This is a good story.
Lagunas De Chacahua es un PARAISO SALVAJE.
A savage paradise. I still hardly believe it exists. It does.
I found it on Google Earth... hell of a wave breaking... lots of thatched roofs... no roads in or out.
Getting there was a breeze. I left Z-WHAT-A-SHIT-HOLE and went right around ACAPULCO... found cloudless, windy days. Both nights, dolphins played phosphorescently around my boat as I sailed perfect seas.
Anchored, I paddle to shore with the dog on my surfboard because there's no landing the dink here... hell of a wave over the lagoon's mouth and big shorepound everywhere else.
I go surfing. Get thrashed. Held down. Spit out. Again and again. It is wonderful getting tossed by some small section of one of GOD'S GREAT CIRCLES. I love feeling small.
My first night in town NORWEGIAN surfers and CANADIAN swingers feed me and get me drunk on cerveza INDIO. I brought a goodsized YELLOWTAIL to the party but it never got COOKED. No, I didn't swing. I was too drunk to swing... too tired from surfing and two sleepless nights of sailing to even consider the proposal.
The NORWEGIANS are brilliant gents... informed stony conversationalists... fluent in English, and Spanish. One resembles my better-looking twin. He has a strong, windswept native woman tattooed on his back. The other has a BIRKIEBEINER tat in the same spot.
True Vikings. They slay waves. Entice native ladies. All the while sporting shitgrins. Why not?!
They love my SWEDISHNESS and crack a joke that resonates with my unpractical approach to life. Maybe I'm genetically predisposed to backasswardsness.
HOW MANY SWEDES DOES IT TAKE TO SCREW IN A LIGHTBULB?
how many?
ONE HUNDRED AND ONE.
ONE TO HOLD THE LIGHTBULB.
ONE HUNDRED TO TURN THE HOUSE.
I crashed hard in a hammock swinging lazily under a thatched palapa.
The next morning, I'm going climbing. A big half-black half-native woman makes me eat watermelon with her. It's so stereotypical I can't help but giggle during our conversation.
She is intrigued by my voyage and reasons for undertaking it. Everone I talk to is. This gives me hope that I'm doing something worthwhile. As does the fact that total strangers instinctively seem to be taking care of me.
Later that day REY!, the self-proclaimed KING of Chacahua offers me a job and a place to live... more on this later... that's when the story gets good.
CHACAHUA was founded by escaped slaves. Half native, half black population... most folks are an interesting mix. Some of the happiest, healthiest people I've ever seen live here.
Three times, I shit you not, I've been stopped mid-stride, mid-sentence, mid-thought by mindshatteringly beatiful women.
They just stroll around in bikinis and skirts and such. Some of those beautiful women are local. Some are surfers and "ecoturistas" from Spain, Italy, Norway and such.
None of the natives speak a lick of English. Not even REY!.
No internet.
One phone. When someone gets a call, the recipient's name is broadcast over town via loudspeaker.
No pavement. No foundations. Fuck, hardly concrete or stone a wall here.
Just raw wood palapas covered with palm fronds. Cool, shady palapas slung with hammocks.
Inviting hammocks... take a load off... lie down for a decade or two. Mañana. Salgamos mañana.
Why do I instantly love it here? Well, lets see.
Perfect Wave. Consistent. It tempts me to stay... really learn to surf. AND KITE THE SHIT OUT OF THAT BEAUT IF IT EVER BLOWS HERE.
Sweetening the deal is surreal seaside granite bouldering. Juggy. Incredible, difficult cave too. There are even trad routes waiting to be done there... I got the gear.
Also tempts an incredible chain of gigantic lagoons... perfect for anchoring and sailing in... but watch out for crocs.
The natives pull much of their sustenance from that lagoon and the assortment of fruit trees in the area. Don't get me wrong, you can get delicious Mexican Nacho Doritos here too... spicier than home. 40oz beers are a buck and a quarter.
Likewise appealing is the lack of vehicles or roads. Everyone walks around on sand paths. See, getting here includes a half hour high speed panga ride through the lagoons... unless you sail.
Any DIRTBAGS looking for an affordable SPRING TRIP need look no further. Bring your own board. Good luck finding it... it's about 40 miles W of Puerto Escondido.
Bring money too. Learn from my mistakes.
Few boats stop here in Chacahua. When REY! discovered I was "EL CAPITAN!" he had to take me around town showing me off. I met just about everyone including two of those mindshatterers.
It was a must that I stay at his house that night. We had two CORONAS and WEED for breakfast... where he offered me a job.
The job? Helping out at his sister's amazing restaurant... best fried fish I've EVER had... right in front of the break.
I can teach kiting here.
I can run sailboat charters here.
I can surf every day.
I can love some native girl and stack some cash and be gone in a month.
And through it all, I've got REY!s protection at my back.
See, "rey" means king. And REY! is the KING of Chacahua. No doubt there.
I learned from MUERTOS it's not good to work for someone who fancies themself a king... but I'm fucking broke. Destitute. $35 to my name.
And, whaddya know, REY!s got some skrilla... a gorgeous stained glass window in his house... carries half the town on his shoulders too. The local boy who made good.
How?
Peddling fish? Nope.
Tourism? Hardly.
He informs me.
Northern Columbia is only 1400 bluewater miles away. You'd have to be damn unlucky to run into anyone out there. Taking a panga there and back takes some fucking COJONES, though.
Skeptically, I agree to work. I have to. I'm broke. I can't afford to feed my dog.
REY! and I seal the deal by kneeling in front of a gigantic Jesus portrait. He's sporting the crown of thorns and is quite agonized. Above his head.
"PERDONELOS, DIOS. NO SABEN LO QUE HACEN.
FORGIVE THEM LORD. THEY KNOW NOT WHAT THEY DO.
I had a moment there, prostrate before Jesus.
I considered actually fogiving MACK for ripping me off. Did for a second. Then didn't.
See, I revoked MACK's forgiveness right there in front of ol' Jesus because, on account of his deciet, I'd just sworn myself into the service of an aging Mexican thug with CARTE BLANCHE.
There are no authorities in Chacahua. See, REY! is the KING. Really.
I was the only boat in the bay... hardly a bay... WAY TOO EXPOSED... I could see the fucking GALAPAGOS from here if I was a bit taller. And all of Central America... way too exposed.
My anchor had already drug 200 feet closer to shore. I gotta get into that lagoon if I'm gonna work here.
Getting out of the swell, wind, and chop and into that beautiful lagoon requires motoring through the skinny, sketchy, shallow barra. That perfect wave breaks right across it. On a 1m swell it's breaking overhead. 2 to 2.5 m.
The pangueros blast through fearlessly with their 48-75 hp outboards. I can plane through in the dink with my 1984 Honda 9.9 if I time the tide and sets right. Getting SIN FIN in with her 6 hp motor will take a bit more tact and a lot of luck.
Doable on a very calm day, no doubt... but when will it be calm. More importantly, how can I ppossibly get back out with hurricane season coming.
But REY! insists, and hey, its REY!
I'm along for the ride for 24 hours until one of REY!'s underling's disrespect shakes my sensibilities.
They don't want me. They don't care about me. Right now, I'm a novelty. Soon I'll be more of a mark than I already am. I'll get robbed and scammed and run out of town penniless... or worse.
Maybe REY! wants a YATE so he can ply the waters of the lagoon like a true KING. He practically demands I bring it into the lagoon. He's obsessed with getting it into the lagoon.
Once it's in, very rarely could I ever get back out... especially with bigger swell guaranteed for the next few months... then hurricane season.
My DICK wants me to stay. Mindshatteringly beautiful, they are.
My STOMACH wants me to stay. I'm starving on my boat. Whereas, whatever I want, whenever I want at the restaurant. DANK FOOD.
Even my HEART wants me to stay. These people have been so nice to me. The boat is so lonely.
BUT, I GOT BOKU SHIT TO DO AND TEHUANTEPEC IS CALLING.
And Hurricane season is coming.
And the local mutts are bad influences on MAESTRA.
And I already have a conflict stewing with a local hothead dipshit.
Plus, after getting fucked in MUERTOS my trust is shot on lawless work.
And REY! is riding the white horse.
Hell, looking around, this town is about 20% crackhead.
So I hatch my bounce.
REY! senses it and protests. I grab the pooch and jump in the dink to shouts.
The dink was at REY!'s private dock, see.
Maybe it's just paranoia screaming. I don't know.
Regardless, I gotta get the fuck out of this lagoon. Now.
No food on the boat. It doesn't matter. I gotta go.
Tide puking out. Half-low. A heavy current and 1 meter swell colliding. Beastly chop continually with a 4-6 foot peeler every so often. Fuck it.
I rip the cover off the motor so I can plane. The 1984 Honda 9.9 has airflow issues.
I get up speed and hold the dog down as I brace for the chop.
I clear a few smoothly but then things get bumpy. I barely clear a breaker and the spray drenches the uncovered motor.
It skips, sputters. I throttle down. It runs. Sputters. Runs. Barely. Creeping now, through this shitstorm I can see the next set coming.
Motor dies. Pull. Pull. Pull. Ohh, fuck.
A 5 second eternity ensues.
Any wave is gonna chuck me violently into the granite jetty. Game over for the dink and the dog and maybe even me.
I look at my options, spy a half-empty waterbottle in the dink. Dump it on and around the sparkplugs. Substituting a saltwater bath with a fresh.
Chemical intuition... just reread Feynmann's 6 Easy Pieces.
Pull. Thank GOD. Fucking FLOOR it.
Just clear the first of the set as it lips, head down the line and over the next two... and I'm GONE.
DOG smiling over the BOW as we skip with the chop.
Three minutes later the dink is stowed and I'm heaving my anchor line.
I fled like my life depended on it.
Cuz it would have. Maybe not for a week. Maybe not a month. Maybe that night.
If somebody didn't get me, something would have. Too financially and emotionally vulnerable for a spot like that.
I've lost my excessive gullibility and trust.
Lessons learned are money in the bank, right?
Theoretically, but not practically.
If you read my blog, donate some money. Every little bit helps.
The smugger you are the dumber you are.
Noone likes to be gawked at. Everyone loves to know they matter to some small respect.
MAD RESPECT TO JR JENKINS, SOLE DONOR TO EL VIAJE SIN FIN SINCE I STARTED ASKING FOR HELP.
And that's that.
MAX