Two times during this warm, humid evening, I walked outside and hosed off. I wasn’t alone. I knew Mr. Gomez was out there somewhere. Apparently so were every other creepy crawler of the night. The sounds and the rattles combined with the eyes of the Fire Flies kept me extra close to the palapa. The water out of the hose felt sweet. I knew it would buy me some extra sleep. It was raining good. Daylight came at 7am.
Through the binoculars, the surf had picked up significantly. Big Corduroys as far as my eye could see. At 11am the tennis court was still wet. I put on zinc. I also put on a new, white, long sleeve, 55+ SPF special lycra. It was high noon in the Mexican Tropics. I grabbed my board and ran down the overgrown path towards Wild Bills. I had heard Ramz was in town, and apparently nobody knows *$*$*$* like Ramz.
I was prepared to go out there alone. Gads. Had surfed it 2x before with Big Jim a few years back. Scouted it a bunch last winter during futbol rehab. Don’t get me wrong, I would have loved to operate within the Buddy System, but a decision had been made, and unless Ramz was home, and wanted to surf, I would go where no man
had gone before was going to be going on this unassuming scorcher of a day.
I jogged down just as they drove up. Father and Son heading to Puerto. I’m sure I caught them by surprise. We all shook hands. They stayed in the truck. I knew right then and there that I would be surfing alone. “It’s pretty good size Amigo. The tide should still let you out through the rocks, or you can enter from the steep section of beach just passed the arroyo.” They drove off. I walked away. I forget which prayers I used.