Sayulita Sucker - Five

A Luke Fischer Novella - When in doubt follow the surfers.

Sayulita Sucker - Five

I knew of Sayulita and the surfing Mecca it was supposed to be, but I’d never actually made the trip out here. Worried I’d miss the damn town again, I got off a stop way too earlier and hoofed it the rest of the way. The sun had not lessened in intensity and once again I swore I was going find a Benno-worth fedora. In my head I pictured the town on a map, and knew it was on an angle, but Mr. and Mrs. Fischer never blessed their son with a good sense of direction. Dusty roads arrowed off in different directions. I had no idea where the ocean was—it was a big fucking thing, blue and wet, shouldn’t be that hard to find.

The shops along the road were closed, could be for siesta, or maybe business was just too slow. A kid on a bike rode up.

“Hey kid, where’s the ocean?”

He looked at me like I was the dumbest thing in town. And maybe I was.

“Que?”

“Ocean. Damn. Playa. Donde esta la?”

The kid smirked. He had a line of dirt that ran from his nose and disappeared under his Michael Jackson Thriller t-shirt. He must have worn that every damn day given the threadbare condition it was in. I figured he was figuring on whether to tell the gringo anything. He reached out his hand and I fished in my pocket for the pair of twenty peso coins. The kid rolled them in his palm, then gripped them tight. He jerked a thumb behind him and rode off.

“Yeah, well, Off the Wall was his best album ya little shit!”

The kid had pointed in the direction I was already walking. A number of streets spidered off the main drag. As I walked the streets got busier, signalling I must be headed to some sort of action. More gringos like me appeared alongside the locals. I’d been in Mexico long enough to no longer consider myself a gringo, which was always a mistake, because I always would be. A tall skinny dude the colour of shoe leather walked past with a bright lemon coloured surf board. Another skinnier and with an even more cow-like hide guy joined him. He carried a powder blue board the same colour as his baggy shorts.

When in doubt follow the surfers. I needed that on a goddamn t-shirt.

As I followed the men with boards, the street filled in, people in various shades of baked skin emerged from the rows of shops. They were dressed in cut-off jeans, muscle shirts that showed off their toned bodies, many with sun-bleached hair, or at least drugstore-dyed. Others wore shorts the colour of sherbet, a few with translucent skin and knobby knees, what the veteran surfers would have called Barneys—their derogatory word for rookies. One in a lime-green number haggled with a salesman next to a row of vertical boards, the sun glinted off the thick waxed surfaces.

”That is the price señor.”

“That’s ridiculous. I could get it for half this price in Mazatlan.”

The guy looked like he needed more sunblock and maybe a few valium.

“Then I suggest you find your way back there, señor.”

I headed down a few wooden stairs, the dirt turned to a burnt grassy trail and then to sand. The sound of people rose with the waves that crashed along the coast. I stood on the beach and watched a half dozen surfers ride the water. I’d done this often down in Barra Navidad, enough times that I knew right away the ones that were pros, or at least who had put their time in. I used to think surfing was all about catching those big monster waves like in the opening to Hawaii Five-O. A convo I had once with a deeply tanned man, age unknown, on a rock in Barre changed my mind. 

“Not too much to ride on out there,” I said to him.

He’d climbed up on a rock next to mine, produced a paper bag, and shook out a small papaya. The man pulled out a 4-inch blade and split the papaya, inside the fruit was the colour of fresh salmon. He scooped the black seeds out and scattered them onto the rocks like he was baptizing the ground. He chomped into the flesh before turning, then, through a mouth full of fruit he schooled me.

“There are many that say if it’s small it is not worth it.”

He had a slight accent I couldn’t place, Spanish or French, or some combination.

“You a surfer?”

“No longer.No.”

With a flip of his knife he cut a wedge of papaya and handed it to me. I alway found them too sweet, but the guy was handy with the knife so I took it.

“There are many lessons to be learned in the tiny ripples.”

“I thought it was all about the catching the big ones.”

He pointed to the ocean with his juice-covered hand.”

“A large wave will do everything for you. There is no effort. A small breaker makes you work.”

“Why would you want to work?” I asked.

“A fine but also a dumb question.” The tanned man laughed.

He didn’t mean it as an insult, it was like he was thinking of the reason himself, in surfing and in life, why would you want to work?

“With a small wave you are always changing, shifting. It is the subtlest body adjustments that keep the board gliding through the water. You are one with the wave.”

As he spoke one of the surfers did exactly what he said, cutting and swooping, then sliding effortlessly into shore. It was beautiful to watch. Like poetry on the water.

“Like that?” I pointed.

“Like that” he said, then wrapped the remains of his fruit back in the white cloth, leaving me on the rock to ponder what he’d said.

In the Sayulita surf there was a young woman on a lemon-yellow board doing just what my rock-tutor had told me. She was easily the best out there. I admired skill like that, and the hours it must have taken to perfect. There were many lessons to be learned.

I made my way to a row of blue chairs that gave an excellent view of the surfers as they rode the crests. The woman with the lemon board was already paddling back out. As soon as I plunked down a man in a large straw hat appeared. Written in a thick black scrawl across the brim was the word, “SONNY.”

“A beautiful view on a beautiful day, señor.”

“Are you Sonny?”

“Yes. I am. And for the small price of three hundred pesos you can enjoy this view for four hours. Five hundred pesos for the entire day. You can watch the sun dip into the water. If you are quiet, you can hear the sizzle.”

“It costs to sit here?” 

I looked up the beach, which was clogged with many of the same chairs and men and woman in similar hats weaving in and out of the rows.

“Those other places are not near as good. Here you will have Sonny’s excellent service. I will bring you whatever you need. Cerveza, Tequila, tostados--”

Studying the groups along the shore, it looked to mostly be made up of what I assumed were Californians who’d drifted down here in their Westfalias and never left.

“What does it cost to sit over there?”

I pointed at a dark wooden structure surrounded by greenery further down the beach and perched on a small incline.

“To really experience Sayulita señor, you need to be on the beach, like the locals. Like Sonny. Trust me, you will not be like it up there.”

“I’m gonna give it a go, Sonny. Maybe I’ll be back.” 

“I’ll try to save this one for you, but I cannot guarantee.”

I gave the chair salesman a wave and made my way to the beach bar. The foliage and dark wood made it seem a few degrees cooler and I appreciated the reprieve from the heat.

A guy with a black felt hat, wrapped in a dirty pink bandana strolled through the bar strumming a weathered guitar and singing. By his side was a lithe woman, caramel-coloured skin and with striking blue eyes that matched her gorgeous white smile. She held a shaker or a morroca… whatever they called those things. She shook along with her partner’s playing, and periodically sang some “ooos” in warm harmony. The music mixed with the surf and birdsong that drifted from the beach—the whole effect made me relaxed as hell.

“Pacifico?” I asked the woman in a red apron who handed me a paper menu.

“Si. Uno?”

“Better make it dos.” I held up two fingers, then turned and pointed to the musicians who had slid into another number, or maybe continued the first. “They’re really good,” I said but she was no longer there.