Endless Session, Day 286: Not The Best Idea

So I’ve come to the realization that it’s a bad idea to have a tequila drinking contest with a large group of Mexicans.

Last night was eventful to say the least.  A small group of us left the confines of the resort and moseyed and hour and a half down the road to the infamous town of Culiacan, Mexico.  All I had heard about Culiacan since I arrived was how unsafe it was, especially for a blondie gringa, but word on the street was that a good Reggae band was playing somewhere, and besides going somewhat stir crazy having not left the resort once, there was no way in hell I was going to miss out on some smooth tunes and dancing.

When we got there at dusk and started driving through the town, I was puzzled.  The high class sushi bar we went to was pretty dang fancy, and parts of town we drove through looked like downtown LA.  I started bursting into fits of laughter when we drove past the lavish shopping center with a Zumba in it… the unsafe factor was hard for me to find.  The only things different about the bar from places I frequent in the South Bay was that everyone was way more friendly, the bar itself had colorful and vibrant art, and the drinks were much, much bigger (and not to mention cheaper).  “I’ve lived in Cuiliacan my entire life and have never been in an accident or seen or heard a shooting.  It’s a shame that you guys are probably the only white people in a city of 1.4 million.  More people should visit but are afraid to.”  These words from our new friend Lily resonated with me — of course there were probably some dangerous areas, and some places that we definitely avoided, but there is danger everywhere in the world no matter where you are.

So after trying to drink the whole bar to keep up with last nights crew, two hours of sleep didn’t change the fact that it was time for surf.  And surf I did, the churning water making me feel a little drunk all over again.  With zero daintiness and at max stumble factor, I turned and tumbled down a few large sets and managed to escape being scathed by my sharply tapered fin, giving up after about five awkward waves.

I can’t believe I forgot my book at home.  With the rest of what was left in my  tequila soaked brain, I brushed up on surf culture in Surfer’s Journal, and zoned out the rest of the day, keen on resting up and hitting it hard with the light of morning.