The day was still new when we turned into the gated community of Las Gaviotas ("The Seagulls") where a few of Jon's friends had rented a house. Access to the break out front is generally limited to people in the community, yet there were already close to twenty surfers in the water by the time we paddled out. Fortunately the numbers dropped steadily over the more than two hours we were in the water and it never seemed too crowded.
|Jon's friend jumped off that rock; we walked to the beach|
It was Jon's first time surfing in months, after he'd badly hurt his wrist. When he was in position for his first wave, all four of us yielded and called him into it, then hooted when he popped up and rode. So stoked for him! I can only imagine how good that must've felt.
A few times during the session I was punished on the inside, glad of my booties for the rocks I felt underfoot near shore.Once I was stuck on the treadmill for at least five minutes before I could scratch my way back to my friends in the lineup.
"I asked the ocean for a lull but didn't get one," I told Jon, who's fluent in Spanish (whereas I only studied it for two years long ago in escuela secundaria). "Maybe I need to say it in Spanish. Que es la palabra?"
"Tranquilo," he said.
Or "siesta," Jason called from farther away.
"No!" I said. "The ocean's been taking a siesta for weeks. We don't want any more siestas."
|Jon's Jeep, and Jason waiting on the street in the gated community|
|View from Las Rocas, our post-surf second-breakfast spot|