The sea of Central America beckoned again.
Gusts of South Bay wind howling fiercely early in the morning had me looking even more forward to my plane ride south to the left reefbreak that had been ringing in my ears for months. Cardon Adventure Resort was about to turn from the surf spot of my dreams to reality.
I dragged my heavy board bag (nearly bursting at the seams) down the smooth lax floor, and the grumpy Alaska Air agent that tried to tell me I’d be paying double the $75 per way charge for boards eventually softened and graciously let me by without having to front extra green (my look of bewilderment, almost shedding a tear, and her realizing that I was a poor surfer might’ve helped). Â FYI to everyone, now if you have more than 2 boards per bag, be prepared to be very broke.
The two-and-a-half hour-flight zeroed me in over Mazatlan, where colorful fields, barreling beachbreak, and a river emptying out into the sea could be seen from far above. I felt like I was about to step into another world. Â Walking down the stairs to the tarmac and another hour down the road, driver Jovany opened a beautifully crafted wooden gate and took me the last few turns down to the pristine grassy entrance of beautiful Cardon Resort.
Through my mission to surf a year in a row, I’ve had my fair share of injuries. And in other countries my string of blacks and blue luck seems to be no different. I  know how to make an entrance. There is a new  record that I hold at Cardon, and the definition of irony is spelled out in the following words. For the first time in maybe six years, I very halfheartedly (I was forced to) attached a (brand new) leash to my longboard — razor sharp rocks and reef, and of course Cardon’s Jeff Phillips threatening to deface my pretty big blue board should I go stringless. The sun was low on the horizon, and I had about 20 minutes of enough light left to catch a wave.
It only took me two minutes to practically drown.
Running as fast as my jet lagged feet could carry me up the sand, I stepped carefully and swiftly across the jagged rocks and dove headfirst through the mellow inside peelers into overhead walls. My overworked but well oiled arms cranked and pushed, and just as I was about to break through to the outside, a sneaky set wave bowled up and broke right on my head, ripping my blue board from my brand new leash. Tumbling underwater, the undertow of the wave sucked me down into shallow oblivion — I starfished as best I could, but the sheer power and churning still managed to scrape my feet against the reef. After long darkness I surfaced, choking on water, and was standing up to my waist in ocean on a sharp rock, another wave looming on the horizon. Leash trailing behind me and dangling from my leg, I desperately swam for my board and paddled in a smarter direction around the point so as not to be slammed again. I roped my leash in a secure knot around the plug, hoping for another chance. A resounding sting in my foot started overpowering the adrenaline, and I brought my foot up to see a small chunk missing out of my toe and blood slowly spilling out, looking looking much like a v, or open pages in a book. Let’s review the irony part –I wore a leash after six years of not having one, ever, on a longboard, and I get one of the worst injuries I’ve had, and said leash breaks. And this is the same exact toe that I split open six months ago, where the toenail eventually fell off. Â Isn’t life odd.
A set came swiftly on the horizon, and, paddling my heart out, me and my bloody toe dropped in on my first official Cardon face. A few backside pumps, and the wave that I clearly misjudged exploded on my feet and the hard yank I felt on my calf underwater yet again led to another snap in my leash, board seemingly miles away. The water black from the sun already sinking beneath the earth, I swam in, and then paddled in, and then limped in for some wound cleaning and triple strong margaritas.
Hello Cardon, it’s a pleasure to meet you.
