I spent most of my youth skateboarding, surfing, and rock climbing in the various places I grew up in. As I grew older I started to wander further and further; until one day I was just jumping on a train and heading across the country. This probably is not normal behavior for a fourteen or fifteen year old kid; but you would have to understand where I was coming from. This tales starts and stops, jumps and falls all over the place. All I ask is that you let me know what you really think about it.
Different memories bring back different feelings; but the amazing thing is that time is not a distance understood by those feelings. I don’t remember ever enjoying, standing in the rain; as much as I did there on the black sand beach of Pasqualies, Mexico many years ago.
I believe it was early August and we arrived late in the evening; via a chicken truck. It had been a long day and I thought that quickly finding a free ride out of the Colima market was a blessing from God. Looking back now I have to laugh because it was one hell of a ride. You see a major hurricane had just wiped out the road into Pasqualies a few days before. It looked as if the jungle had swallowed the road and threw up all of the parts that it diden’t care for. When I say road…….. please don’t for a second imagine what we have here in the more civilized part of the world. The “road” to the village of Pasqualies was nothing more than two brown dirt ruts through the jungle on its best day. It was still a very important passageway though, because a jungle doesen’t care about mans need to travel and demands constant clearing of fallen trees or masses of coconuts that have rolled into one rut or the other. I have even seen wild animals block a jungle road for over an hour before.
When we arrived in the village it was raining, as it had been for days. The mosquito’s were out in full force and darkness was settling in. My first glimpse of the surf put a chill through my body; and the sound of the waves breaking made me think of a plane crashing on the sandbar. As with every place in Mexico that we had been through, we were greeted like superstars. The first person to walk up and speak to us was a young teenage boy named Donkey. He instantly labeled my friend Chris as “Kelly Slater” due to the fact that Chris had a closely shaved head that bore the resemblance to magazine pictures of the 9x world champion surfer.
Donkey was an orphan that just happened to find a creative way to survive there as the local tour guide and travel agent. He led us around the village, while giving a very impressive tour of each hut or structure on the beach in his broken English. He did not seem to care that it was quickly turning dark and that we were all still standing in the rain.
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