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Paying the Price
By Matt Michael

It was back in the summer of 1983 and flat as could be.

Inverted practically….you know, the type of day-in-day-out lull that makes you, well, crazy baby.

After enduring a full month of ankle to shin high glassy perfection, that’s when we heard the rumor. Now this was before the internet. This was before the surf tour industry, and this was before the mags exploited so much of our now discovered world of waves. In that day, you heard rumors. A friend told a friend, who had seen some photos which lead credence to the rumor that there was this spot.

Cheap beer, warm water, and big barrels, but there were a few catches. You had to drive a while to get there. But gas was cheap, and we had a Toyota. Bill Beverage and I started driving. We drove West and after a day or two left the English speaking world behind. Once we crossed the border, we drove through hill country, dry desert, mountains, and through putrid cities, and past volcanoes ever onward on our quest. We had no treasure map, no guide, and definitely no ability to communicate with our fellowman.

“Donde esta la playa,” and, “Dos mas cervezas por favor,” along with a smile would get us there, if we had the will. We were willing to pay the price.

After days of driving we arrived in Tecoman, just a few miles from our destination. Our anticipation ever growing we headed West on the coast road. Would our drive be worth it? Would it be rideable? What could we expect? Would the rumor prove true? All these questions raced in our minds as we drove frantically those last few miles toward our goal.

And finally, we arrived to see what would be indelibly imprinted on our minds to be the most hollow 4-6 ft. waves we had ever seen. A wave that had 6 foot up the face, but through out 8 ft…Almond shaped tubes.

And that day…the fever started…

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