It is the middle of the afternoon, deep siesta time. The hot hot hot temperatures have been broken by a pleasant tropical drizzle. Fine rain patters from above, dimpling the ocean in front of where I sit, and lightly pinging and dampening the pavement and lawn that surrounds me. The palapa overhead provides good shelter, its thick overlapping lattice of palm fronds refusing to let any of the drops fall onto me.

In and amongst the sounds of the rain, the small waves in the bay lap the shore, leaving surges of white noise to accompany the lines of white frothy water. Occasionally a larger wave crashes on the sand, blotting the sounds of the rain momentarily. Behind me, in the jungle, birds chirp and twitter; they sound happy to frolic in the light rain. In the distance, on the edge of my hearing, the bass notes of someone's stereo creep through the montage of sound.

Apparently my cohorts in surf are all asleep; there is no one else with me under the palapa. I venture from under the cover, and the raindrops tickle the back of my neck with cool dots of moisture. There is no wind at all; the rain falls directly from the sky to the earth, or to the ocean. The various fishing boats of the village bob gently at their moorings in the shallow waters of the bay, and napping pelicans surround them as they float motionless but for the ebb and flow of the waters.

This morning's session at the left point break has left us all tired from too much stoke. Jeff said "I have to stop now, or I won't be able to surf again the rest of our stay." Dean, the man who repeatedly played with the insides of the wave's barrels, unfortunately got sea sick on the boat back to camp, and is in bed, oblivious to it all.

Mike rode several waves taller than he for longer lengths than anyone on earth can throw a baseball or kick a soccer ball. Miguel rode his long board down steep wave faces and under crashing lips. Of course you know that Dave surfed without any apparent tiredness, even after hours of continuous paddling. Don, Mark, Tim and the others sat deep and rode even deeper.

My own wave count wasn't high, but the rides were worthy. I had a difficult time keeping wax on my fish; now and again a foot slipped from under me as I rode critically in the pit. I did bring super tropical warm water wax, but it is so hard that it is difficult to rub onto the deck. John lent me his wax, and indeed it went more easily into a water resistant finish. But the warm water and the friction from my body soon wore it from the board. But I can't blame my slips and falls on the wax; it's the rider who makes it all happen and is responsible for the preparations and the outcome.

The banana leaves begin to act like drum skins as the rain increases slightly in intensity, sounding like high-pitched tom toms, or low pitched bongos. The beat they play is random and multi-rhythmic. The coconut palms tower over the banana plants; the palms' topmost fronds begin to sway to and fro as onshore winds gains momentum. It's as though the coconut fronds are dancing to the beat of the banana fronds.

Around me the various hammocks and lawn chairs under the palapa lie dormant, bereft of occupants. In the distance the coastal hills of Mexico loom, shrouded in many different shades of bluish grey as they recede from view. Now Tim comes to join me, arranging his lean, muscular and tanned body prone into a hammock. He begins to rock gently left and right, staring at the bay waters and the open Pacific Ocean beyond it. We exchange a bit of small talk, but mostly soak together in the ambient sounds of Mainland Mexico. The scene is too mellow and too precious to ruin with idle chat.

Tomorrow is another day of surf, sounds and sights, with friends in the water, and friends on shore. All too soon we will all pack our toys and leave this idyllic respite from our regular and hectic lives.

CU Out There,

DogMan