I wrote tomorrows date on the chalk board, hopped inside a Nissan four door, and was driven off in search of a particular Country Mexican. The Indian we were going to see held the title to a particular piece of land that myself and a few others have had our eye on for the past couple of years. We brought along a translator. Spanish just wasn’t going to cut it. It was 8am on Friday, February 24th, 2012.
We stopped for tacos along side the road just outside of Huatulco. There was a skinned cow in the back of a nearby pick up truck. Talk about gnarly. We arrived to the secret estate around noon. I had been there two times prior, yet this was my first time actually meeting The Jefe. I counted five teeth in his mouth. His expertise with the machete was mind blowing. The coconut water was air temperature.
They sat and spoke. I just half listened and nodded. I was picking up some stuff, but like I said, this was country spanish. Not to be confused with country music. The meeting lasted about 30 minutes. We then walked out to the point break. A pitching right hander that breaks directly in front of a jetty hip of sorts. In the summer months, this place goes off. That’s about all I am allowed to tell you.
