I prepped for this surf trip to Mexico same as I did the last one. Actually heading north to Austin to help varnish a Chris-Craft yacht and make some travel cash. Anyone who knows about old wood boats knows how much maintenance and constant work those money pits need. Well, lucky for me that other man’s pit was part of my travel purse to a warm mountainous land by the sea. My friend Brian and I had worked on this boat before, and completed the same trip. He usually stays for about three months and I’ve only been able to hang for about two or three weeks. This time was going to be different for me. Finally, I had a solid month to spare and would dedicate myself to photograph the trip.
Right after lunch on December 29th, 2004 we left the Austin area and headed south. We spent the afternoon driving to Laredo and making all our last minute phone calls. Most were to Murph, to hassle him for not making the journey with us. After crossing the bridge though, our cell phones were stashed deep in the glove box and forgotten about.
The night time drive through the Mexican desert was just as uneventful as it would be in the day time, except for a particular train crossing. Luckily there was a road sign for the upcoming crossing, but no lights. I slowed to about 40, everything just looked black ahead. Suddenly I spotted a dim flashlight swinging back and forth, a man standing by the road. Then I saw the train. I had to slam on the brakes, and the guy with flashlight looked like he was just about to decide whether or not to jump back. Then, since my idle truck was now providing lights for the area, the guy with the flashlight jumped on the slow moving train. I suppose he made his way to the front to dismount at the next crossing and swing his flashlight like a pendelum in the black desert night. After that incident, we drove for a few more hours and decided to rest up outside of Zacatecas.
Shortly after dawn, we were on our way again and had perfect timing to hit Dos Burros for some brunch. Might as well get a fine meal because that mountain road outside of Guadalajara could make it the last burrito! Conquering the winding path up to the city was not as much of a challenge as finding the right periferico though. One road can make navigating that city an experience of exhaust fumes in standstill traffic, or exhaust fumes in speeding traffic. Asking the right person on the side of the road allowed us the latter and in a short while we cleared the city.
The last leg of the trip was ahead of us and remaining daylight looked promising. We pushed through the Colima mountains and hit the state line sometime around early evening. After that it was just a blur of coconut trees along the road and we pulled in to our first camp spot. I had been working toward this moment for over a month. Before internet sites with updated swell maps, this moment was even more intense because there was no telling what would be found. One thing is for sure, it’s usually bigger in anticipating thoughts.
The swell I was looking at was nothing like what my mind had created along the drive. It wasn’t a shock and I was still grinning with stoke because I knew I had so much yet to see. I had a month to roam the Michoacan coast, what was not to like? It was a good time to get the camp dialed in and make all the social rounds to various others. Lots of people from all over the world, but also a strong presence of Texas surfers.
One of those hot winter days, I was having the daily lazy siesta in my hammock, when a white truck drove by and parked near the river mouth. Shortly after that I see a few guys head out front for an afternoon session in the blazing sun. One guy was just hammering the waves out there. Spray was flying high and he carved with pure style. I checked the truck to see Texas plates. Turned out to be Justin Jalufka and his friends. When they came in, we talked and made plans for a shoot the next morning.
The swell didn’t get any bigger overnight but that didn’t slow Justin and his crew down at all. They had already been surfing other spots before they came here and had to leave soon. As long as it was rideable, they were going to get wet and soak in the remaining water time their trip allowed for.
Justin simply killed it out there. His surfing definitely stood out from the crowd, and crowded it was! At chest high, plenty of people filled the line up. The weekend after Justin left turned out to be the most crowded of all. Surf had come up to head high and I counted 60 people in the water at one time. Whoa, that wasn’t what I was looking for at all. Brian and I packed our gear and headed south.
Just a few hours down the road we came to Brian’s second home. A break he first visited some twenty years ago. He had a full quiver stashed at Sophia’s house so we made that our first stop. When we arrived at her home we came across her immediate family preparing for a party. Something big must have happened because they had slaughtered a cow for it and enough food was being prepared that would feed a small army. The smell of fresh beef on the grill, a cold beer in my hand and a perfect left within walking distance lent me feelings of Heaven on Earth. But we had to be on our way, after at least three tacos of course, because by the looks of things it was fixing to get very crowded with incoming family. Brian led the way to the storage area and just to the left of the door my eye caught an artistic object. It was a hand-made cross hanging on a support pole. Brian noticed me looking and pointed out that Harpoon Barry made that. He said Barry used to hang out here a lot. I’d like to think that the late Barry Welsh joined us for that evening’s surf session.
Almost a week went by before some size came in, but when it did the break just lit up. After a tell tale afternoon that a swell was building, the following dawn session had only the best few surfers in the water. Nothing thins a crowd like double overhead grinders. And this place didn’t have a crowd to begin with. Only a handful of surfers in the water that morning and the local heavies stood out as the true masters. Watching them surf was inspirational yet left me feeling extremely humble. Watching guys like Jorge and Flaco drop in deep, race down the line to carve a roundhouse and charge the sickest pits to a re-entry was jaw dropping. The show didn’t last long because the wind changed onshore quickly and the size wasn’t there the next morning.
It was almost another week before more size came in. A southwest swell was pushing in at two foot overhead. It was a nice manageable size, but hollow and thick enough to command plenty of respect. I had already seen a few broken boards the past couple of weeks. One kid snapped his board on it’s first paddle out. He said he never even rode it. He paddled into the early morning stiff offshores, sketched his bottom turn and next he was swimming in to look for the other half. It was a beautiful wave, but with a slip it could turn ugly fast. I stayed a few more days then drove back up north to greet an incoming WNW swell that was hitting 12-16 ft. on the virtual buoy report.
Back at the first camp I found that Mike(Miguel) was still hanging out. I told him of the updated internet information (this is how the rumors start). He already knew from a phone call to his son, who he said just might come down. I hung my hammock next to his and we waited Michoacan style for another day until the swell hit. Junior didn’t make it down, he wound up doing tow-in off the Baja coast.
When the swell hit, it hit hard and fast. In two days Mike, and English surfer Kieren Evans and I drove to three spots in the immediate area looking for perfect conditions. We found that the best surf was back with the crowd because that place just picks up any swell out there. It wasn’t clean perfection, but in the early morning hours it was close enough. The regular offshore morning winds swept up 15′ faces and tossed spray far beyond the back. The lefts were working well and I was out of film. It was time to retire the camera and spend the rest of my trip paddling into warm blue waves with some of my friends.
Mexico has always been a Texas surfer’s backyard playground. Some places hold art pieces created by some of us. Old boards and new boards left or sold. Sometimes it’s stories of triumphs or hardships, left behind to be brought up someday as the local asks, “You’re from Texas? Do you know, …?” And then there were a few places where the locals didn’t care where I was from. I got the stinkeye because of my camera equipment several times. I wanted no problems so I was not shy in talking to them. Basically asking if it was okay that I photograph the wave. The expected request was delivered with a warm smile. All that was asked was that I do not name the spot. No problem, because some of the places already are packing over fifty in the line up. Being a surfer myself, I was easily convinced that we should get our knowledge of where to go from our surfing family. Ask another surfer, if he’s from Texas he’ll be able to tell you all about surfing Michoacan.