Surfing Arroyo Secco / No Gas No Problem

December 2019

Ok I need to open by saying its very, very rare for things to go as planned in Mexico —especially on the coast. Living in a place where none of your local friends have cell-phones and you can walk into any store or restaurant sin camiseta and no one bats an eye; its no wonder that punctuality and plans are more fluid. 

Only guy in the water wearing zinc

I was suppose to meet my friend Chopper (a local surf and skim-boarding legend) at my house bright and early to load up our boards and head up the coast to catch some olas. I woke up slipped on my board shorts and waited for a half hour until I ran out of patience then headed to the local coffee shop “La Bruja” (la jefa of this rad little tienda is Allison — a groovy, loca, ex-pat surfer who hooks up the free coffee in exchange for some celeb shifts behind the espresso machine).  

After about my second cup of coffee I spotted Chopper walking down the street shoeless and surfboard in your hand, “Perfecto, un cafe y vamanos.” 

We sipped on our coffees and Chopper gave a short but terrifying description of the new break we were going to surf. It translated something like this, “the waves there are very different. You won’t have time to think, just do.” I was so pumped. I had been in the water almost everyday for the last few weeks perfecting my skills and riding smooth waves all the way into the beach — I had no idea what was in store. 

Chopper, Arandu, Dani, y Caleb  

After our debriefing we hoped in the ‘ol Toyotita and picked up a couple more weys and their boards before heading out of town. By the time that we were rolling down the highway we were 4 dudes in a three person bench seat and we were only a few ours behind schedule. We twisted and turned as we followed the curvy mountain road north —blasting a very interesting mix of the first thirty-seconds whatever songs my passengers could think of (the freedom of my apple music subscription was more than they could handle). 

“Aqui a la izquierda,” Chopper called out the turn and just like that we were bouncing around on your typical unpaved coastal Mexican road. We cruised through a small village that hosted just a single small tienda and followed the signs to “Playa Grande.” When we arrived all four of us —barefoot and shirtless— half wrestled, half raced are way down to the beach to check the surf. 

The wave seemed mellow enough but there were 4 or 5 other guys in the lineup waiting. “Vamos a ‘Playa Chica,’” 5 guys in the water is considered a crowed down here in the Costallegre and Chopper wasn’t feeling to social. Chopper and I climbed back in the cab and our other friends sat on the bed with the surfboards as I winded our way up the coast to the other beach. 

We unloaded our boards and I smeared zinc over my gringo face. We crossed a small rio climbed a hill and there it was —Playa Chica. My excitement shifted into fear as I gazed out into the open and untamed Pacific Ocean. There were no other surfers in the water at this beach and it didn’t take long for me to figure out why. Arroyo Secco is a very heavy beach break and even on a small day could offer only the most skilled surfers and opportunity to get tubed and/or break a board. 

I swallowed hard and followed my thrilled amigos into the feral sea. I hadn’t even made it past the break zone by the time Chopper was getting tubed. What the hell am I doing out here. I sat back behind the break zone for a minute examining the guys bajando la ola. Dropping into this wave went exactly how Chopper described —there was no time think, just act. 

I spent most of that session pinned to the sea floor as the heavy waves attempted to flatten me like a pancake to the sandy bottom. We spent close to 3 hours in the water that day and I only successfully managed to ride one wave, but this was a great learning experience and a memorable day in terms of my surf progression. 

“Estas bien wey? Son chicitas hoy,” Chopper said the same thing every time I made my way back to the surface and gasped for air, You good man? It’s a small day today. 

My ears were ringing and my head was throbbing by the time I found my place behind the steering wheel of my truck. We were all starving so we decided to pull over and raid the local tienda for junk food and fruit juices. I snapped a few photos of the local village while the other guys were talking women and waves on the bed of the truck. 

Los Weys Comiendo En Arroyo Secco 

“Donde puedo comprar gasolina?” My head was still throbbing and speaking in Spanish seemed a little tougher than normal, but we were running on fumes and there was no way we were making it home without filling up somewhere. 

“No hay hasta Barra,” not exactly what I wanted to hear. Apparently there where no gas-stations between where we were and where we lived a little over an hour drive away. For some reason I really wasn’t fretting. Maybe I’ve adjusted to the local easy-going vibes or maybe I was just happy that I survived the (attempted) surf session at Arroyo. Ive traveled enough in Mexico to know that we weren’t completely out of luck. 

We all piled back in the truck and stoped at the next village south. After only a few minutes of asking around I found and older gentleman who was willing to syphon 10 liters of questionable combustable fluids from a container into my gas tank. He fit the tube between his remaining two teeth sucked until the gas nearly reached his lips then raised the container high above his head. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the cackle that exploded from his lips as he was holding the can in the air and showing that third-world-grill. No worries.