Michoacan proved not too dangerous. There was a serious search by the military when we crossed the northern border-- looking for guns, I guess, but they were most intrigued by my first aid kit and camping hammock. This search was the only thing out of the ordinary as far as road travel.
After surfing at Rio Nexpa, Forrest suggested we stop at Playa Azul, near the southern border of Michoacan, to shop for a surf board for me. Playa Azul is a little-known beach town that seems principally to specialize in empty white plastic chairs. I was very dubious they would have a surf shop. But Forrest's surf radar was on, and we found a pile of junk boards outside "Playa Azul Surf" being manned by two middle-aged men in hammocks. I explained what I was looking for and the owner got up, introduced himself, and led me through the dark shop, circumnavigating piles of debris. Most of his surf boards looked like shark attack victims. He asked if I could stay in town for a few days so that he could "put something together for me." I declined.
Back out front, he and his friend began brainstorming all the people they knew in town that owned surfboards. The shop owner took off on his bike to ask a friend if he would sell me his board. The friend got out of the hammock and started marching me down the street to his "cousin" who had a board he might sell.
A few blocks away, we walked into a restaurant on the beach, interrupted staff and diners, and my escort demanded his cousin, the restauranteur, sell his surfboard to me. "My board?!"he exclaimed, "My board is my daughter, my mother, my girlfriend! I can't sell it! I have had it for 25 years!"
After these theatrics, he walked around a bunch of empty white plastic chairs, into the kitchen, and came back carrying a surfboard. It had been broken and repaired in two places and was a bit shorter than what I wanted, but it was a surf-able option. He looked at me and offered "1000 pesos?" (US$80)
No one in Mexico likes to sell long boards, because they can make more money renting them. The only boards longer than 6'6" that we had seen for sale were marked at 6000 pesos or more.
The owner of the surf shop pedaled up on his bike announcing that his friend with the board was not home. He was disappointed that the restauranteur had offered such a low price.
I agreed to buy the board for 1000 pesos, shook hands, and went back to the truck to get money. Forrest and I counted out all our pesos and only came up with 995. I offered this, and the man handed me his surfboard/girlfriend and gave me back 20 pesos. He turned and paid the surf shop owner a commission and left us to strap his treasure to the top of Sandhog.
When the waitresses were back at work and the surfboard sales team had pedaled away, the restaurant owner walked back over and handed me 100 pesos, apologizing for asking so much for his board. We refused the money-- it was a fair price for the only board for 100 miles-- and Forrest said, "We won't take any money, but you can buy us a beer."
This pleased the man incredibly and he invited us into his restaurant. He grabbed round after round of beers while he told us all about the giant waves he has surfed on this board. His mother yelled from the front of the kitchen that he needed to leave us alone and get back to work. We talked about the US and Mexico and the environment and adventures of all kinds. Hours later, we excused ourselves to keep heading south.
I probably am not a good enough surfer to ride this 7'2" well-loved surf board, but it was worth the stories and the beers and meeting a new friend.
After surfing at Rio Nexpa, Forrest suggested we stop at Playa Azul, near the southern border of Michoacan, to shop for a surf board for me. Playa Azul is a little-known beach town that seems principally to specialize in empty white plastic chairs. I was very dubious they would have a surf shop. But Forrest's surf radar was on, and we found a pile of junk boards outside "Playa Azul Surf" being manned by two middle-aged men in hammocks. I explained what I was looking for and the owner got up, introduced himself, and led me through the dark shop, circumnavigating piles of debris. Most of his surf boards looked like shark attack victims. He asked if I could stay in town for a few days so that he could "put something together for me." I declined.
Back out front, he and his friend began brainstorming all the people they knew in town that owned surfboards. The shop owner took off on his bike to ask a friend if he would sell me his board. The friend got out of the hammock and started marching me down the street to his "cousin" who had a board he might sell.
A few blocks away, we walked into a restaurant on the beach, interrupted staff and diners, and my escort demanded his cousin, the restauranteur, sell his surfboard to me. "My board?!"he exclaimed, "My board is my daughter, my mother, my girlfriend! I can't sell it! I have had it for 25 years!"
After these theatrics, he walked around a bunch of empty white plastic chairs, into the kitchen, and came back carrying a surfboard. It had been broken and repaired in two places and was a bit shorter than what I wanted, but it was a surf-able option. He looked at me and offered "1000 pesos?" (US$80)
No one in Mexico likes to sell long boards, because they can make more money renting them. The only boards longer than 6'6" that we had seen for sale were marked at 6000 pesos or more.
The owner of the surf shop pedaled up on his bike announcing that his friend with the board was not home. He was disappointed that the restauranteur had offered such a low price.
I agreed to buy the board for 1000 pesos, shook hands, and went back to the truck to get money. Forrest and I counted out all our pesos and only came up with 995. I offered this, and the man handed me his surfboard/girlfriend and gave me back 20 pesos. He turned and paid the surf shop owner a commission and left us to strap his treasure to the top of Sandhog.When the waitresses were back at work and the surfboard sales team had pedaled away, the restaurant owner walked back over and handed me 100 pesos, apologizing for asking so much for his board. We refused the money-- it was a fair price for the only board for 100 miles-- and Forrest said, "We won't take any money, but you can buy us a beer."
This pleased the man incredibly and he invited us into his restaurant. He grabbed round after round of beers while he told us all about the giant waves he has surfed on this board. His mother yelled from the front of the kitchen that he needed to leave us alone and get back to work. We talked about the US and Mexico and the environment and adventures of all kinds. Hours later, we excused ourselves to keep heading south.
I probably am not a good enough surfer to ride this 7'2" well-loved surf board, but it was worth the stories and the beers and meeting a new friend.
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