A Mexican Fear Factor - Surfings Heart of Darkness

Deep within the oppressing heat of Mexico’s Oaxacan coast, is the kind of surfing even your Mother has heard of. To some, the worlds best, to most, the world’s heaviest beach break rages relentlessly in the very center of Puerto Escondido town. Long before paved roads, surfers have flocked to Puerto Escondido to get into some of the biggest, fastest barrels you’ll ever see. Yet the same forces that sculpt the alluring perfect form that draws us here also create the intense power that makes Escondido infamous. Make no mistake; this is a very heavy wave of serious consequence, with a justified reputation that will keep a surfer awake at night - especially someone like me, on their maiden voyage “South of the Border”.

Frozen to the sand by a cocktail of exhilaration and sheer terror, secretly I wished I’d stayed on the last bus I was on forever. Perfect set waves lurched out of deep water into twisting liquid mountains the size of three story buildings, and in thunderclaps, exploded in an avalanche of foaming, suffocating white fury in only chest deep water. Welcome to Playa Zicatela, Puerto Escondido, a.k.a Mexi-Pipe.
Seriously under gunned, carrying only a 6’3”, I had doubted my ability to not get hammered here since witnessing the speed of the beachie in Pascuales, yet this was like nothing I had ever seen before. In those first ten minutes more broken surfboards than 2 years worth of Cyclone Swells in all of New Zealand washed ashore, some in as many as 6 pieces. It seems when it’s big here, no one wears a leash, and the local kids spend plenty of time rushing about rescuing boards, or the pieces of them that wash up on the sand.

Why had I come here again? I was watching surfers’ whose posters had hung on my wall since I was a starry-eyed grommet, wrap themselves in roaring London Underground sized barrels. The adrenaline just standing on the beach was intense. Crowds stood mesmerized at the live show just meters offshore, hooting and screaming at, depending on individual skill and/or luck, each rider’s heroic or excruciating attempt. I was more than happy to watch the chaotic mix of madman locals, pros young and old, plus the cluster of traveling surfers wanting to prove their worth, take off on these bombs.

A good alternative to the beach break when it’s big is La Punta, a long left point break at the far end of Zicatela beach. As it turned out, this was no easy surf either, but the locals have this place wired and showed me the knack of taking off from a rock that sucks dry as the waves approach. With only a fraction of the swell hitting the point, La Punta was a manageable 6ft max while the beachie is throwing up 15ft closeouts, yet I still experienced a few notorious Mexican beat-downs. I got completely smashed trying to sneak under one particular lip, driven to the bottom for at least 5 seconds, before being dragged up and over and slammed again. I imagined the front row of the Fijian rugby team being sucked over the falls in a 6ft low tide closeout at one of New Zealand’s heaviest breaks, Piha, and being dumped squarely on my chest in 3ft of water. I knew I'd be under for a while.

The place to go when even La Punta is maxing out is 20km north, nestled on a small strip of sand between a lagoon and an excellent right hand point break called Chacahua. It was great to see a decent right again, with solid 200m rides on the sets. It stayed pretty consistent for the two days I surfed here, jumping from about 3-6ft. A handful of locals rip here too, but when someone gets a good ride there’s a 10min walk back along the beach to paddle out again, so there are plenty of waves to be had. Sleeping in sand floored Cabanas in a village only accessible by boat; this was my preference to Escondido, swarming with its macho American, Australian, and South American big wave surfers and spring break style pool parties.

Back at Zicatela you cannot escape the waves’ presence. Anywhere you sit in the number of bars and restaurants that line the single road running the length of the beach, everything is focused towards Mexi-Pipe. The ominous dark swell lines looming above the horizon will always catch your eye, the booming shore break rumbles over the Bob Marley music, and the drink on your table shakes every 14 seconds as if Jurassic Park has come to life as a surfing horror flick. Monster butterflies had destroyed my appetite, so I spent the remainder of the day torturing myself on the beach, watching the carnage I was intending on inflicting upon myself, trying to figure out where to sit in the water the next morning to prolong my inevitable demise. The fact that the local lifeguard beside me looked as nervous as me at the prospect of paddling into the battle zone didn’t fill me with confidence. “Olas muy peligroso, buena suerte amigo!”

Staring at a dark ceiling that night, every possible worst-case scenario played out in my mind, punctuated as a constant reminder, by the relentless rattle of my Hotel rooms shutters, and the lifeguards words ringing in my ears. “Very dangerous waves, Good luck friend!” Escondido is the sum of all those hidden surfing fears, projected in full colour, larger than life for a crowd of hungry onlookers. A crossroads between my pride and my fears was approaching with dawn, and silently I prayed for a substantial drop in swell.

DAWN RAID

The water will still be running out of my nose for weeks to come.

Not giving myself the chance to back out, board in hand I headed to the beach, squinting into the fuzzy twilight to hone my ears on the sound of the surf. Was it as loud as yesterday? Maybe the swell had dropped. Standing ankle deep in the warm Pacific Ocean at waters edge, it seemed my prayers had been answered, or at least partially. Several local surfers were already tapping into the glassy dawn surf, now only standing about two times above their heads. Here goes nothing, “What doesn’t kill me” and all that. Heart in mouth and beating at 1000rpm, I paddled like a speedboat out the back keeping my hair dry.

Minutes past, and I let wave after wave go by unridden, waiting for the right one, making sure, the typically Mexican oversized flag laughing gaily at me from land. I was starting to relax when the first super-sized set took me by surprise. I’d drifted inside chasing smaller waves, and when I noticed the local crew paddling frantically for the horizon it was too late. Your head clears the crest of the little wave in front to reveal the dark mammoth now obscuring the sun behind it, and that’s when you know you’re doomed. Do I paddle towards it and risk getting it on the head, or for shore and end up being run down with my tail between my legs by white water the height of a truck? Instead I chose to hold my ground and accept the beating of my life. When the lip pitched 10ft ahead of me it sounded like a car crash, I took in all the oxygen I could and dove for the deep. Unfortunately I hit the bottom almost instantly because the approaching wave had sucked the water before it into its towering peak like a ravenous black hole. My board was snatched from my grasp and the leash snapped almost instantly, as I was driven into the concrete hard sand bank with enough force to push all the air from my lungs, suck a contact lens from my tightly squeezed eyes, and force a litre of sea water up my nose. You’re told to relax in situations like this, but it’s hard to relax when you’re pinned beneath the entire Pacific Ocean unable to move a limb. An eternity later, by the same vigor with which I was punched to the bottom, I was whipped off the sand and tumbled and bounced along the bottom like a dogs chew toy, then released punch-drunk and blind, just as I thought I had drowned. Good start I thought, but enough for one day.

With every fear I’d imagined realized in that one sticky situation, I probably could have justified quitting right then, but the following morning found events unfolding in the same manner. However this time I sat further out the back in apparent safety. Problem is, when a large set came along I’d be the only one in the zone to catch it, and every local charger paddling towards me and safety would be cheering at me to go! So I would. Sliding down the side of a fluid Double-Decker bus as it topples over, everything’s a blur, obviously my brains in shock at the sight of a ton of water throwing six foot over my head. I’m in automatic and all systems are set directly for the quickly disappearing exit. Somehow I hold on. Somehow I make it and I’m kicking off safely, others are watching from the shoulder or out back, arms in the air, whistling and hooting.

My hands shook, and my heart raced after every single wave, and amongst some serious hold-downs and rag-doll treatment, I stood tall on waves I would have never considered surfing at home. Standing up to one of Surfing's hardest hitters, being beaten to within an inch of my life, and doing it again, I discovered a whole new level to surfings allure in large doses of adrenaline. What ever doesn’t kill you indeed.

I could see them towing into the messy new 15ft swell, accompanied by only the craziest paddle in locals, as my bus left the coast for the mountains and the boarder. The picture perfect waves I'd dreamt of were always going to be unattainable, but the waves I did surf stretched my comfort zone to the limit, plus the diverse cultures and settings I had seen, and the wonderful people I'd met throughout the country, are far more tangible than any glossy double page surfing poster will ever be. I could sit back and relax now, not having to worry about this bus stopping for the next 14 hours. My Mexican adventures all but behind me, Central America now lay very nearly ahead.

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