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Riding with the Ghost Dolphin If you decide to drop out and start surfing full-time, there's no place like Mexico's Pacific coast. When Peter Heller heads south and signs on with a tough-as-nails board guru, he discovers a wave-riding scene of world-class barrels, hard-grooving kids, and guardian angels. By Peter Heller
As I watch the tiers of surf near the Pacific resort town of Ixtapa, I realize that there are three things I appreciate about surfing as a near beginner: the raw beauty of waves; the anticipation of getting repeatedly thrashed; the possibility of one good ride, a kind of fleeting touch of grace. Also, my coach. I can't believe he's even standing up after last night's party. Leon rubs wax briskly over the deck of a board propped against his thigh. He is in training for the nationals in Baja's Ensenada in two months, and he can't bear to miss a wave. He is honing himself like a weapon. He doesn't wear a rash guard or sunscreen. His baggy shorts come below his knees. He is 46 years old, short (about five foot six), broad-shouldered, and wiry. His ears are small. His nose, broken years ago, is slightly flattened. Even his buzzed hair is thinning, as if obliging a lifelong imperative toward sleekness. It occurs to me, watching him, that he is a man completely shaped by the sea.
"The waves look bigger today," I suggest. "There is a swell coming. You are ready." "I guess I am." Today I'm going to try a six-foot-six-inch shortboard for the first time, a personal threshold. I'm Leon's age, and most guys who start surfing late stick with the more stable, less responsive longboards. To hell with that: I'm having a midlife crisis. This is my party and I can cry if I want to. "You don't even look hungover," I say to Leon. Now he looks up. He smilesI can tell because the left side of his mouth lifts just a little. "Practice," he says. He tosses the wax to me over the hood of the car and nods at the local kids carrying boards who are beginning to trickle in from the road. They have walked the last mile from the end of the bus route from Zihuatanejo, eight miles down the coast. They regard Leon with specific awe: He will catch many more waves than any of them today, and have better rides, which is unnatural, since some of the younger boys have grandfathers Leon's age. Leon is nonchalant about his status as the old master. "I just surf every day," he says simply. I look behind us. Out of the mountains, unbending slowly from dense groves of coconut palms, pushes the sweet water of the Rio La Laja. The sun has not yet risen over the Sierra Madre del Sur, so the dark water reflects only a rose wash of dawn and the light of a single fisherman's fire burning on the sand. The river cuts the beach and empties into the sea where the surf breaks over the sandbar. Even in the half-light I can see that the sets are easily head-high. Leon straightens and turns toward the beach. And then, since he teaches with the minimalism of a Zen master, he gives me the lesson of the morning. "Paddle toward the peaks. On that board, you have to be at the peak." "OK." "Lock the car door." "OK." Then he jogs toward the water.
Contributing editor PETER HELLER's book about the first descent of Tibet's Tsangpo Gorge, Hell or High Water, was published last October by Rodale Books. Subscribe to Outside and get a FREE Gift! Give the gift of Outside Magazine! Subscribe to Outside Online's free weekly e-mail newsletter featuring gear reviews, fitness advice, galleries, podcasts, and more. |
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