributing your time to things that don't better yourself, even worse, doing things that empty the pot or hollow you out. I guess I feel a little hollow.

Let the 180 begin.

2017 – #16 TUE21FEB

            I messed up by requesting too much overtime last week at work, not thinking that they’d approve it. I didn’t take into account that when it rains, a lot of people call in sick. For a week straight I had to see my friends post record breaking stats on their Traces, knowing that local surf was fun and rippable while I was stuck at work. After pulling a 10 hour shift on Monday, I was determined to paddle out on Tuesday.

            Passing Dockweiler, I could see that there were waves. The Chevron Tanks looked a little walled. I pulled into 45^th Street in the midst of a light rain. There were waves, indeed, but they weren’t peaky. They were coming in a little walled, or the shoulders were just saddles that led into another oncoming wave. Either way, it looked worthy enough, surf starved as I was.

            I pushed it a little more south just to see what 26^th Street looked like. The surf was a tad smaller and, quality wise, not much better. However, there was free parking, so that was just too hard to pass up.

            Paddling out at 1030, only a small thimble full of the usual locals were there. Two whose names I don’t know and the legend Don Kadowaki. The storm drain had some runoff creeping towards the ocean, but hadn’t quite reached it yet. I thought about all the sharps that could be embedded in the sand and the nasty bacteria floating around in the water, but there was no passing on this session.

            The water was cold as I had expected, but a few duckdives later and I was used to it. I paddled a smudge north to escape the few heads that were there, and within a minute a big rolling right came my way. My board felt leafy, just too small for all the water moving around, but as I turned to scratch and kick, it was like my board stopped and slowly gained momentum just in time for the wave to pick me up. The drop itself was fun, although sketchy, and the feeling of maintaining my balance down the face felt victory enough.

            I just didn’t want to blow it. Not surfing in nine days does make a difference. My board felt awkward, the quads a little to fast and loose. I managed my first backhand snap and carefully transitioned into a cutback with still some open face left for another hit. After the second snap, I hit the eject button before the wave closed out and cannon balled into the safety zone just behind it.

            It wasn’t a session when I scored wave after wave. In fact, that was my best wave of an otherwise uneventful session, but paddling back to the lineup and getting the smiling nod of approval from Don and a few of the other gents there made being out there worthy enough.