The Surfers

of Puerto Angel

Chokecherries 2001, A S.O.M.O.S. Anthology
© 2002 by The Society of the Muse of the Southwest

By Denise M. Spranger

We were on an open stretch of beach outside of the town of Puerto Angel on the southern Pacific coast of Mexico. This is where the hand full of sun baked surfers in town came to submit themselves to the unchecked waves that raged against the shoreline. There was a single palapa from which a few locals served raw seafood to the surfers; oysters and ceviche mostly, with some warm bottles of beer to wash it down.

It might have appeared tantalizing in a postcard; this endless line of white sand fringed with palm trees where tall waves unfurled. Yet standing inside that 3×5 glossy was another matter. The sun had teeth; the wind was unleashed from a furnace. No one spoke as the surfers came battered and glassy eyed to rummage in the melted ice for a bottle of foamless liquid. They squatted in the sand, unaware of anything, particularly each other. Their eyes were fixed on the swells that collapsed in anger; these terrible blue mountains resenting their demise.

It was not a scene to inspire the comforting lyrics of old Beach Boys’ tunes; no playful thump of a volley ball as it sailed by bikinis and striped umbrellas. They were only boys, really, these six white-blond surfers with their scaling shoulders and dented boards. Perhaps they had made their way from some suburban California beach. I wondered if they could remember how to return. Yet as they stared into the looming wall of water I realized that though the tide would retreat, they could not. They were captive to some childhood fantasy gone wrong.

My few friends and I approached the rusted folding table in the center of the palapa. We ordered ceviche in hushed voices, not willing to disturb the laws of silence on this forsaken bit of beach. Covered buckets were opened; generous scoops were emptied on tin plates. One young man was slicing onions on the table; it took several moments watching his fine brown fingers before I realized that his nails were long and polished. A glance to the face then; a touch of lipstick. A hint of purple shadow above dark, full lashes.

I was no stranger to men in make-up; I’d been to the Balls, the New Year’s Eve parties. I’d danced in the thunder of discos teaming with testosterone and taffeta. Yet in this place, removed so completely from the mirrors and the spectacle, this quiet boy before had to be the strongest man I’d ever seen. Intent on his onions, he only looked up once. The trace of a smile- had he read my thoughts? I could only hope so.

There was only one path that led from town down a rocky hillside to this beach; past the federales posted there, just beyond the cantina where the men leaned against the stucco walls and drained their bottles. It was a tense walk for us. I could imagine what it had been like for him. What men may desire in private they most certainly punish in public. Did he have a lover that stood by that wall? Did cruelty make the heat of the long afternoon just a little easier to bear?

I looked back to the Americans; they were running toward the surf. White sand still clung to their elbows and shins. They carried their boards loosely as if the shape of their arms were made to hold no other burden.

We packed our stuff up to go; it was a long hike. We didn’t want to face both darkness and federales on the same hidden piece of hillside. We could see the surfers, now tossed by the sea in its’ furious encounter with a continent. They could have been drowning men, so rarely did their heads appear gasping above the foam.

Yet as we picked our way up through the rocks and cactus past the shelter of the palms, my thoughts kept returning to the man with his onions and perfect nails. His life may have been full of similar feats of daring. The will to do battle with an ocean is an acceptable form of valor. In that brave attempt against the odds, even fatigue is glorious. But sometimes courage is a quiet thing; sometimes one must battle the forces of nature with nothing but the simple truth of one’s own.

In my mind’s eye it was this young man who rode out there, fearless on the crest of the waves. No board, no friends to save him should he lose his footing. Just his lips that he colored the same red as his blood; his dark eyes dusted with shadow.