Our first day in Mexico, we got lost in the bus station in Zihuatanejo, missed our bus stop at Playa la Saladita twice and ended up stuck at a closed fruit stand along the highway in the dark. Milena and I, needing a sunny break from the rainy doldrums of the PNW, had decided on a whim to fly south for a week and a half of sun, surfing and cervezas on the beach. We bought the tickets the day before we left and upon arrival, after a few hours of stumbling completely unsuccessfully towards our destination, we realized how completely unprepared we were—no map, very little Spanish and only a vague idea of where Saladita was actually located. Thus our current situation; luckily, we were saved by Roberto, a local who happened to be selling a van at the same corner and happened to speak decent English, who offered to give us a drive to our hotel.
The place was called Gringos and it was perfect (despite the name, Gringos is owned by a Mexican family). Yes, the shower did aim right at the toilet, the refrigerator did rock precariously at the slightest touch and geckos were our frequent uninvited houseguests. But we had all the amenities, there were no blood-thirsty insects, and it was right on the beach—and, of course, it was cheap, and at 10:30 pm after a day of traveling it was basically the Hilton. We ate a delicious three-dish, four-beer, 15-dollar meal at a tiny restaurant down the beach called Abraham’s, said goodnight to the toad on the porch and gecko on the ceiling, and finally crashed.
The next morning we got our first look at the beach. Perhaps a mile of white sand, broken by jagged, pelican-adorned rocks on one end and a rocky river mouth on the other, without a single condo—although there were some nicer houses to rent, our hotel was probably on the higher end of things, and most places didn’t even have hot water. The beach was broken in half by a launch for garishly-colored fishing boats, a motif that extended to most the buildings. The water was pleasantly warm, and although I know next to nothing about surfing, the break looked fun and consistent, a left-handed wave that a few locals referred to as an “old man’s wave”—exactly what we had been looking for.
I had inklings this would be the case, but after a few days at Saladita I came to the firm conclusion that I love surfing. It’s awesome—the flow, the constantly changing medium, the peaceful and beautiful surroundings, the challenge all combine to create something like extreme aquatic yoga. We took a lesson the first day from a bad ass hammock-maker named Ricardo, where both of us easily got up on the monster longboards that came with the lessons, and from then on I was determined to learn the Zen of surfing or die in the process. Each day I would try to catch bigger and bigger waves while avoiding being run over by the other legitimate surfers, and each day, when the surf wasn’t on or when I was just too damned tired to paddle anymore, Milena and I would go stand at the edge of the water and attempt to bodysurf the shallower water waves. This usually ended up with me in a crumpled mess, my crotch and butt crack thoroughly packed with sand while Milena shook her head at my masochism.
The majority of the time we spent doing just what we had come for— nothing, and it was wonderful. We relaxed in the sun, cooked meals and walked up and down the beach, flipping over dead pufferfish and terrorizing crabs. We worked on our tan lines and plowed through the books we had brought. For me, after six months covered head-to-toe in protective gear for firefighting, and for both of us the four months in the rain in Bellingham, it was the perfect cure for the gloomy blues we had both been feeling. Milena, after a bloom of freckles, even started getting a tan. I’ll admit it, she looked pretty damn good.
Although the nearest town, Los Llanos, wasn’t much bigger in daylight than when we had passed through it before, it was far livelier. Kids in school uniforms climbed on a neglected quarter-pipe, immediately next to a number of abandoned carnival rides, and walking to the tortilla maker’s place we were cut off by a pack of very hurried pigs; by all appearances, the only things hurrying in the town. Coming out of the tiny grocery store, we were hailed by some local guys looking to practice their English. We smiled, chatted, exchanged some awkward stories and took some photos, and went on our way with three new friends.
The return trip to Z-wat was far simpler than our arrival. We caught a ride with a standup paddle boarder from Malibu, California, that we had met our first night on the beach, who dropped us off downtown. It was just as loud, just as busy, but we were prepared this time. Wandering through the markets of inner Z-wat, we visited numerous hotels and hostels until we found a little room a few blocks out of the mercado central with hot water and A/C. Putting our bags away, we spent the evening playing full-on gringo, checking out the touristy trinket shops and restaurants by the water and being constantly harassed and harangued to buy everything from drinks to bowls to hammocks. However, the crowds of overweight, painfully white and painfully oblivious Americans convinced us to remove ourselves from judgment and head back to the room for some cheap Mexican candy.
After an incredible experiment on the limits of non-verbal communication (I never imagined it’d be so hard to describe a tattoo using primarily hand gestures) with our taxi driver the next morning, we made it to the airport the suggested three hours beforehand for standby passengers. We randomly ran into some Americans we had met on that failed and stressful first bus ride and sat down for some drinks, while unbeknownst to us the plane was gearing up to leave a half hour early. Of course in usual Sakeus-Milena form we nearly missed it, but thanks to Milena’s sharp eye we ended up making it on—even if we were also the last passengers to board. It was smooth sailing back to Seattle, both of us exhausted, content and tan. While the rough beginning hadn’t boded well for the trip, the week had proved incredible; Mexico delivered, even for two hopeless Gringos like us.
